imogenbakerbell
Well-Known Member
USBHM, FFA, Imagery, Immobility, Dom - Short, mostly descriptive piece about an FFA and her very fat husband
[Author's note: This is my second story for Dimensions; some of you expressed interest in reading more work from me and I'm sorry it's taken so long and I'm afraid it's a very short piece, but I hope you enjoy it nevertheless.]
When I married him, he was a mere toothpick of a man, his white wedding outfit hanging in deep folds from his skinny brown frame. What had attracted a woman of my tastes, you might ask, to such a specimen? Well, I liked the idea of going from one extreme to another - far more dramatic and therefore far more arousing than if I'd insisted on marrying someone plumper. But there was also a look in his eyes I had not seen in those of any other man - a deliciously submissive shine, a craving to be compliant to my every wish.
My every wish being that he eat whatever I tell him to eat.
It's taking them longer every morning to get him ready. I should be glad - I am glad - but I'm also terribly, terribly impatient. I pace the room, fanning myself furiously, willing myself not to pick at the miniature mountains of delectables that span the surface of the table that is almost as long as the room. My mouth waters, but they are not for me. There's enough here to feed an army, but it's all for one man, and one man alone.
I can hear footsteps in the corridor - and now the wide double doors are opened by two men. They are followed by a gauze-curtained palanquin borne upon the shoulders of eight other men. I move to my position by the massive chair that sits at one end of the table, and watch greedily as they bring the palanquin to me. My husband is visible only as a nebulous shadow behind the curtains, but soon we will see him in all his naked glory - and I assure you, he is truly glorious.
The men place their heavy load gently down, and set about drawing the curtains back and tying them to the poles that hold up the canopy. And there he is, my husband.
Behold him. Behold what ten years of marriage have done to him. Have you seen a man fatter than this? A man so fat he cannot even roll over without the assistance of several men, let alone stand. A man so fat his head is almost lost in the nest of blubber that was once his neck. His arms are so laden with lard he cannot lift them unaided; the flesh of his upper arms engulfs his lower arms, and his wrists have almost entirely swallowed his hands. His fingers are so bloated he can barely twitch them. His toes have suffered (suffered? Nay, they've been blessed!) a similar fate, swollen like ripe grapes, suffocating under the gargantuan columns of flab that are his calves. Now I would describe his thighs - but they are almost completely covered by his stomach. Oh, his stomach...
Sitting as he is now, it hangs to where his ankles used to be: a veritable cascade of corpulence; a landslide in slow motion; a luscious, undulating landscape of unprecedented beauty, furrowed with stretchmarks, irrigated with rivulets of sweat, and circled by chains of gold. Borne upon this ocean of opulence, rising and falling with every laboured breath, are two bulging sacks of flesh that I can only term breasts; they sag under their considerable weight, the nipples pierced by gold hoops.
My husband's bearers finish with the curtains and proceed to assist him out of his seat. Four of them lift his stomach, while another two take an arm each, while the remaining four push him from behind, lifting up his colossal buttocks and forcing him into a standing position. Even though they are doing most of the work, the bearers barely break a sweat, while my husband's brow is streaming, his breath wheezing.
As they slowly propel my most prized possession towards his position at the head of the table, I move around them to admire the view from behind. His back is a concertinaed mass of roll upon engorged roll, culminating in the gelatinous orbs of his rear end. Twin planets in perpetual collision, they quiver magnificently with every tiny step he takes, overshadowing the ponderous pillars of his legs. Each thigh is twice as wide as my waist - and I am not an especially slim woman - the skin dimpled, fascinating, like the surface of a lake on a rainy day.
It takes them five minutes, or so I estimate, to bring my husband to his dining chair and settle him into it. It's over five feet wide yet it's an almost uncomfortably snug fit; I shall have to see about getting a new, larger one made at some point in the near future. As my husband sighs and grunts with relief at his ordeal being over, I turn to his bearers and give them a look that lets them know it is time for them to go.
Finally alone with my darling, I reach out one hand to stroke his belly. He lets out a small moan of pleasure. "Is my little one hungry?" I ask, slipping my hand under one of his belly's myriad folds, exploring his softness with my fingers. He grunts in reply. Speech has become very difficult for him - still, I will make him give a proper answer. "What's that?" I ask, now pinching his fat. He emits a low whine of pain. "Is that a yes?" I pinch again, forcing a second whine. "Say 'yes, ma'am'," I demand in a low, dangerous tone, digging my nails into his pillowy flab.
Chest heaving, my husband struggles to obey. "Y-y-" - a desperate intake of breath - "yes m-m-ma'am".
I smile sweetly at him. "Good boy," I say, removing my hand to pat him on the cheek. Then I reach for the nearest plate...
[Author's note: This is my second story for Dimensions; some of you expressed interest in reading more work from me and I'm sorry it's taken so long and I'm afraid it's a very short piece, but I hope you enjoy it nevertheless.]
Ten Years
by Imogen Baker-Bell
by Imogen Baker-Bell
When I married him, he was a mere toothpick of a man, his white wedding outfit hanging in deep folds from his skinny brown frame. What had attracted a woman of my tastes, you might ask, to such a specimen? Well, I liked the idea of going from one extreme to another - far more dramatic and therefore far more arousing than if I'd insisted on marrying someone plumper. But there was also a look in his eyes I had not seen in those of any other man - a deliciously submissive shine, a craving to be compliant to my every wish.
My every wish being that he eat whatever I tell him to eat.
It's taking them longer every morning to get him ready. I should be glad - I am glad - but I'm also terribly, terribly impatient. I pace the room, fanning myself furiously, willing myself not to pick at the miniature mountains of delectables that span the surface of the table that is almost as long as the room. My mouth waters, but they are not for me. There's enough here to feed an army, but it's all for one man, and one man alone.
I can hear footsteps in the corridor - and now the wide double doors are opened by two men. They are followed by a gauze-curtained palanquin borne upon the shoulders of eight other men. I move to my position by the massive chair that sits at one end of the table, and watch greedily as they bring the palanquin to me. My husband is visible only as a nebulous shadow behind the curtains, but soon we will see him in all his naked glory - and I assure you, he is truly glorious.
The men place their heavy load gently down, and set about drawing the curtains back and tying them to the poles that hold up the canopy. And there he is, my husband.
Behold him. Behold what ten years of marriage have done to him. Have you seen a man fatter than this? A man so fat he cannot even roll over without the assistance of several men, let alone stand. A man so fat his head is almost lost in the nest of blubber that was once his neck. His arms are so laden with lard he cannot lift them unaided; the flesh of his upper arms engulfs his lower arms, and his wrists have almost entirely swallowed his hands. His fingers are so bloated he can barely twitch them. His toes have suffered (suffered? Nay, they've been blessed!) a similar fate, swollen like ripe grapes, suffocating under the gargantuan columns of flab that are his calves. Now I would describe his thighs - but they are almost completely covered by his stomach. Oh, his stomach...
Sitting as he is now, it hangs to where his ankles used to be: a veritable cascade of corpulence; a landslide in slow motion; a luscious, undulating landscape of unprecedented beauty, furrowed with stretchmarks, irrigated with rivulets of sweat, and circled by chains of gold. Borne upon this ocean of opulence, rising and falling with every laboured breath, are two bulging sacks of flesh that I can only term breasts; they sag under their considerable weight, the nipples pierced by gold hoops.
My husband's bearers finish with the curtains and proceed to assist him out of his seat. Four of them lift his stomach, while another two take an arm each, while the remaining four push him from behind, lifting up his colossal buttocks and forcing him into a standing position. Even though they are doing most of the work, the bearers barely break a sweat, while my husband's brow is streaming, his breath wheezing.
As they slowly propel my most prized possession towards his position at the head of the table, I move around them to admire the view from behind. His back is a concertinaed mass of roll upon engorged roll, culminating in the gelatinous orbs of his rear end. Twin planets in perpetual collision, they quiver magnificently with every tiny step he takes, overshadowing the ponderous pillars of his legs. Each thigh is twice as wide as my waist - and I am not an especially slim woman - the skin dimpled, fascinating, like the surface of a lake on a rainy day.
It takes them five minutes, or so I estimate, to bring my husband to his dining chair and settle him into it. It's over five feet wide yet it's an almost uncomfortably snug fit; I shall have to see about getting a new, larger one made at some point in the near future. As my husband sighs and grunts with relief at his ordeal being over, I turn to his bearers and give them a look that lets them know it is time for them to go.
Finally alone with my darling, I reach out one hand to stroke his belly. He lets out a small moan of pleasure. "Is my little one hungry?" I ask, slipping my hand under one of his belly's myriad folds, exploring his softness with my fingers. He grunts in reply. Speech has become very difficult for him - still, I will make him give a proper answer. "What's that?" I ask, now pinching his fat. He emits a low whine of pain. "Is that a yes?" I pinch again, forcing a second whine. "Say 'yes, ma'am'," I demand in a low, dangerous tone, digging my nails into his pillowy flab.
Chest heaving, my husband struggles to obey. "Y-y-" - a desperate intake of breath - "yes m-m-ma'am".
I smile sweetly at him. "Good boy," I say, removing my hand to pat him on the cheek. Then I reach for the nearest plate...
