Mmmmmmm

Today my wife called me her bed husband. “I get out of bed fine,” I said. “That’s good,” she said. “I need you to always be able to get out of bed.”

She pulled the bed sheet off of me and then seemed to marvel at my width, how my hips and thighs spread, how my fatpad raises my belly apron. I have so much breast fat now and when I lay down it practically rests in my armpits. She lifted my arm up by my hand, the fat on my upper arm folding over my elbow. “Baby, I think you may need to start doing some hallway exercises.”

“Like what?” I said. “Walking up and down the hallway Building strength in your legs.”

Through these conversations I’ve come to learn exactly what my wife wants. She can’t get me so big that I’m helpless. And she can’t decrease how much she feeds me and risk me once again being what she called a “free range hubby”. She wants me so confined by my weight that I am a bed husband. In bed by early afternoon every day because I’m completely gassed from caddying all my weight around the house.

Have I been a good piggy?