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Description
You watch your little wife as she nestles in on the bed, huffing contentedly and patting her massive, overfed belly like a pregnant woman might. To just about anyone, that's exactly what they'd think she was - heavily pregnant, carrying two or even three babies. But you know better.

Calling her "little" is a bit rich at this point, but that was what she'd always been to you, no matter how fat or full she dared to let herself get. When you met her, she was tiny; an average weight, not noticeably chubby or skinny, but just barely tall enough to tickle your chin with the top of her head when you embraced.

That was only three years ago. You'd been... nourishing to her, to say the least.

She'd always loved eating, telling you how her metabolism was unbeatable. You humored her about it, but she seemed to be forgetting how her mother blew up after getting married. You knew it was a matter of time.

Moving out of her parents' house and into a college dorm with you allowed her more freedom than she knew what to do with. Instead of getting glared at when she went for seconds at dinner, she was being offered thirds. Instead of being hounded to sign up for sports clubs, she was cuddling with you and a big bowl of candy on the couch and taking naps between soda-fueled study binges. You did everything for her, adored her, treated her like a queen. When you proposed to her on graduation night, you couldn't help but be a little proud of how soft and wide she felt as she sobbed happy tears in your arms.

After college, married life was a dream come true. Your encouragement had built up her appetite into something you could only describe as superhuman. Your degree treated you well, but the job hunt led her to a boring desk job at a tech startup. Soon, she was coming down with an awful case of secretary's spread, and to make up for her boring weeks spent largely texting you at her desk she made the weekends as exciting as she could. Fortunately, what excited her was food - and you were pretending not to notice as she self-consciously unbuttoned her pants when you took her out to eat. Your pudgy little fiancé was quickly becoming your fat little wife.

She had to catch on eventually, of course - nobody doubles in size in two years without some serious help. But she wasn't as upset as you would have thought when you admitted to enjoying watching her grow - in fact, you'll never forget the moment she asked if this is really what you like, while timidly lifting up her shirt; it had been hard not to laugh, being asked a question like that when she had never been more attractive to you. After that, you weren't so aggressive with your encouragement, but at that point she hardly needed it. Knowing that eating like a pig and moaning about being too full was your wierd little on switch was her new secret weapon. Not that she needed one. Your fat little wife had you wrapped around her fat little finger, and she always had.

"Honeybun," she chimes, her soft voice breaking you out of your reverie. "Could you rub my back?"

You agree... on the condition that you can rub her belly too.

Description
You watch your little wife as she nestles in on the bed, huffing contentedly and patting her massive, overfed belly like a pregnant woman might. To just about anyone, that's exactly what they'd think she was - heavily pregnant, carrying two or even three babies. But you know better.

Calling her "little" is a bit rich at this point, but that was what she'd always been to you, no matter how fat or full she dared to let herself get. When you met her, she was tiny; an average weight, not noticeably chubby or skinny, but just barely tall enough to tickle your chin with the top of her head when you embraced.

That was only three years ago. You'd been... nourishing to her, to say the least.

She'd always loved eating, telling you how her metabolism was unbeatable. You humored her about it, but she seemed to be forgetting how her mother blew up after getting married. You knew it was a matter of time.

Moving out of her parents' house and into a college dorm with you allowed her more freedom than she knew what to do with. Instead of getting glared at when she went for seconds at dinner, she was being offered thirds. Instead of being hounded to sign up for sports clubs, she was cuddling with you and a big bowl of candy on the couch and taking naps between soda-fueled study binges. You did everything for her, adored her, treated her like a queen. When you proposed to her on graduation night, you couldn't help but be a little proud of how soft and wide she felt as she sobbed happy tears in your arms.

After college, married life was a dream come true. Your encouragement had built up her appetite into something you could only describe as superhuman. Your degree treated you well, but the job hunt led her to a boring desk job at a tech startup. Soon, she was coming down with an awful case of secretary's spread, and to make up for her boring weeks spent largely texting you at her desk she made the weekends as exciting as she could. Fortunately, what excited her was food - and you were pretending not to notice as she self-consciously unbuttoned her pants when you took her out to eat. Your pudgy little fiancé was quickly becoming your fat little wife.

She had to catch on eventually, of course - nobody doubles in size in two years without some serious help. But she wasn't as upset as you would have thought when you admitted to enjoying watching her grow - in fact, you'll never forget the moment she asked if this is really what you like, while timidly lifting up her shirt; it had been hard not to laugh, being asked a question like that when she had never been more attractive to you. After that, you weren't so aggressive with your encouragement, but at that point she hardly needed it. Knowing that eating like a pig and moaning about being too full was your wierd little on switch was her new secret weapon. Not that she needed one. Your fat little wife had you wrapped around her fat little finger, and she always had.

"Honeybun," she chimes, her soft voice breaking you out of your reverie. "Could you rub my back?"

You agree... on the condition that you can rub her belly too.