I stood in front of my closet, eyeing my clothing options for the evening; making a decision was proving to be more difficult than I'd originally thought. If this were a run-of-the-mill date, I'd just wear something that I thought looked nice, but this wasn't a run-of-the-mill date. This was a first date, and my first date with a woman who loved fat guys and, more importantly, loved feeding them.
I finally decided on a short-sleeve button-down over a tank top. The tank top had been slightly snug when I first bought it, but time and my ever-increasing appetite had rendered nonexistent what little extra fabric there was. The button-down served as some additional cover, just in case she wasn't as enamored of large, jiggly bellies and moobs as she'd led me to believe. Satisfied with what I was wearing, I took one last glance in the mirror and headed for the bar.
I sat outside, nursing a beer to calm my nerves while I waited. After what felt like an eternity (but was likely only 20 minutes), I heard the door open.
"Ree?" a voice inquired. I looked up, and there she was, stunning in a 1950's pin-up girl kind of way. She sat down and we talked; the conversation flowed as easily as the alcohol, and I felt my nervousness evaporating. The conversation turned to feedism, and she explained that she'd always been attracted to fat guys.
"What made you realize that you're a feeder?" I asked, and for a moment she didn't respond.
Then, she leaned forward, caressed my belly with her hands, and in a low, sultry voice said, "When I realized that as much as I like big bellies, what really turns me on is making them bigger."
The temperature dipped as evening gave way to night, and we went inside. The bar was more crowded now, so we picked a table in the corner where we wouldn't be disturbed. After some more flirting, she leaned in again, and our mouths pressed together, our tongues sliding lazily against one another. As we kissed, I felt her hands slide from my belly to my belt. Deftly lifting up my gut, she unbuttoned my pants.