#softeningtext

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?"

The blush crept into her cheeks, and her country accent, a lilting around the vowels, came out. You're both grinning now, leaning closer towards each other, every little fidget bringing you closer to her until you can see the constellations of her freckles. Finally, you ask the question you already know the answer to: "So, what brought you here?"

"I'm. . . hungry, I guess. I want something new," I guess," she said, "new experiences. New people. New food."

"Oh, sweetie, I love a girl with an appetite," you say, leaning forward, your belly pushing over your cut-off shorts, your tits almost falling out of your top. "I think I can help you with all of those."

She smiled, blushing, grinning from ear-to-ear but not quite looking at you. "I was hoping you could."

It's been a year now since you met her at the bar, the night you now call your first date, and it's hard to recognize her. She wasn't playing it up; she'd seen and tasted so little of what this life has to offer, and even now there were still so many firsts you wanted to do with her, even after you'd already shared her first beer with her, her first kiss, her first real orgasm. She was hungry, hungrier than you could've ever guessed, and it was all you could do to keep up with her, but you wouldn't trade it for the world. You were there when she first saw the sea at sunset, when she saw her first redwood, when you cooked her the first authentic Mexican food she'd ever had, and the delight in her eyes were what kept you going, amongst other things.

"Baby," she calls from the other room, her voice low and flirty, "can you help me get dressed? I'm stuck." You round the corner and you're dumbstruck by what you see.

Gone is the narrow waist, the slim jawline, the air of quiet reserve, all of it buried under a hundred pounds of soft, new fat and a confidence bordering on arrogance—she calls you over with her eyes. "This doesn't fit anymore," she pouts, "what happened? Did you shrink it?" It takes you a second to realize it, but it's the red dress from the first fateful night. Her tits, swollen and stretch-marked, pour over the pitifully small cups, a stray bit of areola making you bite your lip. Her belly is tight against the fabric, her belly button a soft dimple in the red, the pert roundness of her gut deforming the entire line of the dress, her side rolls flowing out of the zipper she's holding with both hands. She didn't even try to close it herself, that's why you're there, but it's cute she pretends to make an effort.

"You've been greedy, my girl," you say, helping her to her feet without her even asking, examining the hopelessly small dress with amusement. "All those new restaurants, all those nights out, all those late-night food deliveries, they have to go somewhere, honey. Look at you. This big, soft, stretch-marked gut. These tasty udders. That giant, wobbly ass." Your hands punctuate your sentence, her moaning when you grope her, and wandering from her ass to between her legs as you stand behind her. "And this big squishy fupa, baby. What would they think of you back home? Would they even know you? You look like you ate that shy girl who I was eyeing across the bar all that time ago." She was helpless, leaning into you, grinding her hips into yours. "Anyways, let's help you get dressed."

Your forearms straining, you manage to pull each side of the zipper together with one hand and force it closed with the other, watching the fabric stretch thinner and tighter against her in the mirror, every curve and roll and dimple highlighted, all the more sexy for how this used to drape on her. "God, what did you do to yourself?" you ask.

"It's not my fault," she mumbles, nuzzling her head against you. "You feed me too much."

"I'm just letting you try new things, baby," trying to sound sexy as you can while forcing the zipper closed, its teeth clicking begrudgingly together as you slowly push it closed. "I didn't force that food down your throat. I didn't make you order more food after you came home stuffed. I didn't—"

A little more give around your waist, a little more weight in my hand when I held your breast, the slightest roundness in your cheeks. I didn't want to jinx it by saying it out loud, but I'm sure you noticed the little pinches while I took you into my mouth, fantasizing about having to fight your belly to eat you out. The next morning, I packed an extra treat in your bag, a crumbly chocolate scone.

"You know, I think people are starting to notice that my bag has more sweets in it than books," you said when you got home, and I wrapped my arms around your neck and kissed you, deeply, my hand going to your waist. "They only think that it must be what keeps you so sweet," I said. "And it's not my fault that when I order a dozen she gives me fifteen." "And it's my waistline that's going to pay that price?" I kissed you again, and then it was time for dinner. We were tired and didn't talk much, but when I searched your face for extra softness it seemed like I found it, and I started scheming up more little indulgences I could push onto you. Double cream in your coffee. The little bag of pretzels becoming a sandwich thick with salami and soft cheese. Dessert every night, without exception, fed to you with one hand while the other wandered over your softness. It was undeniable now, but I doubt anyone less obsessed with you than me could've noticed it. But over time, it worked it. It wasn't much, but I had more of you. "Baby?" you called from our bedroom. "I think you might actually be making fat." My face was hot when I got to the bedroom, and I knew it wasn't just from climbing the stairs.

You were standing in front of the mirror in your fancy dress, emerald green with a white belt that set off your dark skin perfectly and had used to drape over your hips elegantly, suggesting curves without revealing them, the perfect professional dinner dress for an upscale alumni dinner. The suggestion of curves was gone now, though, replaced with your hips booming out from your waist, your belly round and soft and outlined in the soft green fabric, your neckline full with more cleavage than was strictly appropriate.

And when you finally wrestle your skirt's zipper up as far as you can get it and present yourself to her, there's something hungry in her crooked smile. You stand there quietly, obediently, as she walks behind you, taking in every roll, every bulge, kissing your doughy cheek, sliding a hand up your leg and pinching at the beginnings of a thigh roll. "Need some help with the zipper, piggy?" she asks, her voice in your ear. The floral, spicy scent of her skin makes you feel drunk, the background mental patter of your anxieties dropping away as you lean into her. "I do," you say. She doesn't move a muscle, looks at you expectantly. Softly, you oink, and she zips it shut carefully. "This is getting pretty tight, baby. Have you really looked at yourself? I can see the outline of your gut." "It's A-line," you pout, "it's slimming. Besides, I like looking like a poinsettia." You run your hands over your red, cotton skirt and and emerald-green sweater, your classic Christmas outfit. "Yes, you only look like a little bit of a pig," she said. "Your family might say something, though. The skirt is getting closer and closer to not covering your ass anymore. See?" She flipped a hand underneath the hem of your skirt and grabbed a handful of your ass, soft fat squeezing through her fingers. "It's not like they don't know I'm fat," you say, "and anyways, we should get going, we'll be late." On the drive up to your parents, as you chit-chat about gifts, other holidays plans, whatever comes to mind, her hand is on your belly. She feels every bounce, every ripple, and her touch makes you suddenly grateful. Not just for that moment, but for all of it—the way you take care of her and she takes care of you, the way her love shows in your stretchmarks and extra chins as you mold yourself to her desires, the warm, everyday intimacy of being her favorite pillow—and you cry quietly to yourself, thankful to have found the love you spent your whole life looking for. A love beyond luck, beyond stress, beyond anything.

When you get to your parents, they welcome you both in warm hugs. She's a part of the family now, gets along better with your dad than you do, and as you graze on the over-sized feast your parents have laid out (what family doesn't put out too much food at the holidays?), you're extra-aware of her light touches on your waist and on the crest of your tightening belly. Home-made thumbprint cookies, small platters of capicola and crackers and smoked cheese and fish, flaky biscuits warm and fresh from the oven, little jars of jam from scattered farmer's markets—you graze, constantly, not realizing how full you are until you stand and feel the taut, warm weight of your belly pulling you forward. Needing a break from socializing, you go to the bathroom in the back of the house where it's quieter, stepping silently through your childhood home as a habit. Through a cracked window, you hear whispering voices and the chime of ice in a glass, smell the bitter richness and skunkiness of a noxious spliff. It's your wife and your father, talking quietly, alone. "Hey, just wanted to say, we're all glad you're part of the family," he says, drunk, affectionate. "I mean it. What you and her have—it's the real deal." "Hey, man, you know, I love my family, but they just don't talk with each other like y'all do," your wife says. "Moving to be her with was the best decision I ever made." "It's great you feel that way, it's great. I'm glad she found someone who can handle her, y'know?" "We handle each other. It works." "Eats like a pig, doesn't she?"

Those thoughts are hard to dig up, now. Twenty-five years of life lived and maybe a few years of memories to show for it, the rest lost or buried or burned with a purpose. You don't remember starting to remember, actually, not sure what cracked your egg. A song, maybe, or just a post. Beautiful women in your Twitter recommendations who liked the typical things and had HRT in their bio. And once you knew you could be a woman, you couldn't stop thinking about it, staying up late to research it while the woman who enjoyed nothing more than pushing past your No slept next to you in bed. You went to a sketchy website, ignored the risks, and got the little blue pills shipped to a friend's. And a few weeks later, in a plain white box, your future was waiting for you, little drops of sky in a blister pack.

You tried it, and there was no indecision then, no uncertainty, the machinery of your soul coming alive for the first time. For the first time in your life, you didn't want to die. Things mattered.

Things got worse; they had to. You broke off the engagement—you cared how you were treated now—and begged a friend to move into their spare room, and told no one but a trusted few who you were, and you kept taking the pills. Every day you felt better, stronger, more alive, something dormant and nearly dead brought back into life and full flower. You wanted things, and you wanted to want them. You were hungry, and now you could eat.

And good God, did you eat. You'd always been hungry, making a dancing bear of yourself about it, eating two entrees at dinners and begging for people's leftovers, sneaking extra orders of chicken and fries into the deep fryer at work when you could eat get away with it, but now you were you, and what you ate became you. Your patchy denial beard was quickly forgotten, your hips widened, your tits grew so fast they tore your skin again and again, your face rounded out cherubically. Your skin cleared up, thinned out, was silk under your fingers.

You got a real job, moved to a good town, a little queer enclave, walkable and beautiful and packed with good food. And you ate. You stuffed shamelessly in front of friends, blaming on it on the weed you'd just started smoked, filling out and out until the cute skinny girl you'd started out as was now chubby, outgrowing your new skirts, staining your pretty new tops with sauce and grease, desperate to be the fat girl you'd always dreamed of. 180 became 200 became 220, 230, and you were the fat girl now. The constant, nauseating assault of male attention weakened, and you thought, Okay, it's time to slow down.

Then you met your wife, beautiful and fiery and kind and hurt, a new kind of love that made ones past seem fake, like all along you'd been playing at love until you met her. And you met her on a porn site, on Reddit of all places, and you were drawn to each other. The casual relationships you'd both been in fell away, and across the country, you drew her to you, T4T, real love worth more than gold. Carefully, you patched each other up, and that first year together was one of the happiest times of your life, your little kitty at home with you all the time.

And with all her free time, she learned how to cook for you, and she was good at it. Picadillo, ropa vieja, palomilla steak, arroz con pollo, amazing dishes you'd never even heard of piled high in front of you day after day and piling onto your waist. Your new, perky tits rounded and dropped. Your ass stuck out more and more, folding over your thighs. Your belly grew and grew until it started to dominate your figure. And when she picked up more and more work, she turned that work right back into you, gorging you on the finest things while she pet your hair and told you how much she loved you, putting more and more fat on you so slowly you hardly noticed until you were pushing 300.

It's hard to believe sometimes how much has changed. How much you never even admitted you wanted to yourself and how much more life has dropped into your lap. When you look in the mirror, you see the fat girl of your dreams, and behind her, your wife, grabbing lovingly at the belly she grew on you, her own pressing into your back.

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.