Shit…I did not need that, you hopelessly gripe to yourself, clutching a hand over your full stomach in the car. You just finished off a double bacon cheeseburger with fries after an annoyingly long day at work.
But god it tasted so good, you think to yourself absentmindedly as you unbutton your pants for the short drive back home. You stayed at work late today, knowing your beloved partner was home waiting for you, longing to join you on the couch for some much-needed vegging out.
You pull up to your humble abode, belly full, but not painfully so. You heave a sigh before you suck yourself in just enough to redo your pants button before wadddling inside. “Waddling” is the only way you can describe it at the moment.
Much to your dismay, as you open the door, the intoxicating aroma of a freshly cooked dinner hits you like a brick wall.
“Hi baby! I knew you were working late today so I -”
Their words stop in their throat when they see you. You like to think it’s just the joy of having you home with them at last that stops them, but you know the truth. Your tummy is stretching rather tautly against your shirt, much more noticeably than it had been when you left for work that morning. Your partner isn’t oblivious.
“Oh, babe. You look exhausted. You kick your feet up and relax, dinner is almost ready.”
Dinner? You just had dinner! But Jesus, the look in their doe eyes would make you rather disappear into the ground than refuse them. By the smell of it they’ve been working for hours on whatever they’re cooking up, and far be it from you to let that go to waste. You do as you’re told and take your seat on the sofa afront the TV, anxiously awaiting whatever they are bound to present to you.
And present they do. A short few moments later, once you’re fully relaxed and engrossed into an episode of your favorite show, a heaping bowl of creamy, decadent pasta is planted in front of your softening face. It smells…buttery. Impossibly decadent. Fattening.
A single second passes where you think, I could say no, but you don’t. You couldn’t bear to let their efforts go to waste. And so instead you say, “thank you, baby. This looks delicious,” before you shovel a forkful into your greedy mouth.
And delicious it is. You were right about the decadence, of course. Your arteries can feel the fat, even before you swallow. You’re attuned to it now. You’ve grown to crave this indulgence, this excess. No matter how much you eat, you feel you can’t refuse another bite. Of anything. Ever.
Forkful after forkful, you feel the top of your stomach expanding, growing tighter with each bite. But still you can’t stop. It’s addictive.
“What did you put in this, babe?” you question, feigning ignorance, pretending to be enamored by your beloved’s skills in the kitchen. You’re lying, though. Inside you know it’s just that you’re insatiable, unable to resist the temptations of a warm meal.
“Nothing new, hon, I just figured you’d be hungry since you worked so late.”
You know they’re lying, too. Both of you complicit in what’s happening. You’re getting fatter with every bite you take, and you both know it, and neither of you are upset by it. The itch of your growing stretchmarks betray your façade.
You finish the first bowl, full now beyond able to ignore, but you ask for seconds anyway.
“God, you’re such a great cook. How’d I get so lucky?” You say innocently, giving your rounded belly a pat. “I’m so full! My mouth wants more but my stomach is protesting.”
It’s true. Your gut aches, but you’ve grown to crave this. This overfull, overindulged sensation.
Your partner moves to you gracefully, adorably, nothing but love in their eyes.
“Doesn’t look like you’re that upset, babe,” they say, eyes perceptively locked on your crotch. Their hand moves between your thighs and begins to rub.
“I hope you saved room for dessert.”
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