tummywave

It was by accident, mostly, a glib reply to someone you thought was way out of your league—she was tall, dark-skinned, confident to the point of regality, but apparently she liked people who made her laugh, and you'd always been funny. One thing led to another led to long conversations with your wife led to a short flight to a different town, stepping from the chill of the airport into the swampy Southern air into her black convertible. She was just as charming in real life as she was in person, even more so, but when you heard her laugh for the first time in person you knew there was something more, and when she took you out somewhere nice and fed you a bite of her creamy pasta before she'd tasted it, leaning in slowly and carefully with her warm, piercing eyes, her high cheekbones, the light shining off her skin like moonlight on a midnight lake, you knew were in love, again. And when you were in her bed that night, when she was digging her perfect nails into your gut stuffed with rich, expensive food, your heart was already trying to make a three-way stitch.

Cue many more long conversations with your wife, tentative, yielding, hopeful, nervous. The tension in the air before she flew in to meet you two at your home and how that tension dissolved in laughter and became high-pitched anticipation, the way you felt love-drunk at watching your wife, the woman you loved more than anyone or anything in the world, the woman whose face was the book you read in every day, flirting with the woman who made you want to lay at her feet and beg for a golden collar.

When you put the red beans and rice on the table for dinner and saw both their satisfied, happy faces, you knew, yes, this was happening. The wine and conversation was flowing, your wife's low chuckly laugh ran like a bass line under your girlfriend's high, melodic trill. It was just a question of who was going to make the first move. Surprisingly, your wife did, leaning in after another bout of laughter and tracing the line of your girlfriend's jaw. "God, your laugh," your wife said, her hand resting lightly on your girlfriend's jaw. "It's just like our little piggy said. How did your describe it again, dear?" "Intoxicating," you said, blushing. Our little piggy? "Intoxicating," your wife said. "Exactly right." Your girlfriend didn't need more than that, crouching forward to bring her face level with your wife's, her eyes closed, and they kissed, and kissed, and kissed, ending in a low moan from your wife's throat as your girlfriend pulled away and they both turned to look toward you, blushing, squeaking softly as both of their gazes hit you at the same time. "You know, you haven't shown me your bedroom yet," your girlfriend said, even though you had.

"I'll just get a few things together," your wife said, taking a piping bag full of pudding from the fridge. "Why don't you go get your ears, piggy?" "Yes, Mommy," you said, the embarrassment making you feel light and helpless when you saw your girlfriend's grin. "She's so obedient with you," your girlfriend said. "She was so feisty with me, or she was until I had her drunk and stuffed, at least." "That sounds like my piggy," Mommy said, making her way upstairs. "Come on, pig! Feeding time!" And with a slap on the ass from your girlfriend, you made your way upstairs to the bed. "In your usual spot," Mommy said, grabbing your cuffs from the closet, and obediently, to your girlfriend's delight, you settled against the headboard and held your arms up in the air to be cuffed. "I didn't know she was so well-trained," your girlfriend said as Mommy tightened the pink leather cuffs against your wrists, then tied them tight to the headboard. "She's shy about it, it's so cute, my greedy little piggy," Mommy said, finishing the last knot. "It's not like you can hide that big belly of yours, can you? They might not know you beg me every night to pump you full of lard, but they sure can see the effects." She slapped your gut hard, crawling on the bed next to you. Your girlfriend stood, staring, watching your fat wobble and still, then ripped her clothes off and crawled into bed next to you, your wife on your other side.

"My ears," you said, feebly. Your wife wiggled them in front of you expectantly, making you oink not just once but three times before she nestled your ears on your head, the thoughts dropping straight of your brain. You'd been excited, desperate, the joy heightened by your nervousness. Now you were just hungry, really hungry, and you strained at your cuffs looking at everything tasty in front of you, your girlfriend's lean body, your wife's shorter, doughier one, the bag of pudding calling to you from the side table. "She really is like a different person," your girlfriend said. "It's weird, almost. Soon as they went on she just. . ."

"It suits her too well to be weird," your wife said. "But yeah, I get it. The light in her eyes changing. But that's just how my piggy is, isn't it?" She put her hands on your fat, hanging, stretchmarked breasts, twisting your nipples hard without any warm-up just how you liked, and you almost came right there, arching your back and moaning, and then they were on you.

The weight was piling on faster than it ever had in your life. You woke up every day feeling fatter, slower, heavier than you did before, and it would've worried you except for how fucking massive your tits and ass and belly were getting, thought the health aspect was a concern to you. But then your girlfriend stepped in and took charge of your health, charting your weight over time and explaining kindly and patiently to you that it was nothing to worry about, that she'd help you size up a few things, that all you had to do was keep eating.

"I know, sweetie," she said, smiling, her tone happy, but there was something else in it, a surprise, a warning. Shortly after that, the brain fog and cravings started.

"Eating is my favorite thing!" you said, happily.

You were making mistakes at the diner, simple mistakes you'd never even made when you were new on the floor, and you were eating more and more there. Not just the occasional crouton or grape tomato from the salad bar or something made mistakenly, but you were wheedling your way into the kitchen, begging for leftover fries, chicken tenders, anything, you were starving, starving. The cooks always said yes, eyeing your tender, swollen breasts, and you were happy, until one day they said no.

You were so hungry couldn't focus, making customers repeat their orders, entering them wrong, the tasty smells in the air driving you crazy until you ran into the back, into the walk-in cooler, and shoved your face into a blueberry pie. That was how the manager found you, pants undone, stomach bulging, fingers and face sticky with syrup as shoveled more and more into your pudgy face, a whole tray's worth demolished and packed into your greedy, growing gut.

Pacing on the sidewalk, you called your girlfriend, asked her to come back you up early, and tried to think of what you would say when she got there.

"Baby, I'm sorry, I—I don't know what's wrong with me lately," you said, settling awkwardly into her car, tears streaming down your face. "I'm just so fucking hungry, like actually starving, all the time, and everything is so tight on me and my tits feel like they're going to explode, and I keep fucking up at work, and, I, I couldn't help myself, I started stuffing myself in the cooler and got caught, and," you took one long breath in, let it out, "I got. . . fired."

"There's something I've been meaning to tell you," your girlfriend said, and you burst into tears, pawing at her, begging her not to leave you. She pulled over, shushing you, petting your head until the panic passed.

Silence. Her face didn't move. Fuck. Was this it? Was she finally going to dump her useless fat pig of a girlfriend?

"I'm not leaving you, baby, don't worry," she said, "but have you noticed how I've been drawing your shots in the other room? For a while now."

"No?" you said, confused.

"Isn't that just how estrogen works?" you said. It was getting harder to talk, her touch felt so good. Her hands were rubbing near your ears, now, at this sensitive, almost raised spot that had popped up on your head a couple weeks ago.

"Really?" she said. "And you haven't noticed how hungry, how horny you get the next day?"

You nodded, still not connecting the dots, until her hand came down and squeezed your aching, swollen breasts and milk stained your shirt, a low moan falling out of your mouth as she milked you right there, sweet release you didn't even know you'd needed. She put her head on your shoulder and whispered in your ear, your whole body trembling in relief, and told you about your future. The plot of land out in the country she'd bought from a distant aunt, fifty lush and private acres where you'd be free to graze, grow enormous and helpless and hefty with her help. No need to work—your job is making milk. No need to wear clothes—you're a cow, cows don't need clothes. No need to talk—she'll take care of everything, everything for you, tend to your every need before you even know what you need. All you have to do is open your mouth and moo.

leaned in close, and shoved a piece of chocolate in your mouth with a desperate look in her eyes, then another piece, then another, and her lips were on yours and then you were in her car going to a drive-through. She fed you two burgers, some fries, and finally poured the milkshake into your mouth, holding it to your lips until you finished it as you burped and tried to pull away, more stuffed than you'd ever been, your small belly pushing out over your tight shorts. You met her every so often after that, and talked most days, but she never really let you know about her, her personal life a vague sketch she kept vague. She was interested in making you fatter, and that's what she did, buying meals for you on the condition you recorded yourself eating them, and you grew, your belly softening and rounding and widening, the sharp jawline you'd always got complimented on swallowed by the soft tide of your own greed. You stopped asking her about personal stuff, eventually, and when you did she got warmer, feeding you more, responding faster in dirty talk, calling you her "pet pig." And when you met her, there was no pretense at conversation. You went to the restaurant or hotel room, exchanged niceties, and she fed you. Always, she fed you more food, heavier food, and faster. You wondered if she had a boyfriend and you were her little lesbian experiment and then just stopped caring about it. It wasn't what you wanted, but it was what you had, and it's not like people were beating down you door to feed you.

One day after stuffing you, she gave you a box, an unopened Amazon package with the address label torn off. Inside was a scale. "I was thinking, I kind of want to do more with you," and hope soared in your heart. "I'll link this scale to my phone, so when you weigh yourself, I'll see it. And I made you this." She passed you a binder, and inside were a list of meals and recipes, all of them dated, starting tomorrow. "You can eat a lot even now, but you could eat even more with a little training, and then I can really put the weight on you." "Training," you said, "like I'm an athlete on a regimen."

Weirdly enough, it didn't make you outright heavier at first. It was a lot of grains, a lot of fiber, a lot of water and seltzer, and you started actually feeling hungry even though you were bloated all the time. It went on like that for a week, lots of broccoli and water chugs and chicken, and then the recipes changed. Cream was in everything, lots of Kraft made with heavy cream and bacon specifically as a right-before-bed-meal, but also in scrambled eggs and in protein shakes, and you ballooned. It was intoxicating, feeling yourself ballooning like that, the indescribably hot feeling of getting fatter by the second as you sat there, letting yourself go bite by bite. And then she cancelled your next meeting, but mailed you a binder without a return address, with your fattening schedule. And she cancelled the next one as your breath got short, as you outgrew clothes, as the casual acquaintances all started treating you weird. Not worse, really, but. . . some took you less seriously, some seemed concerned and would mention their diets a lot more, and some, especially men seemed to just start kind of ignoring you. You weren't the serious consultant anymore; you were the one that needed to hit the gym and get clean, or at least buy new clothes, for God's sake. Little did they know it was for a woman who seemed like she was trying to avoid you.

But finally, she did agree to meet you again. You wore something intentional, the blue dress you'd worn when you first met her, now obscenely tight and too short to wear anywhere but to see her, your belly pressing hard and the indent of your bellybutton like the pupil of a demanding eye.

It was quiet when you got into the hotel room, a little suite with a kitchen. She was wearing a long dress with buttons from the neck to the hem, leaning against the counter, and her eyes flew to you as soon as you walked in. You could feel her picking out every detail, the faint beginnings of a third chin, the roll of fat under your arms, the globe of your perpetually stuffed gut staring at her as you looked at her expectantly.

You're no longer a good fatty. Your hourglass figure is gone, your belly dominates your frame, your belly bounces and pushes and oozes out of all your clothes, and you're constantly turned on, which makes you hungry. Soon you're guzzling three-thousand calories after dinner every night. You're losing mobility. Clothes you've worn for years are straining over your arms, your thighs, your ass. An old friend catches you alone, asks if you're okay, and when you say, Of course, yeah, what do you mean?, they won't even say it aloud, just look you up and down and grimace.

When you get home, you're ravenously horny. You beg for your wife to feed you and she gleefully obliges, and you drink eight-thousand calories in a single sitting, blowing past your personal best of five-thousand. It's a tipping point for you. The last shreds of restraint are gone and you start to really blow up, your entire life and being flattening into a never-satisfied hunger.

Your stretchmarks cover huge areas of your body now, shining red lightning belting your belly, striping your fupa (you take her word for it, you can't see them), covering your arms, your tits, even one tucked away inside your chins, a secret little brand of gluttony. Your wife writes your resignation e-mail for your work-from-home job for you while you eat a cake on all fours. You're her pig now, Mommy's sweet little pudding, constantly naked, stuffed, and stoned. She doesn't let you know your weight.

You see your friends post a picture from the summit of a hike you do every year with them, and realize that they didn't even ask you, but it doesn't upset you. You haven't been outside the house in weeks because nothing fits you. Your belly flows to your knees. Your world's shrunk as your body grows. You don't remember the last time your day consisted of anything but eating.

One day, she makes you stand before breakfast. It's an ordeal, and she's strong, but she truly has to strain to lift you up. Your atrophied muscles are little help. Slowly, you waddle to the scale, chins bouncing, belly bouncing against your thighs as you walk, pouting and whining that she put it all the way on the other end of the room. You step on, eager to be laying back down and watching TV, and she gives a soft gasp, kisses you, grabs big soft handfuls of you.

"Want to know what it is?" she says, purring. You say sure. You've been curious for a while now.

She smiles as she speaks. "Four hundred and thirty-three pounds," she says. You're stunned. You try to push your tits and belly out of the way to look yourself, but there's too much. Your legs are already aching. Has she been keeping you that sedentary? You barely noticed.

She leads you back to the bed, praising you being her perfect pig, and once you're settled back in with your morning pre-breakfast shake you ask her: weren't you going to tell me when I hit 400, so I could go to the doctor, get checked up?

She just smiles, and your heart melts. You love her so much. "I think 500 would look better on you," she says. "Don't you want to be a good piggy?"