Fattening the Boss - Chapter 1 (Patreon)

Camden was cute. He was deferential but capable. I could throw anything on his desk and know the task would be completed as diligently and efficiently as possible. Our interactions were always cordial and professional. We didn’t do the fun, hip startup culture thing at our company, and he seemed perfectly fine with that. The line was always clear: I was his boss, he was my subordinate, and we didn’t have much of a relationship beyond that.

But women like me are greedy. Every time he walked into my spacious, well-lit office, I imagined getting up and closing the door. I imagined asking him to strip while I sat on my desk, legs crossed in my pencil skirt, arms folded. He would, of course, look as sculpted as I always assumed he was beneath his button-up shirts, and be wearing the most delicate lace panties. At this point, the fantasy really began to break down in logic. A strap-on would appear from somewhere, and he would eagerly bend over with his hands braced against the edge of my desk, murmuring something about having “waited for this for so long.”

And then I would bite my lip and give my head a little shake and remind myself that I was at work and had no time for fantasizing, especially not about a direct report. I was a pervert, but I strove to be an ethical one.

So, for nearly a year, I held myself to that. We only spoke on a professional level. I tended to avoid outings with coworkers in general, but on the rare occasions when I did join everyone for a few drinks after hours, I kept my distance from Camden. This seemed to be an effective strategy… until I realized it was destroying my love life.

I had never been particularly attached to anyone I’d dated. I had been in a couple long-term relationships, but they had all required so much compromise on my part that I began to lose myself. I’d been told I asked for too much, that I needed to stop taking charge so often and let my partner take the lead occasionally. I’d laughed in their faces and left. They had no idea how much of myself I was already holding back to please them. No idea about all the things I wanted from them but hadn’t dared ask for because I knew they already thought I was too much.

Once most of my romantic dalliances consisted of one-night stands, I felt more free to be myself. People knew up front that a date with me would usually involve a request that they wear their cutest lingerie and be prepared to indulge their submissive side. I saw no reason to hide my interests or wait to say what I wanted. I was focused on my career and expected nothing more from them than their total submission for the duration of our date. That never felt like too much to ask.

Still, it was becoming increasingly clear that my…. interest in Camden was getting out of hand. I wasn’t one to call someone by name during sex, but there had been multiple incidents when I recalled feeling his name about to burst from my lips as I tipped into an orgasm. I had also found myself less interested in watching the faces of whoever I was with. Previously, watching a partner squirm and moan as I teased them had been a highlight of any sexual encounter. Now, I found myself frustrated that they didn’t look like some kind of ideal I couldn’t quite explain, didn’t sound the way I wanted them to sound. In the moment, I was confused and annoyed at myself. But as soon as I saw Camden the next day, everything would click. He had worked himself deep into my subconscious.

But I wouldn’t dare act on my feelings. I enjoyed my job and wasn’t keen to get fired just because I couldn’t get a handle on my desires. 

Besides, I couldn’t see him ever accepting all of me. My suspicions about his submissive nature might be correct, but if I’m being entirely honest, a submissive partner wasn’t what I ultimately wanted. Or rather, it wasn’t all that I wanted. There were desires that I kept buried deep, and I knew it was highly likely that if I revealed them, no one I wanted would want to touch me with a ten foot pole.

Remember when I said earlier that women like me are greedy? It’s true, but not just in the sense that I’m greedy for control or a desire to be submitted to. There’s a bit more to it than that. My greed also extends into hunger—the literal kind. 

I love food. Obsess over it. I collect cookbooks and make it a point to make every meal I eat alone as decadent as possible. It’s not just the taste that matters, either. Portion size is equally important. I hold no truck with chefs that serve tidbits and morsels and call it dinner. I eat meals. Stuffing myself to capacity is part of the pleasure of it all, and something I savor on rare occasions. Feeling my usually flat stomach swell outward as I indulge and gorge myself until the bellyache becomes unbearable? Better than the best sex. Feeling swollen the day after and imagining all those calories turning into pure fat? Glorious.

But I never let myself fall into all of this as hard as I’ve always dreamed of. How could I? I have needs that go beyond wanting to fatten myself up like a Thanksgiving turkey. While I might not be much for emotional connection, physical intimacy is still hugely important to me. I like touching others and being touched by them. I like being desired. While I know there are those out there who enjoy larger women, I can’t help but feel as though my options would be too limited if that was the only pool I could choose from. Would Camden ever look twice at me if I were twenty pounds heavier? Fifty? Two hundred? Doubtful.

I can’t have my cake and eat it, too. Or, rather, I can eat the cake, but only occasionally, and only if I’m keeping up with my exercise regimen. 

No one wants a fat domme.