Both, Eating, Padding, Feederism, Explicit Sex, Romance - Two lovers reveal their deepest secret
Discovery
"Wow, boyfriend, you’ve put on a little weight, haven’t you?"
She stood there, in the doorway, giggling in that girlish way of hers.
"What did you EAT while I was gone?" she stammered.
I think my face turned about ten shades of red then. I wanted to tear the pillows out of my shirt--all nine of them-- but I sat just there, paralyzed, like a deer caught in the proverbial headlights you always hear about. I was faking but she was thinking it was real. The buttons on my shirt felt as though they were about to pop off from the strain and I was nearly suffocating inside of that mass of padding.
All I kept thinking was that I was a goner.
Monika was the first one who’d ever found out my little secret. For some resson I'd outed myself. Maybe I wanted her to know.
I don't even know when it had started, to be honest. Maybe it was something as simple as a cartoon I had seen as a kid. Maybe it was a movie or a TV show. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe I was just nuts.
Whatever it was, it had consumed me for as long as I could remember. And then one day, as simple as that, I stuffed my shirt with a pillow to see what I'd look like "fat." I don't know why I did it. One thing you have to understand about me before we go any further, okay, is that I have always thought I was a little on the weird side. And that, obviously, was pretty damn weird. But that's me. Sometimes, I just do stuff for the shock value of it.
It seems pretty obvious to say that I liked the "padding" thing, or at least that I was irrationally fascinated by it, and over time, strangely, it had become a pretty regular thing. Oh, I was secretive about it. Can you imagine what the gang at school would have thought? Or my family? No, I made sure that no one ever found out.
I think I did it because of a cartoon. I saw a cartoon way back when where somebody or something ate way too much and ended up really fat and round, and right there on the spot something just hit me and I thought it looked cool. Really, unbelievably cool. Or something like that. Maybe 'appealing' is a better word. Maybe even sexually so. Who knows?
But the older I got, the more the idea of a big protruding belly appealed to me. I'm not sure why. It was something about the roundness, the fullness and the curvature that I liked. Later, I'd find that I liked the same properties about big breasts, too, and that was definitely sexual, but that part of the story will have to wait a bit.
While I liked to pretend I had a big fat gut, I knew as sure as I knew my own name that the last thing I wanted was to be fat in 'real life'. At least not for more than a few minutes of self gratification. Could you imagine being called "Tub 'o Lard" or "Fatso" every day of your life? Not me. But I did often dream about having an immense stomach, one so ridiculously huge that it would make everyone laugh and giggle.
While my shirt was filled with padding, I'd fantasize that I'd eaten enough food to fill a banquet hall, or that my belly had grown grotesquely large from eating everything within reach while locked inside a grocery store for a night, only to be found by the shocked workers on the morning shift. I told you I was an odd one.
In truth, I did like to eat. I was never fat, but I had always had a sense of urgency while exercising, because I enjoyed good food, and it wasn't hard to picture my rounder, fatter self in nightmares. And man, did I ever have nightmares about that kind of stuff. About eating until my belly swelled huge and round, and exploded, like the overstuffed Mr. Creosote in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life. Or being force fed by a maniacal villain who apparently had nothing better to do than put his genius to work incapacitating everyone by fattening them up.
You can see, I'm sure, that it was troubling--this obsession of mine. I felt like I was a freak for harboring such thoughts, such wildly preposterous fantasies. I wondered if was anywhere near normal.
But I stayed thin, and about the time that boys routinely discover girls, so, too, did I. The "fat padding" became lost in the haze of increasingly distant youth, late Friday nights with friends at Miki's, and distractions like track and football and the Chess Club.
That was when I was fifteen. When I met Monika Scott.
Monika and I went to the same high school. We lived practically next door to each other and had known each other, technically, since we were infants. But we ran in different circles, growing up, and it wasn't until we were freshman in high school that we became fast friends.
It was one of those relationships with no awkward moments, where you feel as comfortable with each other as a good broken-in pair of shoes. Where you can be thrilled by dumb little stuff, like talking about how no other word in the English language rhymes with 'orange'.
Within a year, we were "going steady", and by the time we graduated from Giles County High, I think we both knew it was as serious as it gets. We both enrolled at Tech in the Fall, and decided to live together off campus to share our expenses. Our families were OK with that. I think they were all thrilled that Monika and I had hit it off so well. I kindof think they had expected us to fight like siblings or short sheet each other's bedcovers, or put frogs in each other's bed or something, but no, she and I fell for each other hard. I wanted us to have a life together, and a family, and a dog and a cat and a little house in the suburbs with a picket fence around it. She wanted that, too.
Monika was the love of my life. The Yin to my Yang. She was the smartest girl I had ever met, playful, quirky, definitely a spitfire, and as caring and loving as it gets. We could laugh together, cry together, talk, argue, or just experience one of those beautiful silent moments that seem to be drenched in significance.
She was the girl I had lost my virginity to, and making love to her was a tapestry of sensual touches and caresses and textures and scents that played like a symphony of the emotions in B flat. She had a cascade of dirty-blond hair that smelled faintly of lilac, a roundish peasant-face, with a button-ish nose and bewitching eyes that really could melt lead. Her smile was gentle and wry and full of just enough mischief to be exciting without scaring the crap out of you. And right in the middle of her chin was a very faint dimple. It was another one of those little things about Monika that made her so incredibly sexy.
About those breasts. Monika was short, but very, very buxom. She was what you'd call an "early bloomer", if not for the fact that after she bloomed, she never stopped. At fifteen, she was the only girl in our class who was a D-cup. From there, well, let's just say that had she not been my best friend it would have been impossible to look her in the eye. The word "voluptuous" pretty much fit her to a "T".
When we'd first made love, I had instantaneously become a "breast man", no doubt about that. She, and they, were soft, and erotic, and wildly sexy. I daydreamed about Monika's breasts. I did. I swear it. I am such a perv. I really am. There were days, before we became intimate, that I'd steal furtive sideways glances at her heaving breasts, sheathed in her tight knit shirts, as the school bus bounced on the countless ruts in U.S. Highway 60 during the thirty-minute ride to and from school. This, only to rush home at fever pitch to masturbate behind closed doors thinking wonderfully dirty thoughts of her intensely sexy figure.
No, it wasn't hard to be attracted to Monika, on both a mental and physical level. Which was why, at the ripe old age of eighteen, I knew I had found the woman I would marry. We grew closer those first two years in college. It was nearly as though we had our own little world apart from life, which stopped at the front door. Our own home, our own routine, our own daily grind, and our own torrid love affair.
We had been dating for nearly five years, now, and at roughly twenty-and-a-half each, we knew we belonged together.
************************
"Well?" she stared at me, giggling.
See, I had never told Monika about this little fantasy of mine. The weird one. The fatty fat one. She thought she knew everything about me, every vital statistic, every dark dirty secret, every skeleton--she even knew that I liked big boobs. But she didn't know this. Not until that day.
For one thing, those little fantasies had been rare occurrences over the preceding five years, most of my life having been spent with this girl of my dreams. Only rarely did the urge to be "fat" make its appearance, and typically it was accompanied by a fantasy that my Monika, my dear, darling, loving serving wench, showered me with kisses and fed me sinful treats until my belly grew to gigantic proportions and burst the buttons of my shirts. The dream experts would have a field day analyzing that one, I'm sure.
There were times I wished I had told her, that I wished I could tell her, that she might get a gleam in her eye and share my profoundly affecting fantasy of having an enormous belly.
But I couldn't risk losing her. Not Monika.
And so it went that my deviant little thoughts were kept hidden away, in their shady confines in a remote corner of my twisted brain, pulled out on one of the rare occasions Monika had a night class or another engagement with her friends.
I began writing short stories, for no one's eyes but my own, about everyday characters who grew improbably fat, for a variety of reasons. There were stories of over-indulgence, stories of magical weight gain, stories of revenge. But they all featured protagonists who ultimately wound up with bellies of titanic proportions. I sketched pictures of myself having gorged on impossibly large meals, my stomach distended and bloated and fat. I drew sketches of Monika, too, one in particular depicting her in stages as she gained a huge amount of weight.
The more I thought about it, the more the idea of a Fat Monika appealed to me. What wasn't to like about a woman whose breasts would be the size of watermelons? Sometimes I'd picture the pair of us as 500-pounders, rubbing our stupendously fattened stomachs together in lieu of a hug. Less and less did it bother me when I masturbated thinking of either Monika or myself in this grossly fattened state.
I probably should have stopped right there and sought professional help. But I didn't.
That was when I began to realize that it wasn't just an aberrant fascination. Or "gross-out fantasies" to scare myself into staying thin. I had now accepted that I enjoyed thinking of myself--and Monika--much fatter. And I kept on stuffing those pillows and blankets under my shirts and pretending I had become fat. My obsession was getting near to being out of control, and I had no idea where it was going to go, but I had to admit I was enjoying the ride.
And now here I was. Caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar. I just sat there on the couch, blushing, with my shirt padded to the bursting point, my belly the size of a giant beach ball resting on my lap, with two of my shirt buttons undone and a third about to pop off the next time I inhaled. I looked at her and grinned.
"What in the wide, wide world of--" She didn't finish. She broke out in a fit of giggles. Her breasts bounced and jiggled, and I got even more horny than I already was. I started giggling with her, and that was enough to send that third button exploding from my shirt on an express trip across the room. It ricocheted off of the opposite wall, and came to rest at her feet.
"I guess I ate too much of your fantastic cooking, Honey."
Which was pretty funny, actually, if you think about it. But it was all I could get out. I was suddenly very, very embarassed. I wanted to be very small, insignificant--someone or something so insignificant that she'd forget all about me. Forget I ever existed. I wanted her to turn around and run and never look back. What kind of freak was I? I wanted to die.
And then she laughed. I must have been as red as an unpeeled radish about then. We both stared at my "belly" and the huge gap in the shirt in between the missing buttons.
And we laughed.
"Well."
She stared purposefully, with her hands on her hips in a very schoolteacher-ish way. I looked at her inquisitively, but for some reason I didn't move to take out the pillows. I just sat there resting my hands on top of that mountain of padding.
I had the gall to rub the sides of my "belly" as though gloating after finishing off an imperial-sized dinner. I wanted her to laugh again.
"Well," she said again, as if sizing me up.
She sat down next to me on the couch and pecked me on the cheek. She put her hand on my huge "belly" and asked, "Did you have a good day? Did you miss me?"
I smiled and nodded.
"And my tits?"
"And your tits."
She poked me in a teasing manner, and began to rub that mass of padding as if it were real, gentle strokes that made my cock stiffen with excitement. She put on her best smolder and licked her lips expectantly. She kept rubbing my "belly", gently, as though soothing a bad tummy ache. She cooed softly and sexily and sat on her knees, next to me, leaning in to kiss me and letting her breasts brush across my face.
Their soft warmth felt wonderful.
"Mmmm, no bra, " I said, and she giggled softly, her hair tumbling forward and tickling my face.
"Dessert", she said, still rubbing, reaching for my cock, and pushing her big, soft breasts against my mouth. She let one of them pop out of her low-cut t-shirt and dangle tantalizingly an inch from my open mouth. I was a beached whale sitting there, unable to move toward that exquisite mass of flesh, but I lunged forward as best I could, open-mouthed, searching for Mammary Heaven.
I kissed and licked and suckled on her breast and in seconds her nipple looked as if it could cut glass. She bent down and licked my ear and whispered, "you look sexy."
Monika gently urged me to lie down on my back, and I turned and did so, as she unzipped my jeans and pulled them down around my ankles along with my boxers. She played with my cock for a minute, teasing me with occasional feathery touches which I couldn't see over the mountain of padding on top of my stomach. It was enough to drive me nearly insane with excitement. I was almost quivering with anticipation when she took me in her mouth and the warmth and comfort of her tongue pressed against my penis was more than I could stand. I thought I was going to cum all over her.
"Mon!' I beckoned for her to sit on me, and she stripped in no time at all, and within seconds I was inside of her, and our hips were grinding. She pulled my hands to her breasts, and even though I couldn't see them past my "stomach", their jiggly softness and girth felt like Heaven. Monika put her hands on top of my "belly" and rubbed and stroked it as the two of us did likewise. We moaned and exclaimed and shouted our glee with abandon.
Our neighbors must have thought the roof was falling in.
When it was over, she sat there, still sitting on me, looking down at me, her purposeful eyes framed by her mop of wildly tousled hair, grinning an impish grin. It was one of those very Veronica Lake-ian looks. I smiled back, my hands resting on top of my padded tummy. We sat there, exchanging a wordless love, for a long time, pierced only by the occasional goofy giggle. Finally, she patted my belly with both hands and we slowly disentangled.
She stood up, beside the couch, and looked at me, lovingly, standing there naked in the bare twilight filtering in from outside. Her sexy silhouette put those truckers' mud flaps with the naked ladies on them to shame. The ones you always see on the 18-wheelers on the Interstate. Her breasts and womanly hips were almost overexaggerated, and her profile reminded me of Little Annie Fannie's, like an hourglass with an exaggerated top and bottom. She took my hand with one of her own and blew me a kiss with the other, then shimmied her breasts back and forth, like strippers do when they twirl their tassels. I laughed lovingly at that and she grinned, and went to the bathroom to wash up.
And I just lay there, nearly immobile, staring after her. I'd never loved her as much as I did then.
*************
"Would you hate me if I actually were fat?"
I turned and stared at Monika. It was the first thing she'd said that morning.
We were lying in bed, shaking off the cobwebs on a lazy Saturday morning. Monika was lying on her side, as I surveyed her from head to toe and back again, her exaggerated curves rising, then falling, then rising again, like a hypercoaster. She was swirling the bedcovers with her index finger, absentmindedly, lost in thought.
"Hmmm?"
She looked up at me with a raised eyebrow, and obviously expected an answer.
"Hate you? That's pretty hurtful, Monika. You're my best friend. I love you more than anything. You know that. Is this about las--"
"Yeah."
I started to get ashamed again. She hadn't demanded answers, or even asked why she had found me sitting on our sofa looking as though I had eaten the contents of an entire supermarket. We just got caught in the moment, and it was magical. I had been starting to hope that maybe I'd dreamed the whole thing.
"Listen, Monika, I--"
"I've read your stories."
I hadn't expected that. Talk about shock treatment.
"Those are jus-"
"I've seen your sketches, too."
I had nothing to say.
"Do you prefer fat women?"
I touched her bare hip, and let my fingers trace a path downward along the very feminine arc to her waist, and back up to her breast. I reached for her soft, curvcaceous legs, and gave her a kiss.
"Monika, I am so in love with you that sometimes I can't even remember my own name. I'd love you if you were green."
"That's comforting." She rolled her eyes back, and a wry smile came over her face then. "You know, when I was a little girl, I used to have dreams, or nightmares maybe, about visiting a candy factory and eating candy until I was so fat I had to be rolled away. Like in--"
"Willy Wonka!" We both said it at the same instant.
I chuckled. Monika looked at me with her big brown eyes flashing.
"When I read your stories, it was almost like we'd been in the same dreams." She looked down at the bedspread. "I think I like to eat too much. Sometimes....sometimes I wonder whether I'll wind up as fat as my Mom."
Monika's mother had ballooned to nearly 300 pounds when Monika was in her early teens. By the time we were in high school, she had slimmed to a plump 160. But it was true--Diana Scott had been heavyset as long as I'd known her.
"I wouldn't worry about it, Monika. You've got a figure women kill each other for. I daydream about you."
"Not everyone loves big boobs, Big Boobie Boy." She stuck her tongue out at me, but winked.
"But you are sexy. Voluptuous. Very, very feminine. I think about you in the middle of the day and can't keep my hands off of myself."
"But you drew pictures of me as a really fat girl."
"Yes."
"Is that what you want? Do you want me to get really fat?"
I thought about saying something, then, but didn't.
"Do you think about getting fat, too?"
I nodded.
"Are you scared of it?"
"I used to think so. Maybe I still am."
"It makes you horny, though, right?"
"Not as horny as you do."
"Funny."
I deliberated. Finally, I nodded.
"Is that why you pad yourself?"
I nodded again.
"I used to do it, too. When I was younger."
I stared at her.
"I dunno why. It felt good. I liked being a big, round, fat ball of padding. Maybe I just wanted to look like my Mom."
That revelation made me open up to her. "I think I saw a cartoon as a kid. One of the characters ate too much and got an enormously fat stomach, and it made me horny just watching that. I masturbated on the spot. I guess, ever since, I kindof always wanted to see what it was like to have a big belly."
"Huge."
"Yes."
"Enormous."
I nodded.
"So big it needs its own Zip Code!"
I looked away from her, then.
"Fatty, fatty two by four!" Suddenly, I almost wished I hadn't told her.
Then she put her hand under my chin and turned my face toward her. She looked at me, and smiled.
"You were hot."
"What?"
"Last night. Your stomach. Your belly. You looked so good sitting there like that."
"C'mon. Stop teasing."
She looked at me. "I'm not." I touched her hand. The early sunlight was glinting off of her mop of hair.
"Spoons, 'kay?" She rolled over, and I nestled up behind her. I caressed her curvy thigh. She purred, and burrowed back against me.
"I know this sounds crazy, but I think I've always subconsciously wanted to be fat." It was the first time I'd heard her admit something like that, and I'll confess--it was shocking.
"Man, I don't believe I'm telling you this. Sometimes...sometimes when I dream about being really fat, I just lose control and come. I think it's a food thing. I think it's just the thought of eating everything I've ever wanted, and just being so full and happy and content. And it can make me come just like that. That used to bother me."
I thought I'd pull away from her about then, and maybe she did, too, but I didn't. Her voice was utterly sexy, and she could've been reading the stock quotes and it would've sounded like a symphony. I put my arms around her.
"You wouldn't be able to do that if I was fat, you know."
"I wouldn't be able to do it if I was fat, either. My belly would be too big to let me hold you."
"Can you imagine how big my tits would be if I was fat?"
"Huge-mongous."
"Gi-normous."
"Gi-normous-er."
"Really fucking big!"
We laughed at that, and I groped her big breasts from behind.
"Oooh, somebody's got a woodie!"
I massaged the sides of her breasts, and she started wriggling and moaning with delight. "Ohhh, please don't do that!"
"Am I hurting you?"
"No, dumb duck, it's making me want to make love. We have too much to do this morning."
I left her breasts and went back to stroking her hip.
"Nik?"
'Nik' was one of Monika's "pet" names. I called her that when I felt like she was going to get mad at me.
"Nik, would you hate me if I was fat?"
"Weren't you listening?"
"Whaddayou mean?"
"I thought you looked totally sexy last night. I didn't say it to make you feel better, or because I thought it was what you wanted me to say. I CONFESSED to you. I 'd love it if you were fat. Not just fat, but if your belly was huge like in the pictures you drew."
I stopped caressing her hip about then, and sat bolt upright in bed. She rolled over again, propping herself up on one elbow, eyeing me with that admonishing look of hers.
"Doesn't any of this tell you something? Anything? By 'this' I mean me knowing about your belly fantasies, confiding in you that I have padded myself, too, and thought about what I'd look like as a fat girl, and then jumping on you and your mountain of a "belly" last night. Don't you see?"
"I see that you're as nuts as me."
She sat up, crossed her arms over her jutting breasts, and pouted.
"And that you love me, Nik."
She smiled, trying not to, and turning her head the other way.
"And that I'd love you in any shape or size." She looked at me again. "Especially 'big. I never would have told you, but I've had dreams about us getting married and growing really, REALLY fat. Just feeding each other yummy treats and eating until we're stuffed and then Making Love all night."
"Fat Love."
"Oooohh, sometimes I think about feeding you so much food you'd be sitting there on the floor with your belly reaching out to your feet, helpless to do anything but let me squeeze your handsome face between my big 'ol boobies."
"You're weird. I'd suffocate in between those."
Now I have to admit, there were worse places to die.
"You'd love it." Of course, she knew she was right.
"Weirdo."
"Weird? Why? Because I love the thought of you with an enormously fat tummy? Some girls like fat guys. I happen to like really big bellies on guys. When I was little, one of my Dad's friends used to come to our parties, and his belly was so fat that he was almost as round as he was tall. He'd let me pat it and pinch it and it shook all over when he laughed. I wanted to climb up on it and ride it like a pony. Or bounce up and down on it. I dunno why, but I've always really liked guys with big bellies. I just think a big belly is so sexy, B___", she continued. "Men AND women with big fat tummies look so full and satisfied. And happy. I just think it's sexy."
"Then how in the world did you end up with me?" It was a legitimate question. Even now, my waist was barely twenty-nine inches.
"Because you make me laugh. And because you're the smartest man I know. And because you don't judge me. And because I think you are amazing. Special."
I looked away from her then.
"And VERY handsome."
She poked my nose, deliberately trying to make me grin. I did.
"I never told you, but I’ve had so many fantasies about filling up your big belly with my cooking. I've wanted to fatten you up for years. Remember when we were in high school and had to ride the bus every day? I'd sit there and look over at you when you weren't looking back, and I'd imagine you sitting there on a sofa after you'd eaten a big meal I'd cooked for you, with your big belly hanging out, driving me crazy. You don't know how MANY times I had that fantasy." I was scared, and definitely embarrassed the way she was describing it, but I confess, I was also aching to hear more. It was making ME hot.
"But, you know, you've always acted like 'fat' is a 4-letter word. In SPITE of the fact that you have an obvious fat fetish and draw pictures of yourself with an enormous gut. By the way, betcha didn't know I use those pictures sometimes for a little self-gratification, didja?"
I think I was staring open-mouthed at her then.
"Yeah, I masturbate over stuff like that, too. Not so much now that we do it like jackrabbits," she said as she poked me in the forehead and winked, "but sometimes, if we're apart, I'll go to your desk and get them and fantasize that you've grown that fat on my cooking. That's such an unbelievable turn-on for me."
I looked at her with a new respect from that second on. Not because she shared my fantasies, or even because she accepted my weirdness, but because she was far more perceptive than even I had known.
She eyed me curiously now. "What I want to know is, what would you do if I got fat? Would you leave me? Would you go find another girl with big breasts?"
I kissed her, then, and looked her squarely in the eye.
"Nik, please, don't say things like that. I'd find you incredibly sexy no matter how much you weigh, and you know it. Even sexier. There'd be more of you to love. Your face would be round and just as pretty. Your boobs would be gigantic. You'd have sexy big hips and thighs, and you'd have a beautiful fat belly to play with. You'd be a gorgeous BBW. Just like in the pictures I drew. Why? Are we gaining?"
I'd said it as a joke. I didn't expect the answer she gave.
"Why not? We could cook for each other, and order in, and try to get each other to burst out of our clothes. We could go to All-you-can-eats and make people giggle and laugh while we stuff ourselves. And all the while, we'd be feeling sexier about ourselves and each other. It'd be soooo erotic. We could live out these fantasies we've had, to get fat and not feel bad about it. Because we'd grow hornier for each other the fatter we got."
"You are a certifiable nut. I am a freak but you are certifiable."
She frowned.
"Nik, I like to pretend, sure, but getting fat is another matter entirely. We'd go broke."
That was a lie, and she knew it. Our families were pretty well-off, and they'd given us more money for living expenses than we could possibly have used.
"We'd be laughingstocks. We'd have no friends. We'd be ridiculed beyond belief. We'd have health problems."
"Life is short, B___. Wouldn't you rather enjoy it? Besides, fat people can be healthy. And exercise. A little. And how can you say we'd e 'laughingstocks'? Haven't you heard about the obesity epidemic in America? Everyone's fat here. I'm a chub, but you are a toothpick."
"Nik, you are NOT a 'chub'. You have the sexiest hour-glass figure I've ever seen. Your top is twice as big as your bottom, but still--"
"Well, alot of people would call me 'fat'. I don't care. I like being voluptuous. I'm not going to stop eating because I'm not thin. And you need to gain some weight. At least a little. Really--you're a rail."
I gave her a raspberry, then, but she'd planted the seed, for sure.
****************
Monika and Me
by Cossaboom
[Author's Note: here is Part 1 of a mutual weight gain story that incorprates several elements, including plain old wishful thinking. Loosely based on personal experience and a young woman who made an impression on me. Constructive criticisms welcomed. ]
by Cossaboom
[Author's Note: here is Part 1 of a mutual weight gain story that incorprates several elements, including plain old wishful thinking. Loosely based on personal experience and a young woman who made an impression on me. Constructive criticisms welcomed. ]
Discovery
"Wow, boyfriend, you’ve put on a little weight, haven’t you?"
She stood there, in the doorway, giggling in that girlish way of hers.
"What did you EAT while I was gone?" she stammered.
I think my face turned about ten shades of red then. I wanted to tear the pillows out of my shirt--all nine of them-- but I sat just there, paralyzed, like a deer caught in the proverbial headlights you always hear about. I was faking but she was thinking it was real. The buttons on my shirt felt as though they were about to pop off from the strain and I was nearly suffocating inside of that mass of padding.
All I kept thinking was that I was a goner.
Monika was the first one who’d ever found out my little secret. For some resson I'd outed myself. Maybe I wanted her to know.
I don't even know when it had started, to be honest. Maybe it was something as simple as a cartoon I had seen as a kid. Maybe it was a movie or a TV show. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe I was just nuts.
Whatever it was, it had consumed me for as long as I could remember. And then one day, as simple as that, I stuffed my shirt with a pillow to see what I'd look like "fat." I don't know why I did it. One thing you have to understand about me before we go any further, okay, is that I have always thought I was a little on the weird side. And that, obviously, was pretty damn weird. But that's me. Sometimes, I just do stuff for the shock value of it.
It seems pretty obvious to say that I liked the "padding" thing, or at least that I was irrationally fascinated by it, and over time, strangely, it had become a pretty regular thing. Oh, I was secretive about it. Can you imagine what the gang at school would have thought? Or my family? No, I made sure that no one ever found out.
I think I did it because of a cartoon. I saw a cartoon way back when where somebody or something ate way too much and ended up really fat and round, and right there on the spot something just hit me and I thought it looked cool. Really, unbelievably cool. Or something like that. Maybe 'appealing' is a better word. Maybe even sexually so. Who knows?
But the older I got, the more the idea of a big protruding belly appealed to me. I'm not sure why. It was something about the roundness, the fullness and the curvature that I liked. Later, I'd find that I liked the same properties about big breasts, too, and that was definitely sexual, but that part of the story will have to wait a bit.
While I liked to pretend I had a big fat gut, I knew as sure as I knew my own name that the last thing I wanted was to be fat in 'real life'. At least not for more than a few minutes of self gratification. Could you imagine being called "Tub 'o Lard" or "Fatso" every day of your life? Not me. But I did often dream about having an immense stomach, one so ridiculously huge that it would make everyone laugh and giggle.
While my shirt was filled with padding, I'd fantasize that I'd eaten enough food to fill a banquet hall, or that my belly had grown grotesquely large from eating everything within reach while locked inside a grocery store for a night, only to be found by the shocked workers on the morning shift. I told you I was an odd one.
In truth, I did like to eat. I was never fat, but I had always had a sense of urgency while exercising, because I enjoyed good food, and it wasn't hard to picture my rounder, fatter self in nightmares. And man, did I ever have nightmares about that kind of stuff. About eating until my belly swelled huge and round, and exploded, like the overstuffed Mr. Creosote in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life. Or being force fed by a maniacal villain who apparently had nothing better to do than put his genius to work incapacitating everyone by fattening them up.
You can see, I'm sure, that it was troubling--this obsession of mine. I felt like I was a freak for harboring such thoughts, such wildly preposterous fantasies. I wondered if was anywhere near normal.
But I stayed thin, and about the time that boys routinely discover girls, so, too, did I. The "fat padding" became lost in the haze of increasingly distant youth, late Friday nights with friends at Miki's, and distractions like track and football and the Chess Club.
That was when I was fifteen. When I met Monika Scott.
Monika and I went to the same high school. We lived practically next door to each other and had known each other, technically, since we were infants. But we ran in different circles, growing up, and it wasn't until we were freshman in high school that we became fast friends.
It was one of those relationships with no awkward moments, where you feel as comfortable with each other as a good broken-in pair of shoes. Where you can be thrilled by dumb little stuff, like talking about how no other word in the English language rhymes with 'orange'.
Within a year, we were "going steady", and by the time we graduated from Giles County High, I think we both knew it was as serious as it gets. We both enrolled at Tech in the Fall, and decided to live together off campus to share our expenses. Our families were OK with that. I think they were all thrilled that Monika and I had hit it off so well. I kindof think they had expected us to fight like siblings or short sheet each other's bedcovers, or put frogs in each other's bed or something, but no, she and I fell for each other hard. I wanted us to have a life together, and a family, and a dog and a cat and a little house in the suburbs with a picket fence around it. She wanted that, too.
Monika was the love of my life. The Yin to my Yang. She was the smartest girl I had ever met, playful, quirky, definitely a spitfire, and as caring and loving as it gets. We could laugh together, cry together, talk, argue, or just experience one of those beautiful silent moments that seem to be drenched in significance.
She was the girl I had lost my virginity to, and making love to her was a tapestry of sensual touches and caresses and textures and scents that played like a symphony of the emotions in B flat. She had a cascade of dirty-blond hair that smelled faintly of lilac, a roundish peasant-face, with a button-ish nose and bewitching eyes that really could melt lead. Her smile was gentle and wry and full of just enough mischief to be exciting without scaring the crap out of you. And right in the middle of her chin was a very faint dimple. It was another one of those little things about Monika that made her so incredibly sexy.
About those breasts. Monika was short, but very, very buxom. She was what you'd call an "early bloomer", if not for the fact that after she bloomed, she never stopped. At fifteen, she was the only girl in our class who was a D-cup. From there, well, let's just say that had she not been my best friend it would have been impossible to look her in the eye. The word "voluptuous" pretty much fit her to a "T".
When we'd first made love, I had instantaneously become a "breast man", no doubt about that. She, and they, were soft, and erotic, and wildly sexy. I daydreamed about Monika's breasts. I did. I swear it. I am such a perv. I really am. There were days, before we became intimate, that I'd steal furtive sideways glances at her heaving breasts, sheathed in her tight knit shirts, as the school bus bounced on the countless ruts in U.S. Highway 60 during the thirty-minute ride to and from school. This, only to rush home at fever pitch to masturbate behind closed doors thinking wonderfully dirty thoughts of her intensely sexy figure.
No, it wasn't hard to be attracted to Monika, on both a mental and physical level. Which was why, at the ripe old age of eighteen, I knew I had found the woman I would marry. We grew closer those first two years in college. It was nearly as though we had our own little world apart from life, which stopped at the front door. Our own home, our own routine, our own daily grind, and our own torrid love affair.
We had been dating for nearly five years, now, and at roughly twenty-and-a-half each, we knew we belonged together.
************************
"Well?" she stared at me, giggling.
See, I had never told Monika about this little fantasy of mine. The weird one. The fatty fat one. She thought she knew everything about me, every vital statistic, every dark dirty secret, every skeleton--she even knew that I liked big boobs. But she didn't know this. Not until that day.
For one thing, those little fantasies had been rare occurrences over the preceding five years, most of my life having been spent with this girl of my dreams. Only rarely did the urge to be "fat" make its appearance, and typically it was accompanied by a fantasy that my Monika, my dear, darling, loving serving wench, showered me with kisses and fed me sinful treats until my belly grew to gigantic proportions and burst the buttons of my shirts. The dream experts would have a field day analyzing that one, I'm sure.
There were times I wished I had told her, that I wished I could tell her, that she might get a gleam in her eye and share my profoundly affecting fantasy of having an enormous belly.
But I couldn't risk losing her. Not Monika.
And so it went that my deviant little thoughts were kept hidden away, in their shady confines in a remote corner of my twisted brain, pulled out on one of the rare occasions Monika had a night class or another engagement with her friends.
I began writing short stories, for no one's eyes but my own, about everyday characters who grew improbably fat, for a variety of reasons. There were stories of over-indulgence, stories of magical weight gain, stories of revenge. But they all featured protagonists who ultimately wound up with bellies of titanic proportions. I sketched pictures of myself having gorged on impossibly large meals, my stomach distended and bloated and fat. I drew sketches of Monika, too, one in particular depicting her in stages as she gained a huge amount of weight.
The more I thought about it, the more the idea of a Fat Monika appealed to me. What wasn't to like about a woman whose breasts would be the size of watermelons? Sometimes I'd picture the pair of us as 500-pounders, rubbing our stupendously fattened stomachs together in lieu of a hug. Less and less did it bother me when I masturbated thinking of either Monika or myself in this grossly fattened state.
I probably should have stopped right there and sought professional help. But I didn't.
That was when I began to realize that it wasn't just an aberrant fascination. Or "gross-out fantasies" to scare myself into staying thin. I had now accepted that I enjoyed thinking of myself--and Monika--much fatter. And I kept on stuffing those pillows and blankets under my shirts and pretending I had become fat. My obsession was getting near to being out of control, and I had no idea where it was going to go, but I had to admit I was enjoying the ride.
And now here I was. Caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar. I just sat there on the couch, blushing, with my shirt padded to the bursting point, my belly the size of a giant beach ball resting on my lap, with two of my shirt buttons undone and a third about to pop off the next time I inhaled. I looked at her and grinned.
"What in the wide, wide world of--" She didn't finish. She broke out in a fit of giggles. Her breasts bounced and jiggled, and I got even more horny than I already was. I started giggling with her, and that was enough to send that third button exploding from my shirt on an express trip across the room. It ricocheted off of the opposite wall, and came to rest at her feet.
"I guess I ate too much of your fantastic cooking, Honey."
Which was pretty funny, actually, if you think about it. But it was all I could get out. I was suddenly very, very embarassed. I wanted to be very small, insignificant--someone or something so insignificant that she'd forget all about me. Forget I ever existed. I wanted her to turn around and run and never look back. What kind of freak was I? I wanted to die.
And then she laughed. I must have been as red as an unpeeled radish about then. We both stared at my "belly" and the huge gap in the shirt in between the missing buttons.
And we laughed.
"Well."
She stared purposefully, with her hands on her hips in a very schoolteacher-ish way. I looked at her inquisitively, but for some reason I didn't move to take out the pillows. I just sat there resting my hands on top of that mountain of padding.
I had the gall to rub the sides of my "belly" as though gloating after finishing off an imperial-sized dinner. I wanted her to laugh again.
"Well," she said again, as if sizing me up.
She sat down next to me on the couch and pecked me on the cheek. She put her hand on my huge "belly" and asked, "Did you have a good day? Did you miss me?"
I smiled and nodded.
"And my tits?"
"And your tits."
She poked me in a teasing manner, and began to rub that mass of padding as if it were real, gentle strokes that made my cock stiffen with excitement. She put on her best smolder and licked her lips expectantly. She kept rubbing my "belly", gently, as though soothing a bad tummy ache. She cooed softly and sexily and sat on her knees, next to me, leaning in to kiss me and letting her breasts brush across my face.
Their soft warmth felt wonderful.
"Mmmm, no bra, " I said, and she giggled softly, her hair tumbling forward and tickling my face.
"Dessert", she said, still rubbing, reaching for my cock, and pushing her big, soft breasts against my mouth. She let one of them pop out of her low-cut t-shirt and dangle tantalizingly an inch from my open mouth. I was a beached whale sitting there, unable to move toward that exquisite mass of flesh, but I lunged forward as best I could, open-mouthed, searching for Mammary Heaven.
I kissed and licked and suckled on her breast and in seconds her nipple looked as if it could cut glass. She bent down and licked my ear and whispered, "you look sexy."
Monika gently urged me to lie down on my back, and I turned and did so, as she unzipped my jeans and pulled them down around my ankles along with my boxers. She played with my cock for a minute, teasing me with occasional feathery touches which I couldn't see over the mountain of padding on top of my stomach. It was enough to drive me nearly insane with excitement. I was almost quivering with anticipation when she took me in her mouth and the warmth and comfort of her tongue pressed against my penis was more than I could stand. I thought I was going to cum all over her.
"Mon!' I beckoned for her to sit on me, and she stripped in no time at all, and within seconds I was inside of her, and our hips were grinding. She pulled my hands to her breasts, and even though I couldn't see them past my "stomach", their jiggly softness and girth felt like Heaven. Monika put her hands on top of my "belly" and rubbed and stroked it as the two of us did likewise. We moaned and exclaimed and shouted our glee with abandon.
Our neighbors must have thought the roof was falling in.
When it was over, she sat there, still sitting on me, looking down at me, her purposeful eyes framed by her mop of wildly tousled hair, grinning an impish grin. It was one of those very Veronica Lake-ian looks. I smiled back, my hands resting on top of my padded tummy. We sat there, exchanging a wordless love, for a long time, pierced only by the occasional goofy giggle. Finally, she patted my belly with both hands and we slowly disentangled.
She stood up, beside the couch, and looked at me, lovingly, standing there naked in the bare twilight filtering in from outside. Her sexy silhouette put those truckers' mud flaps with the naked ladies on them to shame. The ones you always see on the 18-wheelers on the Interstate. Her breasts and womanly hips were almost overexaggerated, and her profile reminded me of Little Annie Fannie's, like an hourglass with an exaggerated top and bottom. She took my hand with one of her own and blew me a kiss with the other, then shimmied her breasts back and forth, like strippers do when they twirl their tassels. I laughed lovingly at that and she grinned, and went to the bathroom to wash up.
And I just lay there, nearly immobile, staring after her. I'd never loved her as much as I did then.
*************
"Would you hate me if I actually were fat?"
I turned and stared at Monika. It was the first thing she'd said that morning.
We were lying in bed, shaking off the cobwebs on a lazy Saturday morning. Monika was lying on her side, as I surveyed her from head to toe and back again, her exaggerated curves rising, then falling, then rising again, like a hypercoaster. She was swirling the bedcovers with her index finger, absentmindedly, lost in thought.
"Hmmm?"
She looked up at me with a raised eyebrow, and obviously expected an answer.
"Hate you? That's pretty hurtful, Monika. You're my best friend. I love you more than anything. You know that. Is this about las--"
"Yeah."
I started to get ashamed again. She hadn't demanded answers, or even asked why she had found me sitting on our sofa looking as though I had eaten the contents of an entire supermarket. We just got caught in the moment, and it was magical. I had been starting to hope that maybe I'd dreamed the whole thing.
"Listen, Monika, I--"
"I've read your stories."
I hadn't expected that. Talk about shock treatment.
"Those are jus-"
"I've seen your sketches, too."
I had nothing to say.
"Do you prefer fat women?"
I touched her bare hip, and let my fingers trace a path downward along the very feminine arc to her waist, and back up to her breast. I reached for her soft, curvcaceous legs, and gave her a kiss.
"Monika, I am so in love with you that sometimes I can't even remember my own name. I'd love you if you were green."
"That's comforting." She rolled her eyes back, and a wry smile came over her face then. "You know, when I was a little girl, I used to have dreams, or nightmares maybe, about visiting a candy factory and eating candy until I was so fat I had to be rolled away. Like in--"
"Willy Wonka!" We both said it at the same instant.
I chuckled. Monika looked at me with her big brown eyes flashing.
"When I read your stories, it was almost like we'd been in the same dreams." She looked down at the bedspread. "I think I like to eat too much. Sometimes....sometimes I wonder whether I'll wind up as fat as my Mom."
Monika's mother had ballooned to nearly 300 pounds when Monika was in her early teens. By the time we were in high school, she had slimmed to a plump 160. But it was true--Diana Scott had been heavyset as long as I'd known her.
"I wouldn't worry about it, Monika. You've got a figure women kill each other for. I daydream about you."
"Not everyone loves big boobs, Big Boobie Boy." She stuck her tongue out at me, but winked.
"But you are sexy. Voluptuous. Very, very feminine. I think about you in the middle of the day and can't keep my hands off of myself."
"But you drew pictures of me as a really fat girl."
"Yes."
"Is that what you want? Do you want me to get really fat?"
I thought about saying something, then, but didn't.
"Do you think about getting fat, too?"
I nodded.
"Are you scared of it?"
"I used to think so. Maybe I still am."
"It makes you horny, though, right?"
"Not as horny as you do."
"Funny."
I deliberated. Finally, I nodded.
"Is that why you pad yourself?"
I nodded again.
"I used to do it, too. When I was younger."
I stared at her.
"I dunno why. It felt good. I liked being a big, round, fat ball of padding. Maybe I just wanted to look like my Mom."
That revelation made me open up to her. "I think I saw a cartoon as a kid. One of the characters ate too much and got an enormously fat stomach, and it made me horny just watching that. I masturbated on the spot. I guess, ever since, I kindof always wanted to see what it was like to have a big belly."
"Huge."
"Yes."
"Enormous."
I nodded.
"So big it needs its own Zip Code!"
I looked away from her, then.
"Fatty, fatty two by four!" Suddenly, I almost wished I hadn't told her.
Then she put her hand under my chin and turned my face toward her. She looked at me, and smiled.
"You were hot."
"What?"
"Last night. Your stomach. Your belly. You looked so good sitting there like that."
"C'mon. Stop teasing."
She looked at me. "I'm not." I touched her hand. The early sunlight was glinting off of her mop of hair.
"Spoons, 'kay?" She rolled over, and I nestled up behind her. I caressed her curvy thigh. She purred, and burrowed back against me.
"I know this sounds crazy, but I think I've always subconsciously wanted to be fat." It was the first time I'd heard her admit something like that, and I'll confess--it was shocking.
"Man, I don't believe I'm telling you this. Sometimes...sometimes when I dream about being really fat, I just lose control and come. I think it's a food thing. I think it's just the thought of eating everything I've ever wanted, and just being so full and happy and content. And it can make me come just like that. That used to bother me."
I thought I'd pull away from her about then, and maybe she did, too, but I didn't. Her voice was utterly sexy, and she could've been reading the stock quotes and it would've sounded like a symphony. I put my arms around her.
"You wouldn't be able to do that if I was fat, you know."
"I wouldn't be able to do it if I was fat, either. My belly would be too big to let me hold you."
"Can you imagine how big my tits would be if I was fat?"
"Huge-mongous."
"Gi-normous."
"Gi-normous-er."
"Really fucking big!"
We laughed at that, and I groped her big breasts from behind.
"Oooh, somebody's got a woodie!"
I massaged the sides of her breasts, and she started wriggling and moaning with delight. "Ohhh, please don't do that!"
"Am I hurting you?"
"No, dumb duck, it's making me want to make love. We have too much to do this morning."
I left her breasts and went back to stroking her hip.
"Nik?"
'Nik' was one of Monika's "pet" names. I called her that when I felt like she was going to get mad at me.
"Nik, would you hate me if I was fat?"
"Weren't you listening?"
"Whaddayou mean?"
"I thought you looked totally sexy last night. I didn't say it to make you feel better, or because I thought it was what you wanted me to say. I CONFESSED to you. I 'd love it if you were fat. Not just fat, but if your belly was huge like in the pictures you drew."
I stopped caressing her hip about then, and sat bolt upright in bed. She rolled over again, propping herself up on one elbow, eyeing me with that admonishing look of hers.
"Doesn't any of this tell you something? Anything? By 'this' I mean me knowing about your belly fantasies, confiding in you that I have padded myself, too, and thought about what I'd look like as a fat girl, and then jumping on you and your mountain of a "belly" last night. Don't you see?"
"I see that you're as nuts as me."
She sat up, crossed her arms over her jutting breasts, and pouted.
"And that you love me, Nik."
She smiled, trying not to, and turning her head the other way.
"And that I'd love you in any shape or size." She looked at me again. "Especially 'big. I never would have told you, but I've had dreams about us getting married and growing really, REALLY fat. Just feeding each other yummy treats and eating until we're stuffed and then Making Love all night."
"Fat Love."
"Oooohh, sometimes I think about feeding you so much food you'd be sitting there on the floor with your belly reaching out to your feet, helpless to do anything but let me squeeze your handsome face between my big 'ol boobies."
"You're weird. I'd suffocate in between those."
Now I have to admit, there were worse places to die.
"You'd love it." Of course, she knew she was right.
"Weirdo."
"Weird? Why? Because I love the thought of you with an enormously fat tummy? Some girls like fat guys. I happen to like really big bellies on guys. When I was little, one of my Dad's friends used to come to our parties, and his belly was so fat that he was almost as round as he was tall. He'd let me pat it and pinch it and it shook all over when he laughed. I wanted to climb up on it and ride it like a pony. Or bounce up and down on it. I dunno why, but I've always really liked guys with big bellies. I just think a big belly is so sexy, B___", she continued. "Men AND women with big fat tummies look so full and satisfied. And happy. I just think it's sexy."
"Then how in the world did you end up with me?" It was a legitimate question. Even now, my waist was barely twenty-nine inches.
"Because you make me laugh. And because you're the smartest man I know. And because you don't judge me. And because I think you are amazing. Special."
I looked away from her then.
"And VERY handsome."
She poked my nose, deliberately trying to make me grin. I did.
"I never told you, but I’ve had so many fantasies about filling up your big belly with my cooking. I've wanted to fatten you up for years. Remember when we were in high school and had to ride the bus every day? I'd sit there and look over at you when you weren't looking back, and I'd imagine you sitting there on a sofa after you'd eaten a big meal I'd cooked for you, with your big belly hanging out, driving me crazy. You don't know how MANY times I had that fantasy." I was scared, and definitely embarrassed the way she was describing it, but I confess, I was also aching to hear more. It was making ME hot.
"But, you know, you've always acted like 'fat' is a 4-letter word. In SPITE of the fact that you have an obvious fat fetish and draw pictures of yourself with an enormous gut. By the way, betcha didn't know I use those pictures sometimes for a little self-gratification, didja?"
I think I was staring open-mouthed at her then.
"Yeah, I masturbate over stuff like that, too. Not so much now that we do it like jackrabbits," she said as she poked me in the forehead and winked, "but sometimes, if we're apart, I'll go to your desk and get them and fantasize that you've grown that fat on my cooking. That's such an unbelievable turn-on for me."
I looked at her with a new respect from that second on. Not because she shared my fantasies, or even because she accepted my weirdness, but because she was far more perceptive than even I had known.
She eyed me curiously now. "What I want to know is, what would you do if I got fat? Would you leave me? Would you go find another girl with big breasts?"
I kissed her, then, and looked her squarely in the eye.
"Nik, please, don't say things like that. I'd find you incredibly sexy no matter how much you weigh, and you know it. Even sexier. There'd be more of you to love. Your face would be round and just as pretty. Your boobs would be gigantic. You'd have sexy big hips and thighs, and you'd have a beautiful fat belly to play with. You'd be a gorgeous BBW. Just like in the pictures I drew. Why? Are we gaining?"
I'd said it as a joke. I didn't expect the answer she gave.
"Why not? We could cook for each other, and order in, and try to get each other to burst out of our clothes. We could go to All-you-can-eats and make people giggle and laugh while we stuff ourselves. And all the while, we'd be feeling sexier about ourselves and each other. It'd be soooo erotic. We could live out these fantasies we've had, to get fat and not feel bad about it. Because we'd grow hornier for each other the fatter we got."
"You are a certifiable nut. I am a freak but you are certifiable."
She frowned.
"Nik, I like to pretend, sure, but getting fat is another matter entirely. We'd go broke."
That was a lie, and she knew it. Our families were pretty well-off, and they'd given us more money for living expenses than we could possibly have used.
"We'd be laughingstocks. We'd have no friends. We'd be ridiculed beyond belief. We'd have health problems."
"Life is short, B___. Wouldn't you rather enjoy it? Besides, fat people can be healthy. And exercise. A little. And how can you say we'd e 'laughingstocks'? Haven't you heard about the obesity epidemic in America? Everyone's fat here. I'm a chub, but you are a toothpick."
"Nik, you are NOT a 'chub'. You have the sexiest hour-glass figure I've ever seen. Your top is twice as big as your bottom, but still--"
"Well, alot of people would call me 'fat'. I don't care. I like being voluptuous. I'm not going to stop eating because I'm not thin. And you need to gain some weight. At least a little. Really--you're a rail."
I gave her a raspberry, then, but she'd planted the seed, for sure.
****************
