I had barely wrapped the towel around myself before I heard his exasperated sigh. As I turned, I knew where this was going. It was where it always went. He was going to make a comment about my weight again.

"Lizzy, how much do you weigh now?" he said, his eyebrows furrowed with disappointment. I didn't have a clue, but I knew I had gained weight again over the last six months. It had been a steady climb; the last time I checked, I was 205.

"I don't know, Ben," I said, my face flushing with embarrassment. He had been on me for the last year about my figure—mind you, I was never a small thing. On our wedding day, I had weighed 185, and that was two years ago.

"Well, you should check, Liz," he said with a hint of passive-aggressiveness in his voice.

"I have to get ready for work," I responded. "I can check tonight."

"You know we have that vacation in six months with all our friends," he said. "I just want to make sure you—"

"Aren't going to embarrass you with my weight?" I interrupted, grabbing another towel to wrap around my head. It was maddening; I had never been a skinny girl. I had always had big hips, a bigger butt, and always carried a little bit of a belly. He didn't complain back then.

My husband wanted a thick girl, not a fat one. His comments had been becoming more frequent the more full my love handles became—the more dimples that would show up on my butt. It was like he could see when a new roll was forming on midsection, and it was driving him crazy.

"It will only take two seconds," he pleaded. As came behind me and steered me towards the little gray digital scale that sat in our bathroom.

"It will only take two seconds," he pleaded, coming up behind me and steering me toward the little gray digital scale that sat in our bathroom.

"Ben, I will do it later!" I shouted.

"Liz, seriously, just get on the scale," he said, his hands placed on my hips. I let out a long sigh and stepped toward it. "We need to make sure it's accurate."

Ben reached up and removed the towel from my wet hair, letting the water drip down onto my shoulders, before reaching around and pulling the other towel away. I looked down, feeling completely exposed—at my breasts and the part of me he complained about most: my belly, which looked round, with the faint silver of stretch marks starting to become visible.

I knew my face was bright red; I could feel the heat as I placed my first foot on the scale. Little dashes flickered, waiting for the second foot to join it.

"Fine, just stop harassing me about it!" I growled. I stood still and watched the numbers start to climb. I watched them fly past 205, then 210, finally settling on 213.

"Jeez, Lizzy, you’re almost 215 now," he remarked. I could feel his gaze raking over my pear shaped body. "Your butt is getting pretty big, too."

"You know, it’s pretty rude to talk about my weight, even if you are my husband. Besides, I always thought you liked how big my butt was. Didn’t you say it was the first thing that caught your eye?"

"I mean, of course, but it was a different kind of big back then. Now it looks like it could barely fit into anything you used to wear."

I quickly shuffled to our bedroom, digging through the closet and pulling out my size sixteen black pants. He was right; when we first started dating, I was a size twelve and it was actually a bit loose. Now, the size I wore was starting to feel tight around my hips and thighs. I snatched a dark green blouse and pulled it over my wet hair. As I straightened it over my belly, I realized it was starting to feel tight, too.

It came at the most inopportune time—my stomach rumbled and growled. This was usually the time I’d be heading out to work and making a stop for breakfast.

"How about this, Liz," Ben said from the doorway. "We come up with a diet plan that works for your lifestyle. Maybe start by eating out less."

"How about you just let me go to work and not worry about what I eat right now?" I snapped back.

I grabbed my things and rushed out the door, fighting back tears as I climbed into my car. As I pulled out of the driveway, the first tear escaped and streamed down my cheek. My hair was still wet and I was starting to sob as I drove toward work, my stomach growling again. As I approached my usual spot—the fast food place where I always got a breakfast sandwich—I steered the car into the drive-thru lane, pulling in behind another car.

"I'm so sick of this! I'm not even that big!" I shouted to myself, wiping my eyes as the line moved forward and I followed.

"What can I get for you today?" a crackling voice asked through the speaker.

"Can I get a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit, please? With a medium coffee."

"Anything else we can get for you today?"

As I wiped away another tear, I was suddenly filled with a hot flash of anger. The words seemed to pour out of me, fueled by pure resentment. "Actually, can I add a large Coke with that?"

"Sure. Anything else?"

"Hmm, let me think."

"Take your time, ma'am."

The custodian had forgotten to clean out the small waste bin under my desk. Maybe he hadn't noticed all the different wrappers from breakfast sandwiches and candy bars piled in there; it had to be at least three days' worth. I looked down at my belly, which was neatly folded into two big, fleshy rolls. The gray fabric of my favorite blouse had become trapped inside the crevice.

I felt incredibly bloated. Not only had I been eating larger breakfasts every day, but I’d also been snacking throughout my entire shift. Chips, candy, and soda now rounded out my diet.

I had thought that after the initial day of being spiteful, the urge would stop, but something about it made me feel in control. It was a strange sensation; I couldn’t quite put my finger on why it gave me such a sense of power.

I had always felt huge compared to them, even when I was smaller. My husband’s friends all had thin or athletic wives, and while they were kind enough, you could always tell where I stood. I was the "fat friend" of the group.

I leaned back in my chair. We hadn’t all been together at the same time since my wedding. This was a big deal to my husband—all of his closest friends gathered for a week-long vacation, wives in tow. They would be svelte, still wearing the same sizes they wore years ago.

Me, however? I would be heavier and rounder. I could already imagine Ben seething as his friends strolled around the resort, arms locked with their wives in their cute, tiny outfits, while he and I walked behind. I could see it: my belly pushing my top to the brink, while my hips and butt struggled to be contained by my shorts.

I looked at the bag of chips and the can of soda. I felt a surge of defiance as I reached inside and started munching on them while I worked.

"Hey, Liz," a female voice called out, taking me by surprise. I turned to see Bethany, a coworker of mine, standing outside my cubicle.

"Oh, hey," I said, my mouth full of chips as I looked over at her. She was just like the wives of my husband’s friends—about my height, but almost eighty pounds lighter. She had a flat stomach and was dressed professionally, though her outfit still showed off her skinny frame and perky chest.

"Did you get that email about them wanting those numbers by tomorrow?" she asked. I noticed her eyes peering down, avoiding my face and staring at something else instead.

"Yeah, I’ll make sure it’s in everyone’s inbox by the end of the day tomorrow."

"Um, Liz," she said, nudging her head toward my lap. The bottom of my bloated belly had managed to creep out, exposing the lower part of the larger roll where it spilled over my waistband.

"Oh," I giggled, pulling my shirt down to cover the exposed skin. The giggle was not the response Bethany—or I—had expected. She arched an eyebrow for a second, looking bewildered, before walking away.

leaned forward, checking to make sure the fabric covered all of my belly. As I started to settle back into work, I heard my phone vibrate on my desk. I saw that Ben was calling me. "Hello?" I answered.

"Hey, Liz, how is work?" he asked casually.

"It's fine. How is your day going?"

"It’s really busy, which is why I’m calling," he replied. "But I took care of dinner for you tonight since I’ll be stuck at the office."

"Oh, really?" I said. "That’s pretty sweet of you."

"Yeah, I took an early lunch and bought some salad fixings for you for tonight."

"Salad?"

"Yeah, sweetie. Remember we have that trip coming up, so I figured I’d help out."

"Oh, I see," I replied, my tone turning dry. What I thought had been a sweet gesture was just another way of passively telling me to lose weight—weaponizing food against me.

"Yeah, I figured I’d just make it easy, you know?"

"Thanks, but listen, I have a lot of work to catch up on," I said. "I’ll see you when you get home, okay?"

"Alright, I’ll see you then," he answered.

I hung up, stood up from my chair, and grabbed my purse. I started walking toward the door, passing Bethany’s cubicle. She shot a glance toward me, clearly checking to see if my belly had become exposed again.

"I think I’m going to head out for lunch," I said.

"Alright," she replied. She must have noticed the angry scowl on my face. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, it’s fine," I snapped. I pulled out my phone and started scrolling through my food options. Getting me salad fixings, I thought bitterly. How about a big lunch and some more snacks instead?

"Alright, well, I’ll see you when you get back," she replied. "What are you thinking of getting? Maybe you can bring me back something."

"I’m thinking of getting a burger," I said, already imagining ordering two burgers and maybe a large shake. "That new place down the street, I think."

"I’ve heard it’s pretty good, actually. I heard their appetizers are great alongside the entrees."

I had to take a second glance. As I stood there, my hair wet and dripping down to my shoulders, the water cascaded over my breasts and down the curve of my large belly. It was sticking out further than before; my feet were actually starting to disappear under the pale, round skin of my stomach.

I looked down at the scale. The weeks of extra calories had clearly started to take their effect. My eyes widened as I read the number: 219 pounds. I had gained six pounds since I’d last weighed myself just a few weeks ago.

I stepped off the scale and wrapped a dark blue towel around my wide hips, noticing how my belly already pushed back against the fabric. Despite the number, I felt a little grin spread across my face, as if I could actually feel those extra six pounds settling onto my frame. I felt more feminine than ever, knowing my hips were growing, my breasts were becoming heavier, and my butt was rounding out. Seeing my belly become fuller, rounder, and more plush only solidified the feeling.

"Lizzy, I made breakfast for you!" Ben yelled out.

I ignored him for a moment, grabbing a pair of black pants—the color that was supposed to be slimming, or so they say. But as I pulled them over my bigger thighs, I could feel the dark fabric dragging across my skin, stretching tight. It felt as though the pants themselves could sense those extra six pounds settling on my body.

I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to truly reach that point—to no longer be able to button my pants at all. I imagined my hips and butt growing so much that the fabric would stand no chance against my pear-shaped body, the buttons finally surrendering to the soft, heavy reality of my new size.

"Liz, did you hear me?" he yelled again.

"Yeah, I heard you," I called out. "I'll be there in a minute."

When I arrived in the kitchen, I saw the plate already waiting for me: cottage cheese and sliced strawberries. One look at it told me it wouldn't even be slightly filling.

"It's low-fat cottage cheese," Ben remarked, his voice carrying that familiar tone I was starting to loathe.

"Thanks, but I’m in a hurry," I lied, grabbing my purse from the counter.

He gave me a sharp look—one that scrutinized my face for any hint of deception—as I reached for my keys. "I got asked to come in a little bit early today," I added, the excuse falling easily from my lips.

"You didn't mention that last night," Ben replied.

"Sorry, it slipped my mind. Bethany from work texted to remind me."

"Well, do you want to pack it with you?"

"It's okay, I don't have enough time to eat it. It's going to be a busy day, so I'll just try to grab lunch."

We stood in a brief, awkward silence. I could feel his eyes scanning me, zeroing in on that little extra bulge of soft flesh sticking out from the bottom of my belly. It was as if he had x-ray vision for every new ounce I carried.

"What are you thinking of getting for lunch?" he asked, his voice casual, yet the underlying probe was unmistakable.

"Something light, you know," I answered. "A salad, probably."

"Okay, well, I'll put this in the fridge, I guess."

"Sounds great, but I need to get going," I replied, cutting the tension before quickly heading out the door.

As soon as I settled into the driver's seat, I heard my belly let out a deep, demanding growl. It was hungry for more than just fruit and cottage cheese. I pulled out my phone and placed a mobile order for three breakfast sandwiches and a large soda. I didn't care about the calories; I just wanted to feel that sense of fullness, to feel my body growing even heavier and more round.

As I pulled out of the driveway, the memory of the scale flashed in my mind—that bold, unmistakable 219. I found myself wondering exactly how big I would get if I continued this trend: the heavy fast-food breakfasts, the constant snacking on junk food at work, and the steady, relentless pounds I was adding to my frame. The thought didn't frighten me; it fascinated me.

I looked down and saw my belly further creeping into my lap, inching closer to the steering wheel of my car. I wondered to myself how much more weight I would have to put on for my stomach to finally push against it. The thought of my body filling the space so completely—becoming so large that even the car felt small—brought a secret thrill to my chest.

I pulled into the parking lot and shuffled inside, spotting the bag labeled "Liz" waiting for me, its bottom already turning translucent with grease. I knew I was eating well this morning. Back in the car, I began unwrapping the sandwiches, the savory scent filling the small space and making my mouth water.

It felt a little scratchy, as if something were rubbing against my skin and mildly irritating it. I looked down to see crumbs scattered across my breasts and cleavage—biscuit crumbs from earlier. I ignored them, opening a bag of chips and beginning to snack as I answered emails and settled into my normal workflow.

I had been eating three breakfast biscuit sandwiches daily for the last week, along with constant snacking at my desk from the minute I sat down until I clocked out. The waistband of my pants was starting to feel the stress of the extra calories. Whenever I sat, the crevices of my rolls pulled at my shirt; with one swift move, the large bottom one popped out from under the fabric. Looking closely, I could see the faint, shimmering beginnings of new stretch marks starting to appear.

My belly felt bloated, my skin pulled taut across the new fullness of my middle. I continued to munch on the chips, the salty crunch leaden in my stomach, before grabbing the large fountain soda. I took a long, deep sip, feeling the carbonation add to the pressure against my waistband.

"Hey Liz, you get that attachment I sent you?" a voice asked. It was Bethany.

I turned my chair to face her, feeling my hips brush firmly against the armrests as I moved. Her eyes drifted downward, focusing on the prominent bulge of my growing belly and the way my frame was starting to spill toward the edges of my seat. The scrutiny was obvious, making it clear that my "plush" new reality was becoming impossible to hide.

"Yep, I saw it," I replied. I took another long draw from my soda and followed it with a handful of chips, crunching them loudly enough to fill the silence.

"I was thinking about ordering some food from DoorDash," she asked, her eyes still lingering on the way my soft middle settled into my lap. "You want any?"

"Absolutely," I answered without a second thought, the "light salad" I’d promised Ben earlier completely forgotten. "What are you thinking?"

"The burger place down the street," she answered. "What would you like?"

"Two of those southwest burgers, please," I said. The request came out easily, my mind already picturing the thick patties and melted cheese.

Bethany paused for a moment, her gaze dropping once more to my belly. Her eyebrow did that familiar curl from before—a look of pure, unconcealed surprise. "So... two Southwest burgers?" she asked, her voice trailing off as she processed the order.

"I really feel an order of onion rings would hit the spot," I added, leaning back as the armrests of my office chair pressed firmly into my widening hips.

"Alright," Bethany said, her thumb hovering over the screen. "Anything else?"

"And a milkshake. The ones they have there are so good!"

Bethany paused, looking at the list of food she had just compiled for me. "Are you taking any of this home?"

I shook my head as I leaned forward and felt the way my belly settled even further into my lap. "Nope. Just my lunch."

"Okay, I'll place the order," she said, using her index finger to tap the screen and send it off.

"How much do I owe you?" I asked, reaching for my purse.

"Don't worry about it," she replied, giving me another one of those lingering looks. "Consider it my treat."

"Oh, well, thanks," I said. "I mean, it’s a lot of food. I’ve become quite a big eater these days."

"I insist," she replied, a slight grin playing on her lips as she took another deliberate glance down at my belly.

I could only imagine the fabric of my clothes struggling even more as I prepared to put away the feast that was on its way. I finished the last few chips from the bag, crunching them loudly and letting more crumbs sprinkle onto my breasts and cleavage, a messy testament to my lack of restraint.

"So, I have to ask, and please, don't think I’m being rude or anything like that," Bethany said, sliding her phone into her pocket. She took a brief pause, her eyes scanning my frame as she searched for the right words.

"Are you... expecting, by chance?"

"Huh?"

I peered down at my bloated belly, the one that was spilling over my waistband and creeping more and more into my lap. I could see the bottom roll peaking out from under the hem of my shirt; it seemed this top wasn’t going to be able to contain me for much longer. Looking at the sheer volume of my middle, I could see why Bethany would think I was pregnant.

Her face turned a deep shade of crimson; she was clearly terrified that she had offended me. I let out a hearty laugh, the sound vibrating through my heavy frame, before crumpling up the empty bag of chips.

"No, no, I am not pregnant," I chuckled again.

"Oh, I am so sorry," she stammered, her face turning even redder from embarrassment.

The harsh white light of the refrigerator shined on me. I stared at the leafy greens and various produce Ben had left for me, letting out an exasperated huff. As I looked them over, I could almost hear his voice in my head, making another pointed comment about my weight. I felt it more than ever right now—I felt swollen, heavy, and even larger than usual after my massive lunch.

I closed the refrigerator door and headed toward the bedroom. Catching a brief glimpse of myself in the mirror, I realized it wasn't just a feeling. My belly was severely bloated, my blouse straining against the pressure.

It felt a strange sensation and relief, as I unbuttoned my work pants. I could feel my heavy belly and love handles welcome the freedom from their fabric prison, as I pulled off my blouse. I looked down past my breasts, I could see it.

My stomach sticking out just a little further than it had, that stretch mark that was starting to appear looking a little more ripe in color.

I cracked a small grin, feeling a strange sense of pride in my handiwork—even if that "handiwork" was simply allowing myself to be unleashed and eating carelessly. I grabbed a pair of my favorite lounging clothes, some dark shorts, and began pulling them up over my thighs.

My thighs had always been thick, rubbing together and wearing out the inseams of any denim I bought from the constant friction. The fabric of the shorts stretched as I pulled them up over my wider hips, letting the waistband rest just below my soft love handles.

I grabbed a black tank top. I pulled it over my head and stretched it down over the contours of my breasts and my large belly, then gave myself a playful pinch of the fat that spilled over the elastic waistband of my shorts. The sensation of that warm, soft adipose tissue made me feel giggly.

"Yea, like a salad is going to fill this girl up," I said out loud, as I grabbed my phone and headed back to the living room, looking up the closest pizza place to deliver.

"Maybe, I am taking it too far," I continued, as I walked over to the couch and planted myself on it. My belly once again claimed another top's fabric as my stomach folded and swallowed it between the two rolls.

But I could envision myself just sitting on this couch alone, eating a salad—one that would leave my belly rumbling and begging for something more. Before I could talk myself out of it, I found myself quickly punching in an online order for a pizza. I made it large, adding a two-liter of soda to wash it all down.

As I waited patiently, I turned on the television, but it was just background noise. I was lost in thought, looking down at my swollen belly, my wide hips, and my soft, plush thighs. I couldn't stop staring at my stomach.

I had fought it for years. My body was the kind where I’d drop ten pounds, only for life to get busier and the scale to tick right back up. It didn’t just tease me with the weight coming back; it added a few extra pounds just to solidify the futility of it all—of me trying to get back down to a weight that would finally satisfy Ben.

I was tired of the comments, the looks, and his attitude, it was my own body, he had chosen it at one point. But now, he treated it as it was his to decide, an audacity of trying to make me fit what he wanted, which left me not only hurt but deeply angry.

My phone vibrated; my order was set to arrive shortly. I lifted myself from the couch and headed toward the door. It seemed that fate had not only destined me to be heavy and round, but had also cursed me with a partner who actively resented it.

As I walked to the door, my emotions were still stirring I opened it and walked down my driveway as the pizza delivery driver had just pulled in.

"Thanks," I said, as he looked a little surprised for me being so grabby for the large pizza and two liters of soda. I have a playful smile towards him before turning around and walking back in.

I could feel myself salivating at the smell of the pizza. I rarely indulged in it these days; anytime I suggested ordering some, Ben would shoot it down. Maybe I had been blind to it. Maybe he had been trying to restrict me for much longer than I realized.

He had grown slowly more resentful with every pound I added since we were married. We watched myself become rounder, while he seethed at the very idea of being married to a fat woman.

I settled back into the couch and placed the pizza box on my lap, slowly opening it. The aroma filled my nose with a blissful sensation. I was going to enjoy this. I was going to throw the salad makings in the trash, eat every last slice, and drink all of this soda. Ben would never be the wiser.

I pulled out a slice, slowly savoring each bite. As I finished it—crust and all—I grabbed another, cherishing the cheese, the toppings, and the sauce. Then I opened the two-liter and began to drink, the carbonation a sharp, sweet contrast to the savory pizza.

My belly started to feel taut and swollen, protruding even more as I continued to enjoy the pizza. I smiled to myself; I may have been destined to be fat, but I was owning it now. I was controlling it, enjoying the ability to look at food with pleasure rather than worrying about exactly where the calories would settle on my body.

I felt stuffed to the brim, but I found a strange satisfaction in pushing the limit—eating more, watching as the pizza box emptied and the soda bottle drained.

As I opened the fridge and pulled out the salad mixings, I kept glancing at my phone sitting on the counter. His nonchalant "How are you doing?" after last night's disaster felt surreal, but something else stuck out even more.

He had called me babe.

He had never called me babe in all the time we had been together. "Sweetie" and "honey" were his usual go-tos, though it had been a long time since he’d used those, either—not since before I hit 200 pounds, if my memory served me correctly.

As I finished making the salad, I munched on it directly from the bowl, standing over my phone and waiting to see if he would text again. Was this his way of apologizing? It was a strange time to introduce a new, affectionate nickname. As I chewed the flavorless greens, I could feel my stomach growl in protest, seemingly rejecting the salad and demanding something heavier and more filling—the kind of indulgence that had pushed me to 228 pounds in the first place.

The crunch of the greens wasn't satisfying as my mind scrambled. I was trying to think of how to respond, picking up my phone and starting to type. I wanted to call him and scream at him for his callousness, but I just typed a short reply and placed the phone back on the counter.

I waited. I thought surely he would respond—that the "babe" text was the start of a real conversation—but I just stood there in the stifling silence of the house. I knew I was alone, yet I felt a hot prickle of embarrassment. It was humiliating to realize I was hanging on his every word after he’d been so cruel, and even more so that he didn't have the decency to reply after prompting a conversation with that sudden change in tone.

My belly let out a massive growl, a deep vibration I could feel through every inch of it. It was begging and pleading for something more than salad. I could have pizza—maybe just a medium, and I'd only eat part of it.

"Just a medium one, and no binging," I said out loud to myself, my voice echoing in the empty kitchen as I picked up the phone and placed the order.

I headed upstairs to change. As I made my way to the bedroom, I began to take off my shirt, catching a glimpse of the new marks appearing on my lower belly. I had really overdone it.

I tossed the shirt aside and removed my bra, the band leaving a deep, red indentation around my ribs that felt subtly tighter than it had only days ago. I reached into the drawer and found an oversized shirt, pulling it on quickly to smother the sight of myself. I wanted something that would hide the shame of my girth, so I paired it with black sweatpants to conceal the larger, heavier parts of my plump, pear-shaped body.

Ben would be happy. He wouldn’t have to look at the soft curves and bulging contours of his fat cow of a wife.

I headed toward the living room and settled onto the couch, sinking into the cushions that had so recently supported my indulgence. I sat in the exact spot where I had previously stuffed myself, where I had run my hands over my "thick love handles" and admired the very features that filled him with disgust. The irony was a cold weight in my chest. I was surrounded by the ghosts of my own brief confidence, a "round, fat mess" waiting for a medium pizza.

My phone still hadn't notified me of a response from Ben. Why would he message me something like that if he wasn't actually going to respond? I tried to take my mind off it by turning on the television, but the thoughts continued to race through my head, and my fat stomach kept growling, crying out for something to fill it.

"This is why I am fat," I said, pinching my love handle. I had never been a salad girl; it’s why I had steadily put on weight over the years, getting heavier and rounder to the point that I was unattractive to my own husband.

I could hear the knock on my door. I lifted myself up and went to open it, seeing what looked like the same delivery driver from before. I wondered if he was thinking that this fat girl—now desperately trying to hide her big body—simply needed another pizza.

I quickly grabbed the box and gave an embarrassed smile before retreating to the couch to open it. The aroma wafting from the cardboard wasn't one of joy or excitement this time; instead, it carried a heavy scent of deep shame. I didn't savor the flavors or admire the "sensual sensations" as I had before. Instead, I ravenously ate the first slice, my body taking over as I sought to fill the "emptiness" Ben had left behind with every greasy, high-calorie bite.

As I finished swallowing the last bite of the first crust, I found myself grabbing another slice as if I were on autopilot. I didn’t even stop to breathe; I just kept going.

The two of us sat across from each other as the server dropped the waters off at the table. Bethany was observing me—something I had noticed, too. I was struck by how close my belly was to the table, nearly pressing against the edge, while my wide hips and large butt spread out across the booth itself.

"So, you were enjoying just watching me eat?"

She nodded. "And you seemed to enjoy eating all of it. I could see it on your face. I was actually surprised by your reaction today, honestly."

"Yeah, I’ve been going through some stuff since that day," I replied, my mind flashing back to Ben telling me I had become "too big" and that my weight was a "problem."

"So, one day you are literally stuffing your face without a care in the world, and the next you're insecure?"

I nodded. "I had an argument with my husband. It’s thrown me off of everything."

"I don't want to pry, but can I ask what happened?" Bethany inquired as she opened the menu. I hesitated, but I desperately wanted to get this off my chest.

"We were... being, you know," I answered sheepishly.

"Being what?"

"Intimate," I replied. I had never really had other women to talk about sex with; the "friends" I had were all connected to my husband's social circle. I hadn't exactly been a social butterfly before we got together.

"You were having sex, right?"

I nodded. "It was going well. Honestly, it had been a minute since we’d done anything like that."

"Why?" she asked, her eyebrow arched in surprise.

"We just don't have sex that much. I’ve figured out it has everything to do with my weight."

"He doesn't like it?" Bethany pried, her face still wearing a look of shock. "You look like an absolute goddess in my eyes."

Goddess? I blushed. It was strange seeing someone I knew—especially from work—look at me the way I actually wanted to feel.

"It’s embarrassing, but I had this vision of him grabbing onto me. I wanted to be on top, his hands gripping my love handles, maybe even holding my belly as I rode him."

"That sounds pretty damn hot to me, Liz."

"Well, he didn't think so," I lamented. "We stopped immediately. I already knew the answer, but I just... I wanted to hear it from him."

"Liz, I'm sorry," Bethany sighed. "You mentioned you guys were not regularly having sex. How long had it been?"

I tried to recollect. It had been few and far between, an awkward subject between my husband and me for the last year. I nodded, mentally counting the times we had actually been naked together.

"I'm pretty sure it had been six months before that night," I mumbled, both from a weird sense of shame and my own shock at realizing our bed had been used for nothing but sleeping. Our sex life was on life support.

"And was this always the norm?"

"When I was younger and less hefty, we used to have sex frequently," I answered. "It was when I graduated to the plus-size category that our intimacy went off a cliff."

"Such a terrible thing to waste," she commented.

"So when did you notice I was gaining?" I asked.

"About two weeks ago, I noticed your pants were looking a bit snug around your butt, which I quite enjoyed," she smiled. "Then I noticed you were starting to snack a lot more, and you were coming back with much larger lunches than normal."

"I was mad, so I started to eat more heavily."

"Why exactly?"

"We have this stupid vacation planned," I grumbled. "It's with all of our friends—and I use the term 'friends' loosely because they are his friends and their wives."

"Okay, so that led to what? Just spite eating?"

"I mean, he had been pressuring me to lose weight for a while, but once we bought the plane tickets, he really started coming down on me about it."

"But you gained weight instead?"

I nodded. "The first day I started overeating was the day he forced me on a scale and then shamed me about the weight I had gained over the last couple of years."

"Umm, that sounds awful, Liz," Bethany frowned. "I suppose the pressure didn't end there?"

I shook my head. "No, he's been passive-aggressively buying me salads."

"And what was your response to that?"

"I kept ordering DoorDash and eating the greasiest things possible, truthfully," I said, as I gently patted my belly as it rested in my lap. Its two big folds punished the fabric of my top.

Bethany bit her lip a little, her eyes widening as she asked, "I want to know something."

"What?"

"How did it feel—stuffing your face and watching yourself grow?"

"Well, I did it out of anger... but."

"But you liked it, didn't you?"

There was a part of me that liked it, actually. The fact of my body growing, my belly becoming softer, my ass getting even larger, and the idea of getting to do that while actually enjoying food.

"I was starting to," I replied. "Then the sex thing happened."

"So where do you go from here?" Bethany asked. "If you like it, why stop?"

"Because my husband will resent me more."

"But you also resent him as well, or you wouldn't have been stuffing yourself silly."

"I mean, you aren't wrong," I replied, as I finally opened the menu.

"So are you going to stop intentionally getting fatter?"

"I don't know, I am sort of torn, to be honest."

""Well, let me order you a big lunch for now," Bethany said. "Then tonight, you come over to my place for some movies and a fun dinner?"

"I don't know, Bethany."

"Just this once," she insisted. "And if you feel weird after tonight, we'll never talk about it again."

I felt as if I had barely stuffed myself into my red and black checkered work pants. They were painfully tight, leaving my black blouse in a losing battle to contain my large muffin top as I took my seat behind the desk.

As I started to log in to my computer to begin the day, I noticed a large bag of chips sitting next to my keyboard. It was unopened—the same brand and flavor I had been stuffing my face with previously.

The friction of my thighs rubbing together was more intense than ever, a steady, chafing heat that fueled my anger as I marched down the hall. Every step was heavy, my "plush" frame swaying with a momentum that felt clumsy and "rotund." It was bad enough knowing my husband was picking my round, fat body apart at home, but I couldn't deal with it at work, too.

I reached Bethany’s office and found her already working, looking as "sleek and toned" as always. The contrast to myself only reinforced that I had to stand up for myself.

"Is this some kind of sick joke to you?" I asked, my voice trembling with anger. She turned toward me, her face flushing a deep red with embarrassment. She probably didn't expect the office "fat girl" to actually confront her.

"What?" she responded, her eyes widening. "I know you like those, and you had a tough day yesterday. I just figured I would be nice."

"By mocking me for being fat, huh?" I spat back.

"No, no, it's not like that, Liz, I promise."

"Then tell me—why would you do this?" I snapped as her face became a brighter shade of red. She paused for a long moment, her mouth opening and closing as she searched for the right words. "Well? What is it then?"

"I just thought you were comfortable with your size, and it seemed like..."

"Like what?" I demanded, the "punishing tightness" of my checkered pants making my temper even shorter.

"It seemed like you were enjoying yourself!" she finally blurted out. "Watching you eat the other day... you looked so happy, so free. I’ve never seen anyone look that satisfied. I wasn't mocking you, Liz. I was... I was actually a little..."

"Tell me what's going on, Bethany!"

"It's hard and complicated to explain," she continued, her voice soft and lacking the sharp edge of mockery I had braced myself for. She seemed to be carefully avoiding a direct answer, her eyes darting momentarily to my large belly.

I stood there, the anger that had fueled my "march" down the hall beginning to flicker and fade, replaced by a dense cloud of confusion. I had been so certain that the chips were a cruel joke towards me being fat. But looking at her now, I didn't see the disdain I had grown used to seeing in Ben’s eyes. Instead, there was a strange, heavy tension in the air.

"Alright, this is going to be awkward," she mumbled. "But I like the way you've been looking lately. There, I said it."

Maybe she wasn't mocking me? If she wasn't laughing at my "rotund" frame, then what was it? I felt my face flush—not from shame this time, but from the realization that I might have completely misread the "lingering looks" she had been giving me since the very beginning.

"How have I been looking lately?"

"Like you've been putting on weight and don't seem to care."

"Okay, so when I ordered all that food the other day, you weren't thinking I was a disgusting pig?"

"No, I didn't think you were disgusting. Actually, the opposite. I thought it was..." She paused for a moment. We both looked at each other, our faces flushed with a strange feeling that both of us couldn't quite process. "I thought it was very hot."

"So, do you like fat women?"

"And fat men. I'm an equal opportunist."

"But you are so..."

"In shape? Yeah. I like the contrast of my body next to a bigger one."

I felt stunned, in all honesty. I had thought Bethany had been sharing the same sentiments as Ben—prodding gazes judging every calorie I consumed, looking at my growing body and thinking I was nothing more than a gluttonous sloth.

"So, what do we do now?" I asked sheepishly.

"I mean, you know the truth about me now," Bethany remarked. "I was just being a passive viewer in my own way and encouraging you. But I guess the cat is out of the bag now."

I felt a dizzying rush of emotions. It was strange—overwhelming, even—to know that someone was actually turned on by my large body. My insecurity still flared as I glanced down to see the skin from my love handles starting to peek out from the gap between my blouse and those straining checkered pants.

"I don't get it, honestly," I replied. "I was sort of liking it... and then something happened."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Bethany inquired. "Not here, but maybe over lunch? I've already prattled on enough about my tastes."

"Sure," I agreed. "The burger place again?"