~BBW, Extreme Stuffing, Riomance ~MWG - a closet stuffee overcomes her inhibitions with some FA help
(Editor's Comment: this tale from the Anonymous Room collection was identified as a result of our ongoing story migration project. Now properly credited, its author has promised to complete it, although not on a guaranteed schedule.)
Part I
"Honey, are you sure you want me bigger?"
Sara sat, curled up on the couch. She had been crying when I got home, and these were the first words I could get out of her since I arrived.
"Sara, love, I just want you. If the diet is getting you down, ease off of it. You know I like the extra curves, and I can't stand seeing you like this."
Sara was a 5'8" strawberry blonde with a killer smile that swept me off my feet the first time we met senior year of high school. She carried 175 pounds on her hourglass figure back then, but freshman year at State she had discovered the freshman 15 - each semester. I of course loved it, having discovered my FA tendencies around the same time I discovered girls, namely, at 14 years old.
I remember that at our senior prom she had dieted herself down to 155 just to fit in a dress that she knew I would love; however I didn't particularly love the person she was when dieting. She obviously didn't enjoy it either and was miserable for those two months.
She loved food and was something of an accomplished cook, so watching me enjoy her chicken Kiev while she nibbled on watercress and spinach salad wasn't her idea of a good time.
I let her know about my preferences (which she didn't believe at first...ahh, time is a great teacher) and she would reply, "I'm glad, honey, but prom pictures last a lifetime," and I would let it go at that.
When freshman year was over, that summer we moved in together. I enjoyed her new size, and as she had soared to an eventual 205 she had some killer curves. Her breasts had reached a modest C-cup, and her thighs and butt was plumper to be sure, but most of those freshman yummies had settled their way into a round pot-belly that displayed itself whenever she wore a sun dress, or shorts.
She was embarrassed about her figure in public, but loved to flaunt it in private, usually after ensuring that I "really liked" her bod.
That summer regular sex and tennis got me in the best aerobic shape in my life, and she even dropped ten pounds. She wouldn't return to school (having received average grades and realizing that she did not enjoy academia at all) and chose to take a full-time job at town hall as an administrative assistant. She got great benefits and we were able to afford a nicer apartment near campus.
However, her new sedentary role, coupled with the fact she got home at 3:30, over an hour before I would get in, produced a double-whammy on her figure. She could never leave the office except at lunch, and with the other admins and officials always bringing in treats, the pounds started creeping on. And when she got home, she would get bored waiting for me to get home, and would absent-mindedly snack on chips and dip, or the mini-pecan pies that she had always loved and that I wisely stocked up on every time I could get to the market.
And that is how we got to the previous Monday, when she announced that since the start of the semester she had gone from 195 on September 1 to 210 on October 1, then: "This morning I weighed 216! I am going to get myself back to 200 at least. I don't want to go up another size, I can't afford more clothes."
I reassured her that I would love her at 216, 316, 116, size 16, or whatever, because it was her I loved. I also hinted that I had enjoyed watching her struggle with her size 18 jeans of late, I found it extremely erotic. She found her swelling tummy a particular embarrassment because it was out of proportion with the rest of her and made her buy jeans a size larger than skirts or dresses she wore.
She was glad that her body turned me on, but it wasn't turning her on. I understood. Sexiness is so often mental, not physical. But really, I was just loving the woman she was turning into. Her breasts sagged slightly and, when she sat, rode on top of her love handles.
Her lower belly had developed a top roll that challenged (and how!) her size 18s to fasten, and a bottom pot that showed promise of hiding her bikini area if she kept going. Her upper arms had no tone whatsoever, and the bottom of her arms wobbled when she moved quickly. Her thighs had a well-inflated "spare tire" around each, and were just touching in the back. And her beautiful face now sported an obvious double chin.
That week was a difficult one, as Sara grew short and snappish with me and, I assume, with her co-workers, who had told her this morning that her attitude needed adjusting if she was to be dealing with the taxpayers, and she should take a half-day to think about it. I guess she was in hysterics pretty much until I got in.
After consoling her, I treated her to her favorite Italian restaurant, Buonomo's. Over dinner this afternoon's conversation continued.
"I meant what I asked. Are you sure you like me like this? What if I can't stop
gaining?"
"Honey, I have never been so turned on as when I see you filling out your clothes. I want you larger, I crave it!"
"Even though I am turning into a pig?"
"Sara, I wish you would actually 'pig out' even more at our mealtimes together, I can't get enough of your eating and filling up."
"Scott, I didn't lose a single pound this week and I have been miserable. If I pig out once, even right now, I won't fit into these jeans, and they are already stretched out. Are you going to buy me a new wardrobe every time I go up a size? Are you going to..."
She started to cry.
"Honey, I will be here for you. If your concern is your health or mental well being, then let's go home right now and I will work with you extra hard to get you where you want to be. But if you're worried about money, or my love...don't. Love will find a way."
She regarded me for a minute, then said, "Honey, I want to pig out like I haven't since before we met. All this time I have been denying myself so you wouldn't be embarrassed by this whale on your arm. If you are going to take care of me..."
"You have my love, you have my word."
"Then I want to order another dinner. Right now."
Oh, my. I thought she was doing this just to humor me, but one familia-size plate of manicotti and two orders of garlic bread later, it was apparent that she was feeling a pleasure she had missed for a long time. As her rate of chewing slowed, she had released the button and zipper on her jeans for maximum room and was massaging her paunch, which was quite pronounced at this point.
"Ugh, I think that is about it. My waistband is about to cut me into two"
I paid the check, and helped my love out of the booth. She arched her back, making her look all the more like she was pregnant, and I helped her with her coat. As we got outside, I remarked, "I would love to buy you an ice cream, since you're celebrating"
"Celebrating what?" she said with a mischievous look.
"Celebrating the fact that you will never diet again..."
We kissed.
"Seriously hon, I need to get me to a Lane Bryant like now. I have to work in the morning, and look at me..."
An hour and a half later, and laden with shopping bags, we emerged from the mall. Sarah had made the leap into 18-20 on skirts, and 22s for her jeans. I also bought her two extra pair of jeans in 24, "just in case," as my erection spoke for me. I had spent a little over $400 on this spree, and I realized that this could be a problem for one income. Luckily I had socked away a good deal of my summer income, literally thousands, and as long as I could keep the grades up, my tuition was covered by scholarship. And what better project to spend my savings on?
Sara was happy, her co-workers were happy, I was happy, and we were having the best sex of our lives!
Halloween approached, just two days out. Sara hadn't let me weigh her during the past two-week bingefest, tempting me with, "We'll do the numbers on Halloween. And you will know if I'm being a good girl if I have to switch to the 24's."
That had happened three days earlier. I had saved some expense by buying groceries for us rather than going out, but I realized that a couple of more shopping sprees were going to seriously put a dent in my savings. After the previous night's gorging, which lasted from 5:00 when I got home until almost 8:30, my love was looking swollen beyond belief.
"I don't want to wait for Thursday, let's weigh me now," she said after I had put away in the freezer the remainder of her second ice cream cake.
"Are you sure? It's only two more days," I asked.
"No, I want to see what my lover and I have done to my poor little tummy." Her poor little tummy was now this protuberance that stuck out in front of her by almost six inches from the rest of her. Her face had melted into her chins and neck quite gradually, and her thighs had only hesitantly touched as they filled, but the bulk of her...freewheeling appetite had found its way into her round, stretch-marked abdomen. When I looked at her belly, free from the sweats she had been wearing, I was aroused beyond belief by the presence of literally dozens of tiny vertical stretch marks.
I rubbed her tummy and said "No, let's really feed this poor little thing. Look at it; it just wants to feel full and happy. I know that you have some room in there, your skin has been moving aside to give it room."
"Where?" she asked, her smile broadening as she spied my throbbing hard-on.
"Right there," I said as I massaged and traced along her stretchies.
"Oooo.. I don't feel as if I have any room in there left, but seeing is believing..."
I took out the second ice cream cake; there was only one-third of it remaining. I fed it to her on the floor of the bathroom, next to the scale. I sat behind her, feeding her and massaging her breasts while she used both hands to manipulate the flab that engulfed her torso - side to side, then circular, as she rubbed I could see her belly sag and expand, and she finished the cake in less than 3 minutes.
"More, honey, I want my belly to burst through my skin!" I came back into the room with two half-gallons of light cream, two boxes of mini-donuts, one 10' pecan pie, her favorite, and four big-blocks of chocolate that I had misplaced a week ago and thought she had found, but apparently no. I could see that she had been feeling below her potbelly as well, for her fingers were moist when I returned.
"Sorry honey, I am just working up my appetite," went her explanation.
"Well, dig in," and boy did she. I stretched my hands around to reach her sagging D-cups and manipulated her nipples, then dug into the mini-donuts and fed them to her four at a time. I stuffed her face as fast as she could swallow, and with each mouthful I was increasing the tempo. I was no match for her appetite, as she was eyeing the pie before I could even reach over to it.
I had sectioned it into four huge pieces, and with the hand not buried between her thighs she grabbed a piece as I was grabbing two. She inhaled those first three, and I let her savor the last piece before I reached for the chocolate.
"Oof, I want the cream," was all she could get out of her mouth as her breath had been reduced to short gasps. Her belly was no longer as jiggly as it had been just minutes ago, sticking out almost a foot in front of her, it had a tautness and firmness that I had never seen before. My erection was digging through my pants.
As I fumbled with getting down to my underwear, she grabbed the first half-gallon and chugged it down. It was over half-empty before she put it down, and gasped for air. Before I could get back in position, she emptied the remainder down her throat, dribbling the last few drops as she let the empty carton slide out of her nerveless fingers.
"Weigh me now!" was what I heard, but what she got was the first chunks of chocolate I had unwrapped. She grunted and began chewing again, with purpose but with a fatigue I hadn't seen before. It took almost five minutes to get the last morsel down. She reached behind her and tapped my thigh.
"Honey, I can't drink that last half-gallon."
"I know you can, Sara," I replied.
Her eyes watering, "Uh, phoof ahumm get it in me, lover," and something else unintelligible as I began the pouring. She gulped greedily, and raised her hand twice during the chug. Each time she raised her hand, I tilted the carton back so she could gulp air. When it was finished, I helped her to her feet.
"How much, sweetie?" she asked. Besides the fact that her eyes were closed as she massaged her dangerously overloaded stomach, there was no way she was going to see down past the equator that was her waistline. I read the numbers.
"242," I said. 26 pounds in 11 days. I thought I was going to come right there on the spot.
She turned her pale blue eyes to me, and said, "I'm not full. Either I am going to break that scale, or I am going to burst my skin. Weigh me again at Halloween. I want to nap while you go to the market, and later tonight, once I am full, you can have your reward..."
Oh boy.
(Editor's Comment: this tale from the Anonymous Room collection was identified as a result of our ongoing story migration project. Now properly credited, its author has promised to complete it, although not on a guaranteed schedule.)
Sara Goes for It
by KlausetFA, aka GotGot
by KlausetFA, aka GotGot
Part I
"Honey, are you sure you want me bigger?"
Sara sat, curled up on the couch. She had been crying when I got home, and these were the first words I could get out of her since I arrived.
"Sara, love, I just want you. If the diet is getting you down, ease off of it. You know I like the extra curves, and I can't stand seeing you like this."
Sara was a 5'8" strawberry blonde with a killer smile that swept me off my feet the first time we met senior year of high school. She carried 175 pounds on her hourglass figure back then, but freshman year at State she had discovered the freshman 15 - each semester. I of course loved it, having discovered my FA tendencies around the same time I discovered girls, namely, at 14 years old.
I remember that at our senior prom she had dieted herself down to 155 just to fit in a dress that she knew I would love; however I didn't particularly love the person she was when dieting. She obviously didn't enjoy it either and was miserable for those two months.
She loved food and was something of an accomplished cook, so watching me enjoy her chicken Kiev while she nibbled on watercress and spinach salad wasn't her idea of a good time.
I let her know about my preferences (which she didn't believe at first...ahh, time is a great teacher) and she would reply, "I'm glad, honey, but prom pictures last a lifetime," and I would let it go at that.
When freshman year was over, that summer we moved in together. I enjoyed her new size, and as she had soared to an eventual 205 she had some killer curves. Her breasts had reached a modest C-cup, and her thighs and butt was plumper to be sure, but most of those freshman yummies had settled their way into a round pot-belly that displayed itself whenever she wore a sun dress, or shorts.
She was embarrassed about her figure in public, but loved to flaunt it in private, usually after ensuring that I "really liked" her bod.
That summer regular sex and tennis got me in the best aerobic shape in my life, and she even dropped ten pounds. She wouldn't return to school (having received average grades and realizing that she did not enjoy academia at all) and chose to take a full-time job at town hall as an administrative assistant. She got great benefits and we were able to afford a nicer apartment near campus.
However, her new sedentary role, coupled with the fact she got home at 3:30, over an hour before I would get in, produced a double-whammy on her figure. She could never leave the office except at lunch, and with the other admins and officials always bringing in treats, the pounds started creeping on. And when she got home, she would get bored waiting for me to get home, and would absent-mindedly snack on chips and dip, or the mini-pecan pies that she had always loved and that I wisely stocked up on every time I could get to the market.
And that is how we got to the previous Monday, when she announced that since the start of the semester she had gone from 195 on September 1 to 210 on October 1, then: "This morning I weighed 216! I am going to get myself back to 200 at least. I don't want to go up another size, I can't afford more clothes."
I reassured her that I would love her at 216, 316, 116, size 16, or whatever, because it was her I loved. I also hinted that I had enjoyed watching her struggle with her size 18 jeans of late, I found it extremely erotic. She found her swelling tummy a particular embarrassment because it was out of proportion with the rest of her and made her buy jeans a size larger than skirts or dresses she wore.
She was glad that her body turned me on, but it wasn't turning her on. I understood. Sexiness is so often mental, not physical. But really, I was just loving the woman she was turning into. Her breasts sagged slightly and, when she sat, rode on top of her love handles.
Her lower belly had developed a top roll that challenged (and how!) her size 18s to fasten, and a bottom pot that showed promise of hiding her bikini area if she kept going. Her upper arms had no tone whatsoever, and the bottom of her arms wobbled when she moved quickly. Her thighs had a well-inflated "spare tire" around each, and were just touching in the back. And her beautiful face now sported an obvious double chin.
That week was a difficult one, as Sara grew short and snappish with me and, I assume, with her co-workers, who had told her this morning that her attitude needed adjusting if she was to be dealing with the taxpayers, and she should take a half-day to think about it. I guess she was in hysterics pretty much until I got in.
After consoling her, I treated her to her favorite Italian restaurant, Buonomo's. Over dinner this afternoon's conversation continued.
"I meant what I asked. Are you sure you like me like this? What if I can't stop
gaining?"
"Honey, I have never been so turned on as when I see you filling out your clothes. I want you larger, I crave it!"
"Even though I am turning into a pig?"
"Sara, I wish you would actually 'pig out' even more at our mealtimes together, I can't get enough of your eating and filling up."
"Scott, I didn't lose a single pound this week and I have been miserable. If I pig out once, even right now, I won't fit into these jeans, and they are already stretched out. Are you going to buy me a new wardrobe every time I go up a size? Are you going to..."
She started to cry.
"Honey, I will be here for you. If your concern is your health or mental well being, then let's go home right now and I will work with you extra hard to get you where you want to be. But if you're worried about money, or my love...don't. Love will find a way."
She regarded me for a minute, then said, "Honey, I want to pig out like I haven't since before we met. All this time I have been denying myself so you wouldn't be embarrassed by this whale on your arm. If you are going to take care of me..."
"You have my love, you have my word."
"Then I want to order another dinner. Right now."
Oh, my. I thought she was doing this just to humor me, but one familia-size plate of manicotti and two orders of garlic bread later, it was apparent that she was feeling a pleasure she had missed for a long time. As her rate of chewing slowed, she had released the button and zipper on her jeans for maximum room and was massaging her paunch, which was quite pronounced at this point.
"Ugh, I think that is about it. My waistband is about to cut me into two"
I paid the check, and helped my love out of the booth. She arched her back, making her look all the more like she was pregnant, and I helped her with her coat. As we got outside, I remarked, "I would love to buy you an ice cream, since you're celebrating"
"Celebrating what?" she said with a mischievous look.
"Celebrating the fact that you will never diet again..."
We kissed.
"Seriously hon, I need to get me to a Lane Bryant like now. I have to work in the morning, and look at me..."
An hour and a half later, and laden with shopping bags, we emerged from the mall. Sarah had made the leap into 18-20 on skirts, and 22s for her jeans. I also bought her two extra pair of jeans in 24, "just in case," as my erection spoke for me. I had spent a little over $400 on this spree, and I realized that this could be a problem for one income. Luckily I had socked away a good deal of my summer income, literally thousands, and as long as I could keep the grades up, my tuition was covered by scholarship. And what better project to spend my savings on?
Sara was happy, her co-workers were happy, I was happy, and we were having the best sex of our lives!
Halloween approached, just two days out. Sara hadn't let me weigh her during the past two-week bingefest, tempting me with, "We'll do the numbers on Halloween. And you will know if I'm being a good girl if I have to switch to the 24's."
That had happened three days earlier. I had saved some expense by buying groceries for us rather than going out, but I realized that a couple of more shopping sprees were going to seriously put a dent in my savings. After the previous night's gorging, which lasted from 5:00 when I got home until almost 8:30, my love was looking swollen beyond belief.
"I don't want to wait for Thursday, let's weigh me now," she said after I had put away in the freezer the remainder of her second ice cream cake.
"Are you sure? It's only two more days," I asked.
"No, I want to see what my lover and I have done to my poor little tummy." Her poor little tummy was now this protuberance that stuck out in front of her by almost six inches from the rest of her. Her face had melted into her chins and neck quite gradually, and her thighs had only hesitantly touched as they filled, but the bulk of her...freewheeling appetite had found its way into her round, stretch-marked abdomen. When I looked at her belly, free from the sweats she had been wearing, I was aroused beyond belief by the presence of literally dozens of tiny vertical stretch marks.
I rubbed her tummy and said "No, let's really feed this poor little thing. Look at it; it just wants to feel full and happy. I know that you have some room in there, your skin has been moving aside to give it room."
"Where?" she asked, her smile broadening as she spied my throbbing hard-on.
"Right there," I said as I massaged and traced along her stretchies.
"Oooo.. I don't feel as if I have any room in there left, but seeing is believing..."
I took out the second ice cream cake; there was only one-third of it remaining. I fed it to her on the floor of the bathroom, next to the scale. I sat behind her, feeding her and massaging her breasts while she used both hands to manipulate the flab that engulfed her torso - side to side, then circular, as she rubbed I could see her belly sag and expand, and she finished the cake in less than 3 minutes.
"More, honey, I want my belly to burst through my skin!" I came back into the room with two half-gallons of light cream, two boxes of mini-donuts, one 10' pecan pie, her favorite, and four big-blocks of chocolate that I had misplaced a week ago and thought she had found, but apparently no. I could see that she had been feeling below her potbelly as well, for her fingers were moist when I returned.
"Sorry honey, I am just working up my appetite," went her explanation.
"Well, dig in," and boy did she. I stretched my hands around to reach her sagging D-cups and manipulated her nipples, then dug into the mini-donuts and fed them to her four at a time. I stuffed her face as fast as she could swallow, and with each mouthful I was increasing the tempo. I was no match for her appetite, as she was eyeing the pie before I could even reach over to it.
I had sectioned it into four huge pieces, and with the hand not buried between her thighs she grabbed a piece as I was grabbing two. She inhaled those first three, and I let her savor the last piece before I reached for the chocolate.
"Oof, I want the cream," was all she could get out of her mouth as her breath had been reduced to short gasps. Her belly was no longer as jiggly as it had been just minutes ago, sticking out almost a foot in front of her, it had a tautness and firmness that I had never seen before. My erection was digging through my pants.
As I fumbled with getting down to my underwear, she grabbed the first half-gallon and chugged it down. It was over half-empty before she put it down, and gasped for air. Before I could get back in position, she emptied the remainder down her throat, dribbling the last few drops as she let the empty carton slide out of her nerveless fingers.
"Weigh me now!" was what I heard, but what she got was the first chunks of chocolate I had unwrapped. She grunted and began chewing again, with purpose but with a fatigue I hadn't seen before. It took almost five minutes to get the last morsel down. She reached behind her and tapped my thigh.
"Honey, I can't drink that last half-gallon."
"I know you can, Sara," I replied.
Her eyes watering, "Uh, phoof ahumm get it in me, lover," and something else unintelligible as I began the pouring. She gulped greedily, and raised her hand twice during the chug. Each time she raised her hand, I tilted the carton back so she could gulp air. When it was finished, I helped her to her feet.
"How much, sweetie?" she asked. Besides the fact that her eyes were closed as she massaged her dangerously overloaded stomach, there was no way she was going to see down past the equator that was her waistline. I read the numbers.
"242," I said. 26 pounds in 11 days. I thought I was going to come right there on the spot.
She turned her pale blue eyes to me, and said, "I'm not full. Either I am going to break that scale, or I am going to burst my skin. Weigh me again at Halloween. I want to nap while you go to the market, and later tonight, once I am full, you can have your reward..."
Oh boy.
