HOME | DD

Description
3:02 a.m.

I woke up slowly and groggily, in the sort of half-dreaming way that you do sometimes. There were a few disoriented moments in the dark, as my mind sorted reality from dreams, before I knew where I was. You were asleep, curled up next to me with your arm over my midriff, your hand resting on my belly underneath the sheets, making me feel safe.

My stomach gurgled urgently, and I realised that I was incredibly hungry. I looked over at the clock and saw it was 3 a.m. I usually sleep soundly, but hunger always manages to get my attention over any kind of sleep. It wasn't as if I had gone to bed hungry. The leftover serving bowl on the side cabinet formerly full of ice cream would attest to that fact; however, my belly was unconvinced and continued to complain. Nothing else to do, I suppose, but get up.

I slowly and carefully pick your hand off my belly and move it to one side, trying not to wake you. A bit futile I suppose, it's not like I can move with much stealth these days. I slowly move my legs until they're off the side of the bed, moving myself around that way while pushing with all my strength with my arms to force myself into an upright sitting position on the edge of the bed. I have to do it twice before I can swing myself up, straining at the effort. I felt the bed creak and groan, and after the second attempt I hear you adjusting your sleeping position and wonder if I've woken you up.

I wait with bated breath. Seconds pass, but you don't stir again.

I ready myself, putting my hands to either side of me on the mattress, and trying not to overbalance myself against the weight of my belly, I rock back a bit and then forward hard, pushing at the same time, forcing momentum forwards so I can stand up. I feel my weight shift, led by my soft, saggy belly, but I overdo it and my hand goes out against the wall to steady myself. I let out a few long breaths, struggling a little even from this exertion, gratefully leaning a bit of my weight against the wall for a few seconds. I laugh inwardly to myself; such a dramatic way to do things.

Quietly as possible, I waddle slowly out of our bedroom, taking care to not bump into anything in the darkness, my hands occasionally reaching out and grabbing little familiar landmarks; the dresser, the edge of the bed, the wall next to the mirror. Every step thuds into the soft carpet, but I can't do anything about it. I feel myself breathing a little heavier, even after a few steps; my body swaying and jiggling nonstop as I take one fat, waddling step after another. Somehow trying to be quiet always ends up being noisier. I feel my soft thighs rub together and the weight of my overhanging gut touching against them with every step. When I get by the door, I look back again and you're still asleep. Just as I stop, my belly gurgles and moans again, as if to hurry me along.

I take it easy down the hallway, trying not to make too much noise. I can feel my anticipation growing as I near the kitchen, such is the intensity of my hunger. I catch myself in the mirror; my black sweat pants and pale, naked torso contrasting each other in the dim light. I double take at my reflection. I look a little larger than the last time, surely? I guess I've been eating a lot recently.

Our kitchen is magnificent. Not huge in size, but at any given time you can open any of the cupboards and be greeted by piles upon piles of rich, delicious and incredibly fattening food. I never cease to be amazed at just how well stocked it is, a testament to your extraordinary capacity to care for us. I leave the door open but don't turn on the main lights. I know where everything is well enough by now.

For a moment I stand there in the middle of the floor, trying to get my breath back. I feel the familiar excitement building inside me. Even the anticipation of food, never mind consuming it, is enough to make me excited.

I open the fridge door, shielding my eyes from the light for a few seconds. It's absolutely packed full. Cartons of milk, blocks of cheese, ready-made bottles of the rich chocolate milkshake you make for me, gooey chocolate desserts on one shelf, bacon and sausage and eggs on another, in great stacks. I look around and savor the sight for a second before my eyes rest on one particular shelf. A pair of family-sized triple chocolate mousse desserts, in a serving bowl sized plastic container.

"Oh baby, you are amazing," I whisper in quiet homage to you before greedily fishing one out.

I look around and see my chair next to the breakfast table. Quietly I go put my dessert down and fetch the chair, taking care not to scrape it loudly on the floor. I think for a second, then put it right in front of the fridge in easy reach of everything. I grab a spoon from the drawer and then take the gallon jug of freshly-made chocolate milkshake out of the fridge.

I take a huge gulp of the shake straight from the jug, feeling a little of it escape my mouth and dribble down my cheek, a drop falling onto my upper belly. I swallow, feeling the cold, thick cream slide down my throat. Putting it to one side, I then rip the plastic off the top of the dessert and dig in an enormous, gooey, sticky chunk with the spoon. I hear myself moaning softly as I taste it; swirls of delicious chocolate filling my mouth before quickly swallowing, my spoon already delving in for another mouthful.

It tastes divine. I've got to have more. Always more. I take a bigger one this time, barely managing to get it all in my mouth, feeling a smear on my lips as I greedily try and inhale it. So easy to eat. So thick and delicious and filling. I guess when you get to my weight, all food is comfort food. Yet late at night I always want sticky and gooey, like perhaps a cheesecake or milkshake or soft, creamy desserts.

I stop and swig the milkshake greedily, enjoying the contrast of the thin shake with the thick mousse and the varied chocolate flavors. Another few mouthfuls follow, barely stopping, one after another, until I realize my spoon isn't resisting against the mousse any more, and I look down to see a few slivers of it left. My spoon quickly scoops them up and I'm already putting the empty container on the side as I slip the last of the dessert into my mouth. I lick my lips. Oh yes, I think, that is good.

I rub my stomach as I gulp down another mouthful or two of milkshake before going for the second dessert. I feel a familiar tension in my stomach as I slowly start to fill myself up. It's enough to turn me on as I take the second lid off. Not just turned on by the food, but also the feeling of my immense body, of rolls and rolls of soft untoned fat spilling out in every direction. The soft flabbiness of my thighs against the bench and the heavy drop of my belly between my legs. The feel of my ample, soft breasts spilling onto my upper belly. Not only that but even now, even at a weight that is hindering my mobility, I'm still eating. Still wanting more and more.

I only start to feel myself slowly creeping towards satisfied halfway through the second bowl of dessert. A soft, comforting, nurtured sensation is building through me, mixed with tension and excitement and arousal. How could anyone deny themselves this?

The second dessert disappears, roughly thrown onto the counter to join the first. I look in the fridge again, wondering what I can have next, what to have to top it all off. I spy on the top shelf a defrosted toffee and vanilla cheesecake, and with a wry grin ease it out.

"Oh," I whisper to myself, "this'll do nicely."

My spoon sinks into it as I go for the first bite. Taking a large heap, I slowly and gently slide it into my mouth. I moan a little quietly as I taste it, smiling widely as I swallow. It tastes absolutely incredible, all different flavors mixing together perfectly before settling heavily in my stomach that way only cheesecake can.

I rub my belly, feeling how stretched and bloated it is already. This cheesecake will be a perfect finishing touch. I slide another chunk into my mouth, savoring it for only a couple of seconds before my chubby hand goes out for another. It tastes so completely divine, I can't stop eating it.

It doesn't take me long to finish it. The last bites are lingering, slow, struggling for those last few delicious morsels. When I'm done, I shift the plate onto the counter and both hands go directly to my belly, rubbing the soreness where my stomach is pushing out. I do this after every large meal, relieving the slight discomfort with soft, gentle circular motions. For a couple of minutes I rub my belly, enjoying the soft, warm, comforting feeling of being completely and totally full, my breath coming out in shallow pants. I feel my excitement as I realize just how much I've eaten.

Then my eyelids are getting heavier, my thoughts taking on that disjointedness that precedes falling asleep. I think of going to bed, but I'm just so comfortable here, with my soft fat belly, with all my food, and so tired, and I don't even think I could get up.... Full and satisfied and sedate, I instinctively lean forward and rest my arm against the door for support, and quietly drift off to sleep.

3:47 a.m.

When I wake in the night and feel a chill on my back and shoulders, I immediately know something is wrong. Since you've come into my bed, you never fail to keep me warm. I sit up and peer into the dark bathroom but you aren't there either.

I shuffle down the hallway and see a shaft of light from the kitchen... it's the refrigerator light. The door is wide open, and there you are. Empty containers all around you on the counter. I've seen you raid the fridge at midnight, sure, but you either ate at the table or brought your food back to bed. Tonight you were apparently so hungry that you just pulled your chair up to the open refrigerator and ate until you passed out, your heavy body leaning against the door full of condiments.

I pick up the tupperwares and put them in the sink; I throw the empty packages in the trash. Among other things, an entire cheesecake that I'd bought to surprise you is gone ... I guess you surprised me instead.

After sorting the litter of your late-night binge, I wake you with a kiss to your chubby, fridge-chilled cheek. "Come back to bed, love."

"What ... what?" you murmur, adorably groggy. "Oh, I'm sorry... I was just so hungry, and I couldn't help it..."

"It's all right, baby," I reassure you, rubbing your soft shoulders, then sliding down to caress your massive swollen belly, where my hands always linger. "I know you can't help it when you get hungry. Just come back to bed now, okay?"

You struggle to stand up, and put a hand on your gut as if to steady it as you waddle down the hall to our bedroom. "Soooo full," you moan.

"I should hope so," I call over my shoulder as I replace your chair, grab a quart of chocolate milkshake for you just in case, and shut the refrigerator. "That was a twenty-dollar cheesecake."

You've only gotten in bed a moment or two before me, but already the sheets are toasty warm with your body heat. I snuggle beside you, wrap you in my arms as best I can, and squeeze. You moan a little bit in protest.

"I can't help it that you're so perfectly huggable," I whisper.

"I can't help it that I'm stuffed fit to burst," you reply.

My hand slips under your sweats to explore your girth... there's so much of you to touch. Nearly four hundred pounds now, and mostly carried in your gorgeous belly. I feel your shallow breathing as I massage your rolls of soft fat. I pet your thick lovehandles, caress your curves, tracing the heaviest roll of your belly with my fingertips.

"Better watch out, love," I warn you. "If you keep up eating like that, you might get fat."

You chuckle and your whole body jiggles deliciously. "We wouldn't want that," you agree.

I watch you as you drift off, stuffed full and completely satisfied, your hand subconsciously resting on your prominent gut. As I settle down to sleep myself, I realize that this isn't going to be the last time I find you in front of the fridge.

Description
3:02 a.m.

I woke up slowly and groggily, in the sort of half-dreaming way that you do sometimes. There were a few disoriented moments in the dark, as my mind sorted reality from dreams, before I knew where I was. You were asleep, curled up next to me with your arm over my midriff, your hand resting on my belly underneath the sheets, making me feel safe.

My stomach gurgled urgently, and I realised that I was incredibly hungry. I looked over at the clock and saw it was 3 a.m. I usually sleep soundly, but hunger always manages to get my attention over any kind of sleep. It wasn't as if I had gone to bed hungry. The leftover serving bowl on the side cabinet formerly full of ice cream would attest to that fact; however, my belly was unconvinced and continued to complain. Nothing else to do, I suppose, but get up.

I slowly and carefully pick your hand off my belly and move it to one side, trying not to wake you. A bit futile I suppose, it's not like I can move with much stealth these days. I slowly move my legs until they're off the side of the bed, moving myself around that way while pushing with all my strength with my arms to force myself into an upright sitting position on the edge of the bed. I have to do it twice before I can swing myself up, straining at the effort. I felt the bed creak and groan, and after the second attempt I hear you adjusting your sleeping position and wonder if I've woken you up.

I wait with bated breath. Seconds pass, but you don't stir again.

I ready myself, putting my hands to either side of me on the mattress, and trying not to overbalance myself against the weight of my belly, I rock back a bit and then forward hard, pushing at the same time, forcing momentum forwards so I can stand up. I feel my weight shift, led by my soft, saggy belly, but I overdo it and my hand goes out against the wall to steady myself. I let out a few long breaths, struggling a little even from this exertion, gratefully leaning a bit of my weight against the wall for a few seconds. I laugh inwardly to myself; such a dramatic way to do things.

Quietly as possible, I waddle slowly out of our bedroom, taking care to not bump into anything in the darkness, my hands occasionally reaching out and grabbing little familiar landmarks; the dresser, the edge of the bed, the wall next to the mirror. Every step thuds into the soft carpet, but I can't do anything about it. I feel myself breathing a little heavier, even after a few steps; my body swaying and jiggling nonstop as I take one fat, waddling step after another. Somehow trying to be quiet always ends up being noisier. I feel my soft thighs rub together and the weight of my overhanging gut touching against them with every step. When I get by the door, I look back again and you're still asleep. Just as I stop, my belly gurgles and moans again, as if to hurry me along.

I take it easy down the hallway, trying not to make too much noise. I can feel my anticipation growing as I near the kitchen, such is the intensity of my hunger. I catch myself in the mirror; my black sweat pants and pale, naked torso contrasting each other in the dim light. I double take at my reflection. I look a little larger than the last time, surely? I guess I've been eating a lot recently.

Our kitchen is magnificent. Not huge in size, but at any given time you can open any of the cupboards and be greeted by piles upon piles of rich, delicious and incredibly fattening food. I never cease to be amazed at just how well stocked it is, a testament to your extraordinary capacity to care for us. I leave the door open but don't turn on the main lights. I know where everything is well enough by now.

For a moment I stand there in the middle of the floor, trying to get my breath back. I feel the familiar excitement building inside me. Even the anticipation of food, never mind consuming it, is enough to make me excited.

I open the fridge door, shielding my eyes from the light for a few seconds. It's absolutely packed full. Cartons of milk, blocks of cheese, ready-made bottles of the rich chocolate milkshake you make for me, gooey chocolate desserts on one shelf, bacon and sausage and eggs on another, in great stacks. I look around and savor the sight for a second before my eyes rest on one particular shelf. A pair of family-sized triple chocolate mousse desserts, in a serving bowl sized plastic container.

"Oh baby, you are amazing," I whisper in quiet homage to you before greedily fishing one out.

I look around and see my chair next to the breakfast table. Quietly I go put my dessert down and fetch the chair, taking care not to scrape it loudly on the floor. I think for a second, then put it right in front of the fridge in easy reach of everything. I grab a spoon from the drawer and then take the gallon jug of freshly-made chocolate milkshake out of the fridge.

I take a huge gulp of the shake straight from the jug, feeling a little of it escape my mouth and dribble down my cheek, a drop falling onto my upper belly. I swallow, feeling the cold, thick cream slide down my throat. Putting it to one side, I then rip the plastic off the top of the dessert and dig in an enormous, gooey, sticky chunk with the spoon. I hear myself moaning softly as I taste it; swirls of delicious chocolate filling my mouth before quickly swallowing, my spoon already delving in for another mouthful.

It tastes divine. I've got to have more. Always more. I take a bigger one this time, barely managing to get it all in my mouth, feeling a smear on my lips as I greedily try and inhale it. So easy to eat. So thick and delicious and filling. I guess when you get to my weight, all food is comfort food. Yet late at night I always want sticky and gooey, like perhaps a cheesecake or milkshake or soft, creamy desserts.

I stop and swig the milkshake greedily, enjoying the contrast of the thin shake with the thick mousse and the varied chocolate flavors. Another few mouthfuls follow, barely stopping, one after another, until I realize my spoon isn't resisting against the mousse any more, and I look down to see a few slivers of it left. My spoon quickly scoops them up and I'm already putting the empty container on the side as I slip the last of the dessert into my mouth. I lick my lips. Oh yes, I think, that is good.

I rub my stomach as I gulp down another mouthful or two of milkshake before going for the second dessert. I feel a familiar tension in my stomach as I slowly start to fill myself up. It's enough to turn me on as I take the second lid off. Not just turned on by the food, but also the feeling of my immense body, of rolls and rolls of soft untoned fat spilling out in every direction. The soft flabbiness of my thighs against the bench and the heavy drop of my belly between my legs. The feel of my ample, soft breasts spilling onto my upper belly. Not only that but even now, even at a weight that is hindering my mobility, I'm still eating. Still wanting more and more.

I only start to feel myself slowly creeping towards satisfied halfway through the second bowl of dessert. A soft, comforting, nurtured sensation is building through me, mixed with tension and excitement and arousal. How could anyone deny themselves this?

The second dessert disappears, roughly thrown onto the counter to join the first. I look in the fridge again, wondering what I can have next, what to have to top it all off. I spy on the top shelf a defrosted toffee and vanilla cheesecake, and with a wry grin ease it out.

"Oh," I whisper to myself, "this'll do nicely."

My spoon sinks into it as I go for the first bite. Taking a large heap, I slowly and gently slide it into my mouth. I moan a little quietly as I taste it, smiling widely as I swallow. It tastes absolutely incredible, all different flavors mixing together perfectly before settling heavily in my stomach that way only cheesecake can.

I rub my belly, feeling how stretched and bloated it is already. This cheesecake will be a perfect finishing touch. I slide another chunk into my mouth, savoring it for only a couple of seconds before my chubby hand goes out for another. It tastes so completely divine, I can't stop eating it.

It doesn't take me long to finish it. The last bites are lingering, slow, struggling for those last few delicious morsels. When I'm done, I shift the plate onto the counter and both hands go directly to my belly, rubbing the soreness where my stomach is pushing out. I do this after every large meal, relieving the slight discomfort with soft, gentle circular motions. For a couple of minutes I rub my belly, enjoying the soft, warm, comforting feeling of being completely and totally full, my breath coming out in shallow pants. I feel my excitement as I realize just how much I've eaten.

Then my eyelids are getting heavier, my thoughts taking on that disjointedness that precedes falling asleep. I think of going to bed, but I'm just so comfortable here, with my soft fat belly, with all my food, and so tired, and I don't even think I could get up.... Full and satisfied and sedate, I instinctively lean forward and rest my arm against the door for support, and quietly drift off to sleep.

3:47 a.m.

When I wake in the night and feel a chill on my back and shoulders, I immediately know something is wrong. Since you've come into my bed, you never fail to keep me warm. I sit up and peer into the dark bathroom but you aren't there either.

I shuffle down the hallway and see a shaft of light from the kitchen... it's the refrigerator light. The door is wide open, and there you are. Empty containers all around you on the counter. I've seen you raid the fridge at midnight, sure, but you either ate at the table or brought your food back to bed. Tonight you were apparently so hungry that you just pulled your chair up to the open refrigerator and ate until you passed out, your heavy body leaning against the door full of condiments.

I pick up the tupperwares and put them in the sink; I throw the empty packages in the trash. Among other things, an entire cheesecake that I'd bought to surprise you is gone ... I guess you surprised me instead.

After sorting the litter of your late-night binge, I wake you with a kiss to your chubby, fridge-chilled cheek. "Come back to bed, love."

"What ... what?" you murmur, adorably groggy. "Oh, I'm sorry... I was just so hungry, and I couldn't help it..."

"It's all right, baby," I reassure you, rubbing your soft shoulders, then sliding down to caress your massive swollen belly, where my hands always linger. "I know you can't help it when you get hungry. Just come back to bed now, okay?"

You struggle to stand up, and put a hand on your gut as if to steady it as you waddle down the hall to our bedroom. "Soooo full," you moan.

"I should hope so," I call over my shoulder as I replace your chair, grab a quart of chocolate milkshake for you just in case, and shut the refrigerator. "That was a twenty-dollar cheesecake."

You've only gotten in bed a moment or two before me, but already the sheets are toasty warm with your body heat. I snuggle beside you, wrap you in my arms as best I can, and squeeze. You moan a little bit in protest.

"I can't help it that you're so perfectly huggable," I whisper.

"I can't help it that I'm stuffed fit to burst," you reply.

My hand slips under your sweats to explore your girth... there's so much of you to touch. Nearly four hundred pounds now, and mostly carried in your gorgeous belly. I feel your shallow breathing as I massage your rolls of soft fat. I pet your thick lovehandles, caress your curves, tracing the heaviest roll of your belly with my fingertips.

"Better watch out, love," I warn you. "If you keep up eating like that, you might get fat."

You chuckle and your whole body jiggles deliciously. "We wouldn't want that," you agree.

I watch you as you drift off, stuffed full and completely satisfied, your hand subconsciously resting on your prominent gut. As I settle down to sleep myself, I realize that this isn't going to be the last time I find you in front of the fridge.