Men Are From Mars

"You weren't ready?"

"I guess not" I sighed.

"But are you happy with your body?"

"Yes!"

"Well than just let it settle in. In the mean time, I'm going to help show you how happy I am with your body." A mischievous grin cracked across her face as she stood.

Sex at a quarter ton is other worldly. The lack of visual feedback when she disappeared below the crest of my belly coupled with the movement of my own soft fat that now practically engulfed my member amplified every movement of her greedy tongue. I felt her palms pushing in to my fat as she teased the exposed tip of my cock. I was writhing in enjoyment. Once she had me lubed up she began masterfully massaging my fatpad pushing it around my shaft massaging it in to my member pushing me closer and closer. Something suddenly switched. I felt strange. This was the first time in a while that she'd played with me without first stuffing me to the gills. The lack of that sated sensation was confusing. It was apparent she had successfully turned my stomach in to a sexual organ and I felt the need to be stuffed. I needed it bad. It was without realisation that I had become her feedee. When she came up for air I did something that set the tone for that entire year.

"Baby, feed me something" I was almost begging.

Her surprise was pared by her lust. She went silent, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and disappeared only to return with the tea tray filled with cake.

She waddled to the head of the bed and stopped it beside me.

"Open up fat boy"

I obeyed.

My words had changed her. Unlike her previous subtle manipulations, her dainty offerings, she took a handful of cake and forced it in my mouth. Her palm meeting my lips as her red painted finger tips reached for my eyes.

I had barely swallowed when she did it again then again. Her weighty arm forcing a mass of cake down my throat.

By the fourth handful she had begun whispering in my ear, "Play with yourself for me fatty. Try and reach your cock"

I reached down while my legs were still flat on the bed and tried to move my belly with one hand. It was a task but I was caught up in the moment. Failing to grasp my prize, I raised my knees and reached round.

"Getting harder to find isn't it? I'm going to make sure that your cock is strictly for my use. Rub your fat around it. Cum for me, give yourself to me. Cum while I stuff you."

I was clumsily playing with the area, trying to recreate the sensations she had started before the feeding.

"Cum while I grow you. Grow you in to the obese man I want you to become, that YOU want to be. Fat. Fatter than me. So fat you need me to please you. Cum my fatty. Cum..."

The orgasm was so intense that despite my weight I practically bucked off the mattress. I was panting, sweating, smeared in cake with my own seed oozing down my folds.

Never before had I ceded power to her like that, but I was hooked.

She began to play a game. 12 pounds for 60 minutes of pleasure. The rules, as I'm sure you've already guessed, were simple. I had no release until I had gained 12 pounds. Then a 60minute reward. Followed by another round. She would feed me. Sometimes rough sometimes lovingly. It was something fresh, new. The dominant side of her character was as sexy to me as the dovish side. I enjoyed being force fed. On the verge of play and reality. Immediately of my first reward she produced a beer bong and used it to fill me with a sickeningly sweet mixture she informed me as it forced its way down my throat contained fifteen thousand calories. There were tears rolling down my cheeks as I practically choked on the tube.

"Almost there baby" I was concentrating on not gagging. I felt both horny and abused. I'd never been in to BDSM but that is what I imagine it feels like. The shake was so viscous I could feel the last of it drain down my throat almost like it were a rope.

"Such a good fatty.", it was her favourite new line, "Just think, one of these a day and you'll be getting your reward within the week!" She wasn't far off the truth. My growth was accelerating, my movements more laboured as my fitness struggled to keep pace with my gain

In front of the staff and on the rare occasions we were together in public she was a lamb, but in the bedroom she was becoming a lioness. Predatorily surveying my now rapidly growing form from across the room.

Three weeks in she surprised me again.

I'd been in the bath as standing was getting more difficult I'd taken to using the tub more on the few times I bathed alone. I heard the intercom chime just after stripping off but thought nothing off it. It was some time later that I heard a strange noise almost like a faint vacuuming coming from the bedroom. It lasted only a short time then it stopped. There was some more fumbling, then the familiar footsteps of my beloved.

The door slowly opened and she slithered her way in closing it behind her.

"I got you a present" she sauntered over to the tub," Let me help you finish up so you can see it."

She took the sponge and lathered my up everywhere. "What's the occasion?" She'd peaked my interest.

"Of nothing in particular, I just think it will come in use." She finished rinsing me and helped me up. I could tell she was excited by the nervous way she skipped toward the towel hook. I donned my bath robe and followed her eager body out the door.

In the middle of the room stood what I had always thought to be the reserve of the elderly. "You bought me an OAP scooter? Like I need one of those." My sarcastic tone masked me slight reservations.

Fear is a misunderstood emotion. I had met in many times in my career on the trading floor. "Fear and greed drive the markets" it was a phrase that we all repeated like a mantra on both good and bad days. Fear and greed were not my only drivers at that moment but they were certainly present. The fear gave me a rush. The erotic link between my current state and my relationship stirred a mix of emotions that sat on the edge of reason and lust. I was surrendering my control to another person, a person I loved and trusted dearly but there was still a sinister element to the whole experience.

My fear had shifted from a slight trembling to on thrill. It was a rush every time I overate. And with that came the greed. The greed for more. I wanted the struggle. I wanted her approval. I wanted it more than anything. Each pound felt like an achievement like each pound I had earned in the city it was not enough.

I was brought back from my emotions by her voice. "You might not need it but you know you want to use it! I've seen the look in your eyes. You're hungry for the next step, and when my fatty is hungry he has to get his fill." She was right, "Think about it. The final hurdle in this race. Let me take you over."

I knew what would happen if I said yes. Once I began to surrender mobility it would be up to her to bring me back to normal. If I even wanted that. Did I want that? I was divided. My throat was too dry to answer. "Are you ready?" I nodded. I can remember feeling my chin wobble in agreement with my head. I was then and forever an obese man from that moment. Do I regret it?

At times: maybe. All decisions result in frustrations. All fun things come with dangers. Some of my friends chose to climb, skydive, sail or ski. They all come with considerable risks.

Risks that made me face my first frustration. The months that followed brought many challenges some expected, some surprising but with those challenges came a multitude of rewards, both physical and more importantly mental.

I was nearing five seventy when I got a call from an estranged alumnus of my old school. A housemate who had spent his forties in the Alps had sadly lost his life off piste. I say sadly not tragically because despite the grief his widow made a speech that would help bolster my life choices.

The frustration I recently mentioned was that of clothing. I still had my vanity. Not that I wanted to arrive thin. No. I wanted to make an entrance to the wake in all my mass. Before I had a pull but now a true gravitas. The frustration for a person of considerable size in more affluent circles is tailoring. Yes money can buy you a good tailor but getting said tailor to deliver on time for a funeral is, I'm afraid, impossible.

Kate, being ever prepared had told me to get a tailor in when I outgrew my last black suit but I still had others on the rack that could be let out and did not foresee the use until I got that call. So there I was, annoyed I could follow the decorum of the British funeral but the day was not about me, it was about remembering a life well lived.

For the sake of his widow I have changed his name, let's call him James.

James had left school with two A-Level, but due to his family history had managed to secure a place at Sandhurst - Britain's army officer academy. There he developed his love for a life on the edge. A stint in Belfast, a tour of Kosovo and a captaincy in Afghanistan in 2002 had not deterred him from danger. In fact the opposite.

In the sombre hall decked in flowers and photos of his life, I watched the projection of his wedding, his tours, his adventures. His joie de vivre was intoxicating. After Afghanistan he had become a ski instructor, then tried his hand at competitive sailing. He proposed to his wife during freefall. He had live fast, dined well, and died happy.

His widow Meriam's tears were far outweighed by her smiles at the memories captured in 35mm frame. She was sad to have lost him but happier to have had him.

The room murmured in agreement. Everything in his single life was his choice, everything in their married life was theirs. They were racing each other when he met his end. They pushed each other in their sports. Soulmates pure and true. It struck a chord.

Kate and I were silent on the drive home. Our chauffer looking at us in the mirror occasionally in quandary as our normal ecstatic conversation was absent. For me at least it had hit home. Yes I was risking my health, yes I was on the edge of what most deem to be reason, but we were living for ourselves. We could afford it, we were enjoying it. We hadn't chosen freefall, or ocean sailing, we'd chosen our own thrill.

"I'd hate to lose you like that" were the first words she mumbled as we crossed the threshold to our bedroom.

"I'd hate to lose you too, but I'd hate it more if I lost you to something you hated."

She looked at me sternly. Like she hadn't considered our mortality before this point. She was pensive in her reply, "I don't want to lose you at all." She came to hug me. Her head was pressing in to my soft chest her hands on my love handles.

"You're not going to lose me. I go for regular checkups, my heart is good, my cholesterol: a miracle that it's where it is."

"You're mine. I don't want to lose you." She was on the edge of tears.

"I'm not jumping out of a plane or hurtling down a mountain at fifty mph. We're just fat. But we've taken care of ourselves. We take our vitamins. We don't go insane on the junk food. But we want to be fat. I want to be fat. Fatter. I love that I need your help. I want to need you more. I've never surrendered to anything before in my life, but I've surrendered to you. And I have to thank you for it. Through this journey you've taken us on I've felt love, care and lust beyond what most people can even fathom. Why live by quantity when you can live by quality?" She was still holding on tight but here tension was waning. "Look at me." She raised her chin from my paunch. "I'm not going anywhere. I love you."

"I love you too, it's just today was hard. Even if you weren't my fatty I'd still be scared after today. It was horrible. I mean so sudden."

"He was going forty between the trees, and he had done it daily for nearly two months and had done the same for those two months for eight years. With fun there are risks. Before entering in to something you have to think if the risks you are taking match the reward you are personally getting out of it. I've weighed my risks, taken my hedges and now I'm seeking my reward. What about you." She finally cracked a smile. "You said I'm yours? Make me what you want to make me. I'm ready for it. I want it. I want to see it, feel it, be it."

It took a couple of weeks for her to get her mojo back but once it was there it was stronger than ever. I gave her control and she used it to full effect.

I was limited in my movements. She tried to take care of everything. She began purchasing more aides, a mobility crane, a wheel chair on special order. "Soon my fatty, you will my all mine. My fat fucktoy. Only I won't be fucking you. You'll be too fat to fuck. You're already too fat to use the bathroom by yourself." The last part was true. I needed her help in the bathroom now. And I had to pee sitting down. If you're not a fan of extreme feederism this will probably be somewhat repulsive.

I remember the night when I realised just how far I'd gone:

I'd earned a reward and after a soothing bathing session I positioned myself on the pillows at the head of the bed and slowly lowered myself on to my back. After some heavy petting she teased my lips with her tongue and whispered "Lift that sack of a belly."

I reached down with both hands and grabbed as far under as I could. Moving up she shuffled off the bed and began to position herself at my feet.

A sly grin worked its way from her nose to her ears pushing her chubby cheeks as wide as they could go. "Hold that pose!"

She reached for her cell phone from a side table and crouched down a little out of view. She started massaging my fatpad pushing it in with her hand. "Throw me the lotion" she instructed giddily. Letting my belly settle I obeyed she scurried to pick it up then resumed her play. I was pulling back hard but the more she worked me the more difficult it was to keep a grip on my increasingly sweaty mound. I'd never felt manipulations like that before. I could feel my loins tightening as she intensified her movements. Eventually it got too much and I climaxed. She giggled again.

Composing herself she began, "How was it, fatty?" Her words lingered, almost teasing me.

"Great as always baby." I was hesitant to follow with, "Why?"

"I'll show you." she smirked, raised her hefty frame to her feet. Placing herself on the stool by the bed she held forward her phone. "Watch."

As I focused I was immediately struck by what she meant. Before I could voice anything. Before I could form a thought, an opinion she elated, "Looks like you lost little Dickie".

I could feel myself blush. Before me a video was playing of her view. Her right hand rubbing my fat pad with no dick in sight. When she pushed in hard the tip looked like an oversized clit. "Look at what you've done to yourself. You've eaten your way out of manhood. So fat you can even see your own dick when you're hard as a rock. So fat you have a fatgina!" She was teasing of course but you could tell she was aroused. "What do you have to say for yourself fatty? I promised you I'd get us too fat to fuck, but you really did it. You're officially too fat to fuck anything."

I was flushed. She was working herself in to a frenzy. I hadn't noticed her other hand was buried in her own fat mound. I rolled myself to the edge of the bed and struggling to get in to a sitting position I ushered her on to her back.

For a man of my size it was hard to assume a suitable position but I managed with some clumsy motions to position my mouth in her hot pussy. Her heavy, sweaty, soft mound grinding in to my face we went to work giving her her reward for being such a good feeder. When she began to moan hard I put my tongue to work on the outside of her sex. Then my hands. She was slick and salty and immersed in our motions. It didn't take long until she had her satisfaction. It was loud and guttural, carnal; natural.

I slid off the bed on to the plush carpet exhausted. She came and joined me and we lay there silently in each other's warm presence for a few minutes.

"Thank you" she said shyly.

"For?"

"Thank you for making my fantasy a reality."