The alarm on my phone goes off: 9:45 AM. I reach over and turn off the alarm, groaning slightly. Silence is restored to the bedroom, and I take a moment to lie there and wake up. I turn over and, as expected, find the other side of the bed unoccupied: almost without fail, Ali gets up before I do. I consider going back to sleep, but the pang of hunger in my gut won't be ignored. There's no way I can sleep without eating first.
I swing my legs over the side of the reinforced bed. We were assured when we bought the bed that it can accommodate up to 800 pounds, but even though I'm nowhere near that limit, the bed creaks under all my weight concentrated in one spot.
I look down and take a moment to admire the view. When I first discovered feedism, I was 180 pounds; when I met Ali, I'd gained some weight, tipping the scales at a "whopping" 210 pounds. At the time, it was the fattest I'd ever been. As I look down at my body, I feel immensely lucky that Ali chose to mold me into something more. The lap that used to be there has vanished, obscured by my massive belly weighed down from gravity and countless stuffings. It's so impossibly soft and jiggly and pliable; if my legs were open a bit more, it would reach the bed, but my legs are as close together as I can manage these days, so it just rests on my thighs.
My legs were always strong, though not especially big, but gaining weight must have triggered some genetic quirk. For a while it seemed like I was only gaining weight in my upper half, and I figured I was becoming an average fat guy: big belly, big torso, chunky (but still relatively small) legs. Much to my surprise, though, my lower half caught up with a vengeance. Every new pound suddenly seemed to make a beeline for my lower body. My hips filled out: most men have little indents on their haunches, the result of men having naturally narrower hips than women. But not mine. The extra weight filled in those little indents, widened my hips and lent an additional bit of curve to my ass. And my ass: my god.
I'd always had a pretty full butt for a guy, but the extra pounds (and a new job that had me sitting in an office chair for 10-12 hours a day) kicked things into overdrive. Seemingly overnight, my ass went from "slightly larger than average" to "enormous," and not just by regular guy standards, either. On an average-sized woman, my ass would look cartoonishly large; hell, even on a big woman it would draw second, third, fourth glances, if not outright stares. Every pound I gained seemed to increase its size, yet despite the glute workout that one gets from lugging around an entire extra person's worth of fat, my ass didn't get firmer or more muscular. It just kept filling up with layer upon layer of dense fat, swaying and jiggling obscenely whenever I so much as took a step.
The changes became clear when I had to start squeezing my hips and ass between the arms of my desk chair in order to sit down. This strategy worked for a bit, until one fateful day when the arms broke. After that, I wisely invested in a desk chair without arms, but it wasn't long before my hips and ass were spilling over the sides. At first, I was taken aback by my body's decision to convert all those extra calories into an ass that could stop traffic, but I quickly grew to love everything about it. My thick blubber practically swallowing Ali's hand whenever she grabs my ass; seeing my butt and hips spreading out past my thighs whenever I sit down; the exquisite feeling of my booty and my gut jiggling in perfect rhythm whenever I walk down the hall.
My thighs have become encased in a dense, soft layer of fat, the muscle tone replaced by heavy, jiggly flesh and cellulite. I look down and admire them, so soft and fat, each one wider than my waist used to be. Between my titanic legs I can feel my cock stirring, as it always does whenever I survey my body and take stock of how fat Ali has made me. I shake off the temptation to lay back and pleasure myself--I'm still hungry, after all. I slide off the bed, my feet hitting the floor with a dull thud that sounds vaguely like someone tipping over a piece of furniture. I stretch and yawn, then head for the bathroom.
"Baby? You home?" I call. No answer. Maybe she's in the kitchen. I could use some coffee, so I head that way. Ahh, there it is: the dueling jiggles of my belly and my ass.
I reach the kitchen, but it looks like Ali's not home. Probably had to go into work. I pour myself a cup of coffee, then open the fridge. My hand goes straight past the whole milk and right to the heavy cream that Ali keeps fully stocked just for me. You never know when you'll get an urge for cereal or just a big glass of chocolate milk (or cream, in this case). I pour the cream into my coffee, stir in a few spoonfuls of sugar and sip it, leaning forward on the counter. As I do, I feel--and hear--a *rip*: my underwear.
"Ah, shit."
I wasn't the only one who was thrilled by the unexpected growth of my ass; Ali was too. As my butt kept getting bigger and bigger, she suggested that I wear women's underwear instead of boring old boxer briefs. I could pretend that it took some convincing, but I loved the idea: what's the point of having a mammoth derrière if you're just going to hide it? Since Ali was equally blessed in the posterior department, I tried a few pairs of her underwear to make sure they fit, and although they were a little on the small side, they felt like they were made for my body. Pretty soon my underwear drawer was filled with women's panties: thongs, bikinis, boyshorts; lace, satin, you name it.
The only problem is, I keep forgetting that panties aren't as durable as boxer briefs, especially when it comes to the combination of delicate lace and an ass that refuses to quit. I sigh and reach back with my hand to find the tear, and when I do it's clear there's no salvaging these. A huge tear right down the crack of my ass. I make a mental note to size up the next time Ali goes underwear shopping.
I meander to the bathroom, coffee in hand. I set the cup down on the counter, turn on the shower and switch on the wall-mounted speaker. As I wait for the shower to warm up, I take a moment to look at myself in the mirror. My facial hair obscures what is now a significant double chin; once in a while I shave it just to see how much fatter my face has gotten, but Ali and I both prefer how I look with a beard. My shoulders are broad and still surprisingly muscular (likely due to genetics and years playing football and rugby), and if the mirror cut off there you might think I was a mostly in-shape guy. But it doesn't, so that particular illusion is shattered once your eyes travel a few more inches down.
My moobs--well, I don't think it's even accurate to call them "moobs" anymore. They're just breasts now: a heavy, round, hanging pair of soft tits, so big they push my arms outward. My nipples have definitely grown in size, but the extra layers of fat haven't pulled them off to the sides of my chest, so they remain surprisingly centered and perky. I cup my tits and the flesh practically overflows my hands; I let them drop and admire the jiggling wave that runs all the way down the copious flesh of my massive belly.
I lift my belly up onto the counter, partly because I want to see it in all its glory and partly because it's the easiest way for me to reach the sink. My gut droops languidly into the sink, heavy and soft, almost threatening to swallow up everything in front of it. I grab my toothbrush and turn it on, and as I brush my teeth I'm mesmerized by all the ways my fat jiggles and bounces. After two minutes, the toothbrush turns off; I keep idly brushing anyway, enraptured by how my arm fat swings with each stroke, how my tits swing in perfect rhythm, how my belly heaves and wobbles from its perch on the counter. Eventually I snap out of it, and I put the toothbrush away, take a swig of mouthwash, and pull down my torn panties.
