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- <p>When you first told me, I was shocked. I mean, wanting to fatten me up- that would be a surprise to anyone. I wasn’t angry or hurt, just confused, mostly. I remember asking you a lot of questions about it, and taking a lot of time to think. You were polite, and gentlemanly. And embarrassed, of course. I’d told you my New Year’s Resolution; as ever, to lose weight. We’d been dating for a few months, but you knew this had been my resolution every year since I was 17. You politely suggested that I change it.</p><br/><span></span><p><span>The way you were so timid about it encouraged me to give it a go. I was careful to set clear boundaries. We agreed that you could bring me up to 180 lbs. Overweight, and a little fatter than average. I was a yo-yo dieter, so I was used to being a bit chubby, and I thought I’d appreciate a break from worrying about my weight.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>We celebrated the decision with food, the same way we’d come to celebrate most things in the future. You went out and bought me a whole cake, and spent the night feeding it to me. I gave up once I’d finished half of it, and when I’d recovered from my fullness, we made love on the couch. The next day, I finished the rest.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>This became a routine; you’d feed me, and we’d do it. I quickly got used to it. It was good. I got to eat more delicious food than I’d ever done before, and our love life improved greatly. We were having sex four or five times a week. As my weight crept up to the goal, I began to dread the date I’d actually reach it, and having to give up the life of luxury we’d cultivated in those past months. It wasn’t hard for you to convince me to put on more weight after that; we moved the goal up to two hundred.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>I didn’t particularly want to gain any more weight. I was fine with where I was; 180 made me a fair bit fatter than I was used to, but I was happy enough with how I looked. I’d become a lot curvier, in the good sense of the word; breasts and butt. I joked with you how I’d leave you for a rapper, when my favourite jeans refused to be pulled up over my ass.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>I only agreed to the next twenty pounds because the feeding had made us both so happy. You loved it, and I loved eating, I loved the sex, I loved that it pleased you. You were delighted when I said we could carry on.</span></p><br/><span></span><br/><span></span><p><span>200 came and went. After I hit the milestone, you tentatively offered up more food, the same way you had every night for the past six months. This time, you didn’t suggest a new goal, you just fed me, with your fingers crossed that I wouldn’t question it. “A little more,” I thought to myself, and we carried on as we had before.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>When I’d hit 175, I was officially obese, but you didn’t want to tell me then, in case it scared me into losing weight. Instead, you waited till I was 210 lbs to tell me the truth; I was officially, medically obese, and pretty far into the category, as well. I looked at myself in the mirror for a long time that night. I think you were worried I was upset, as you waited outside the bedroom, but I wasn’t really. It was more like incredulity. I knew I was fat, and I wasn’t going to argue with it. But obese? Obese is more than this. I observed my considerable gut, and shook my head. Obese people rode on motor-scooters when they went shopping. That wasn’t me. When I finally emerged, I declared myself “non-obese.”</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>“It’s a technicality,” I told you, settling on the couch, “I might be <i>technically</i> obese, but I’m not really. Not properly. Now what have you got for me?”</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>You fetched my sweets. I think you were happy that I wasn’t freaking out about it, but you were secretly proud to have an obese girlfriend. You were perfectly happy to accept I was obese.</span></p><br/><span></span><br/><span></span><p><span>The obesity revelation was like a flicked switch. I started eating more, largely because you starting feeding me more, now you knew I wouldn’t cut and run. But it also coincided with the concept of a weight goal falling to pieces. I couldn’t commit to getting any fatter than I already was, but I also wasn’t ready to actually give up, so I simply started ignoring my weight. Since I wasn’t paying any close attention to the numbers, I started snacking more freely, and I piled on the pounds faster than ever before.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>We started playing more games in bed. Feeding was one thing, but surely force feeding was better? You’d tie me to the bedposts, and feed me until I begged for mercy. You didn’t have to of course; I’d have eaten anything you gave me anyway. It was fun to pretend, though.</span></p><br/><span></span><br/><span></span><p><span>Before long, I was 260 lbs without even realising it, and I became morbidly obese. It was noticeable. My belly stuck out past my breasts, and hung down inside my pants most days. I freaked out and left, to stay with a friend while I figured things out. I told you I didn’t know how long I’d be away. The next day, I was back, unable to resist. You fed me an extra-large dinner, and I told you that I’d put on even more weight for you.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>We were both enthusiastic, so I gained quickly. I was certain this was what I wanted.</span></p><br/><span></span><br/><span></span><p><span>At 300, you told me I should quit my job. You’d gotten a promotion a couple of weeks earlier, and now you were earning twice what I did. You said we could live off your salary alone, that you just wanted to take care of me. I wasn’t sure. After some wearing down, I gave in, and handed in my notice.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>From then on, I spent the days parked in the computer chair, or watching tv on the sofa. I was growing at breakneck speed. A totally sedentary lifestyle only compounded the masses of food I’d inhale daily, eating even more now I didn’t have a job. No responsibilities, nothing to do but feed.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>And to make it worse, I’d begun to feel, well… Turned on, by the whole thing. That repeated routine of eating and fucking, putting on weight and fucking; it had formed an indelible link my brain, conditioned me almost. Having you feed me made me horny, and when you felt my new fat and praised me for how I’d grown, that drove me mad. It got to the point where I only got off thinking about how enormous I’d become.</span></p><br/><span></span><br/><span></span><p><span>This is when little things started getting difficult. At first, it was just standing up for a long time, doing the dishes, that kind of thing. But my accelerated weight gain and complete lack of activity quickly extended that to other things; walking, standing up, to name a few. Lazing around all day, I think my muscles atrophied. I became weak, but you promised you’d look after me. Well, that made me feel better for a while, but eventually, it began to worry me. I hit 450 in a flash, and I was scared.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>“It’s probably time that I stop putting on weight,” I told you, firmly.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>“Are you sure?” you asked, stroking my waist. “You’d look so sexy with a little more meat on your bones,” you tempted in my ear, “Don’t you agree? We should at least get to 500. You’re not going to quit on me, are you?”</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>My determination faltered. I was turned on, I was greedy. “Alright…” I conceded, “But we should slow down!”</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>“Of course we can!” was your sugared response, as you led me to bed.</span></p><br/><span></span><br/><span></span><br/><span></span><p><span>“Remember,” I told you at 500lbs, “We’re supposed to be slowing down! 500 is enough for one woman!”</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>You nodded, and presented me with a cupcake. I batted it away.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>“Seriously! I don’t want to end up not being able to walk!”</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>You smiled at me. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll look after you, like I said.”</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>That was a good enough answer. I accepted the cupcake, and ate it. As delicious as all the rest, I thought.</span></p><br/><span></span><br/><span></span><br/><span></span><p><span>I reminded you again, after another 10lbs. Again at 520. You became stricter. Walking became more of a chore.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>“I told you not to worry about it,” you laughed.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>Again at 540, the last time. I was sat on the bed, talking as you changed out of your work clothes. You pinned me down, and pulled the handcuffs out from out bedside table, binding me to the bedposts. The cuffs dug into my thick wrists. You silenced me, force-feeding me twice what I’d normally eat in a night, leaving my belly so full that it hurt, then we made love. I still don’t entirely know whether we were role-playing then, or whether you really were forcing me, but I was too aroused by it to care.</span></p><br/><span></span><br/><span></span><p><span>My last burst of resistance came at 553lbs exactly. Moving about was getting trickier, and that morning, I’d found it a real challenge to get out of bed. That freaked me out and like usual, when I got scared, I tried to run. I’d stay with a friend while I figured out what to do, that was the plan; but unlike the last time, I now had the issue of dragging my weighty body there to deal with.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>I painstakingly dressed myself in outgrown clothing. I hadn’t left the house in weeks, maybe months. I hadn’t thought about my sadly-insufficient wardrobe at all. I managed to get on a top that fit me like a bra, and some leggings, which my huge ass stretched thin like tights till they clung translucently to each of my legs’ flabby rolls. At least my flips-flops didn’t require any bending down to put on. Just a little deft toework, although even that gave me difficulty.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>The whole ordeal left me so exhausted, I had to rest afterwards. I soon needed the toilet; that took me a long time, then. By the time I was shuffling to the door, you were already on your way home. I panicked even more; I knew I couldn’t resist your sweet-talk, and the promise of relaxing instead of torturing myself with exercise for the first time in a year. I had to get out before you showed up, or I wouldn’t at all.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>That didn’t happen. The frame of the front door was smaller than I remembered it, and dug painfully into my wide hips as I squeezed through. The struggle took so much out of me, I had to sit down outside afterwards. You found me resting, and scolded me. Taking my arms, you helped me stand, then marched me back inside, giving a helpful shove as I crossed the threshold.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>“Get back in your room,” you ordered playfully, but with force. You took me by the arm and returned me to the bedroom. “Don’t be silly, running off like that. Let me fetch you a snack.”</span></p><br/><span></span><br/><span></span><p><span>Two weeks later, I called you into my room when you came home from work. “Our bedroom” had turned into “my bedroom”, as the queen-sized mattress became too small for both of us. You said you didn’t mind sleeping in the spare room, and since you got up before me anyway, this would save you accidentally waking me.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>You brought food with you. No surprise there.</span></p><p><span>I was crying as you stuck your head in the door. You came over, put an arm round my shoulder, and handed me a box of muffins. I automatically ate them as you dried my tears.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>“I can’t get up!” I sobbed. I hadn’t tried standing without your help since my escape attempt. At some point in the past fortnight, I’d unknowingly crossed the threshold to immobility, and now I was trapped.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>“I tried - sniff- to go to the bathroom while you were out, but...”</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>My voice faltered, and your nose wrinkled as you noticed I’d pissed myself. My cheeks burned red with shame. You were clearly disgusted at the sight of your girlfriend having wet herself, but you were kind about it. You kissed me on the cheek, and reassured me.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>“Don’t worry, sweetie. We’ll get you cleaned up.” </span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>I remember vividly how the wet fabric clung to my legs as you stripped me down. Then, you fetched a bowl of warm water and a cloth, and proceeded to wipe my legs, my ass, and the underside of my belly. You lovingly caressed me, carefully stroking the flannel between my thigh rolls and around my fat pussy.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>I felt myself getting wet as you washed me, from arousal, this time. I was sickened by the thought of it, getting turned on by this situation, but I couldn’t resist how you massaged me with the wash-cloth. Once you’d carried me over to my extra-wide computer chair and begun changing the bedsheet, I couldn’t help but touch myself. The shame of what I’d just done returned once I’d come to climax, and I burst into tears again.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>“Don’t be scared,” you whispered to me, “I’ll still look after you. I’ll wash you every day, I’ll take you to the toilet.” You gripped my chubby hand. Even as I wallowed in the horror of my condition, I felt myself getting hungry, and my stomach gave a fierce gurgle.</span></p><br/><span></span><p><span>“I need you to exercise me,” I pleaded.</span></p><br/><span></span>You looked me straight in the eye. “Of course,” you promised.
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