It was exhilarating: the more I gained, the happier she seemed to be. Which seems obvious in hindsight, but I'd spent most of my life up to that point being told that getting fat was a bad thing. Before I discovered feedism, most of my relationships were with women who liked me in spite of my size, and the female feeders I'd been with mostly made me feel like my body was a fetish, like they only really associated it with (their own) sexual gratification. But Ali didn't just tolerate my size, and she didn't just find it appealing for sexual reasons. Slowly but surely, she was training me, rewiring me to embrace how huge I was getting, to celebrate every soft, fleshy pound, every added inch of wobbly fat. It was like she was building her perfect man.
The pounds kept piling on. I never wanted to disappoint her, and she knew it. She was adept at making me feel proud of my growing body while simultaneously reminding me that I wasn't quite fat enough for her. It was a testament to how completely she had me wrapped around her pudgy fingers that I gladly went along with whatever she asked. All my life, I'd looked at gaining weight as something I was supposed to be ashamed of. At first, gaining for Ali gave me a thrill, like I was doing something forbidden. But soon enough, that changed — my gains weren't some naughty little secret that I wasn't sure about, they were what I truly wanted. I wasn't just a piggy; I was her piggy. And I wanted to make her happy.
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Saturday morning. I sat on her couch, watching TV with a quart of cream in my hand. She'd handed it to me when she sat me down on the couch, telling me to "drink up" while she worked on something.
The cream tasted delicious, the cold and creamy mixture helping to soothe my hangover-induced heartburn. We'd gone out to a bar the night before: Ali had a bit of an exhibitionist streak, and she loved taking me to bars, ordering seemingly endless amounts of food and showing me off. I admit I was still a little uncomfortable putting my gluttony on public display, and whenever we went out to eat I found myself picking at my food, making a conscious effort to eat slowly. But last night, she'd made it clear that wasn't going to fly anymore.
We walked into the bar, and almost immediately Ali grabbed my hand and led me over to a table right by the bar, in full view of all the patrons. "Wait here," she said as she sat me down and walked over to the bar. I admired her as she walked; I couldn't get enough of the view of her wide hips and chubby legs. A few moments passed, and I started looking around the bar. I noticed more than a few eyeballs on me, none of which were particularly friendly. I could practically feel everyone judging me; I never felt self-conscious when I was with her, but when I was on my own, the nagging self-doubt crept in. Was I getting too fat? What did I look like to everyone else? I could feel my shirt hugging my rolls, and I found myself wishing I'd worn something roomier.
Before I had a chance to fall too deeply down that particular rabbit hole, she returned to the table, wordlessly handing me a drink. I thanked her, and she muttered a reply. I sensed that I'd upset her.
"Are you okay?" I offered. "You seem a bit distant." "Yep," Ali replied curtly. "I'm fine."
I struggled to find something to break the ice. "Crowded in here." She nodded her assent. We sat there in silence for a while; just as I was about to try a new avenue of discussion, a waitress appeared with a massive serving tray laden with food. "Are you guys expecting more people?" the waitress asked. "We can move you to a booth if you want some more space for all this food." My feeder smiled. "Nope, just us! He's feeling a little hungry," she said, winking at me. I smiled sheepishly.
