Winter's Meal (Patreon)

I don’t remember exactly when or where it started, but I can recall exactly how it felt. It was wanderlust and hunger. A hazy desperation to leave everything behind.

I quit my job, bought good boots, a warm jacket, and packed a bag and tent. I didn’t bother to get rid of my things. There wasn’t time. I could feel this call thrumming through me every moment of every day. I had to go. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going or why, because I did not know. 

On the last day of summer, I began to walk. At first, I followed trails. I met hikers who told me the snows would arrive soon. They advised that I turn back. “You might not be able to make it out of the mountains until spring. And that’s if you can survive the winter.” I dismissed them, laughing it off without fully knowing why. I knew deep within myself that I was going where I needed to. The harsh winter that loomed before me meant very little.

I left the trails eventually. There were signs that said to stay on designated paths, but the call was growing so loud I hardly noticed them. My destination was not on any path. 

The woods grew thicker as the days passed. I couldn’t really feel the cold, but the temperature was dropping. I felt that I was getting closer to something, to everything. 

It began to snow one day. Just little flurries at first, but the storm was coming. I marched on. The hunger for whatever it was I was seeking was bone-deep. Snow would not stop me. 

Eventually, there was a clearing. It was large and perfectly circular, with stones piled at intervals around the edge. In the center of the clearing was a house. It was nothing grand, but it looked warm and inviting, nestled in the snow, light pouring from the windows. 

As I walked closer to the house, some part of me beyond the call was alarmed. I wondered how a home so isolated could look so inviting. Something in me wanted to turn around and run, but the call pulled on me tighter.

I stood in front of the door. There was a small animal skull where a peephole would normally be. A wind chime near the door waved in the wind of the storm. Carved ivory and wood clinked together. The call drowned out the sound. 

I knocked.

The door opened soon after, and I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing. The house was lovely and cozy inside, warm as a bright summer day, with soft, sturdy furniture. And there was a woman at the door—unlike anyone I’d ever seen. She was soft at the edges, but not quite fat, with bright eyes and a long, loose braid over her shoulder. “Hello?” she asked. 

“Hello,” I replied nervously.

“There’s a storm coming. Come in and rest.” She sounded so kind. I found myself unable to refuse.

She was soft and charming and so, so kind. She doted on me all day and made me forget all the troubles of the world. She always seemed to know just what I wanted long before I ever asked. She handed me clean clothes and a towel and sent me off to shower and shave. 

When I returned, the kitchen table was laden with baked goods and a large roast. I didn’t think to ask how she managed to have such abundance so far from the rest of the world. I simply dug in, making conversation and piling my plate high.

I went to sleep in her spare bed that night. I noted how large it was. It seemed impossibly vast with me, thin from months of walking and little food, lying in the center of it. I sprawled out, trying to accommodate my overfull stomach and sleep. As I drifted off, I realized how quiet it was. The call had stopped.

***

I spent all winter cocooned in her little house in the woods. Occasionally I'd think about leaving, but then I'd look over at her in the kitchen, kneading dough and humming happily, her thick braid hanging below her waist, and realize how little the outside world held for me. How much I wanted to stay.

There were odd little things about her home. Everything seemed to have some kind of sigil or spell woven into it. The thick, fluffy blanket I spent most days wrapped in had symbols stitched into the edges. Every loaf of bread she baked had a sigil carved into the bottom—"for luck and happiness," she said. There were good luck charms tucked into each room, sitting on shelves or hanging on the walls or from the ceiling, a chandelier of honeycomb and dried flowers hanging above the kitchen table. Before she ate, she prayed in a language that sounded like nothing I'd ever heard before, impossibly old. I asked her who she prayed to, and she smiled and said, "An old god."

The snow outside made it difficult to go too far beyond her home. It seemed as if that whole winter was an endless snowstorm. But I was content. We read books aloud together, played games, made up stories. She had an old TV-VCR combo and a small collection of movies. 

There was always a plate of cookies or a bowl of homemade caramels to snack on, and I felt like I was never without something in my mouth.

You know all those triggers they say make people eat more than they should? Cold, shorter days, boredom, lack of exercise? Much like the forever blizzard outside, being in her home was kind of a perfect storm. She cooked to pass the time, and I found myself eating almost as fast as she could make anything. There wasn't much else to do, no other way to busy my mind or my hands. I had no strong sense of time. It was too dark outside for that, especially as fall ended and winter began. We had the lights on in the house, but that didn't help much. 

At first, I tried to tell time by mealtimes, but then I realized that there really weren't distinct beginnings and endings to meals. It was more like we'd have a larger meal together, then wind down by snacking. Those snacks would eventually become appetizers for the next meal. If I was awake, I was eating. She had a bit more discipline and seemed to indulge more sparingly, but that just meant more for me.

Somehow, though, I was never really full. Maybe it was just that her food was that good, but I really never tired of it. I could see my stomach swell throughout the day, and I could feel myself getting tired when I ate a bit too much, but I never had stomachaches or felt like I was too full to have just a bit more. She encouraged me to eat my fill, so I ended up eating until whatever food was within reach was gone. She always complimented my appetite, asked me if there was anything about the recipe I would've changed, if I wanted anything else.

It didn't take more than a week for me to start outgrowing the clothes I'd arrived in. But she had replacements—comfortable, billowy things perfect for keeping cozy in front of the fireplace. When she first handed me the new shirt and pants, I was amazed at how big they were. She'd apologized. "I don't really have anything smaller. I don't mean to offend."

A few weeks later, I realized my stomach was beginning to hang out the bottom of the shirt, and my thighs were starting to strain the pant legs. I was so embarrassed, I could hardly eat. She noticed and asked what was wrong. "I'm so sorry, you've been so kind, but I really shouldn't take such advantage of your hospitality." I had always had a little tummy, but to have gained weight so rapidly was shocking. I felt horrible. Ashamed. This beautiful woman—a goddess tucked into a house in the woods—had taken me in, and I was so busy feasting like a cossetted little pig it took outgrowing clothes several sizes too big to even realize.

"What do you mean? You have taken what I've offered and no more. You're not taking advantage of anything."

"Tell that to this gut." I rested my hand on my stomach. It was perpetually swollen, always a bit hard to the touch, though lately it had been covered in an ever-deeper layer of plushness.

"You call that a gut?" she'd laughed. It was beautiful, like chiming bells. "You're still skinny." She looked off to the side for a moment, then looked back at me, her eyes full of mischief, her mouth teasing. "I like a big man." She’d given my stomach a little squeeze.

I'd felt my face getting hot. I had no way to really tell, but I guessed I was well over two hundred pounds by then. I had to be. How was that not big? I'd never been over one-eighty in my life, and that was at my heaviest. I knew I was bigger than that. But she still thought I was "skinny." I looked across the table at her and saw the relaxed, pleased look on her face as she sipped her tea, thought of her billowing hips swaying whenever she walked, and I found myself asking, "How big?"

***

Upon realizing she had no qualms about large men with even larger appetites, I became absolutely shameless. I wouldn't be leaving until the spring thaw, and she would be the only person I would see until then. Why worry about trying to keep my figure when I could enjoy voluminous amounts of the best cooking I'd ever had? It made my host happy to see me enjoy it, and it made me happy to eat it. So what if I was struggling to put new socks on every day? Who cares if I was getting a little out of breath getting up off the couch? I wasn't going to turn down homemade croissants anymore.

This seemed to make her even more eager to put food in front of me. There was always something baking, or the scent of something frying. In time, I actually began to feel hungry again, despite the fact that it seemed all I did was gorge myself and sleep. She joked about how nicely I was fattening up, and I laughed with her. I was growing heavier and rounder by the day, but somehow I cared less with each bite. 

In the dead of winter, in that warm little house, I grew enormous. My double chin was set to triple. My stomach had formed into two rolls, the top one stacked upon a billowing bottom roll that rested heavily on my thighs. My arms had plumped up so much that they began to look like my thighs once had. I was fat all over and constantly getting even bigger.

One day, I caught her staring at me in a rare moment when she wasn’t cooking. We were both sitting at the kitchen table. “What? Is there powdered sugar on my face?” I wiped around my mouth nervously.

“No, you’re fine. I was just admiring you.”

Her voice was sultry and warm, rich and silken as the hot chocolate I was sipping. “Admiring?”

“Yes. You look quite handsome today.”

I hadn’t seen myself in a mirror since before I’d arrived. I had stopped even trying to guess my weight, but I felt my size acutely. Getting out of that enormous bed (which no longer felt quite so large) was a workout, and I could feel how flabby I’d gotten, how the softened flesh of my thighs pressed together and jiggled with each step. “Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” I mumbled, not knowing how to take her comment.

“I’m sure,” she replied. She paused for a moment, then asked, “Do you desire me?”

“Uh, well, I-I don’t want to say anything rude or make you feel uncomfortable…”

“Say what you’re thinking. I asked, didn’t I?”

I let out a sigh. “I… I do. You’re very attractive.”

She hummed a bit, her chin propped up on her hand. “I would like to take you to bed. Would you like that?”

I sputtered out a response. “Y-yes, of course.” I had dreamt of her, of us, of her filling my mouth with forkfuls of lemon pie as she rode me and played with my endlessly growing belly. Of taking her from behind as she told me what was in the oven. Of her riding my face and it tasting like honey and vanilla. 

She got up and took my hands, helping me rise to my feet. “My, you really have gotten big. I do good work,” she laughed.

I found myself feeling almost proud, patting my stomach. “You really do.” 

I followed her to her bedroom. Her bed was covered with furs and soft blankets. I sat on the edge of the bed and she stood between my soft thighs, one hand cupping the back of my head. She kissed me. She tasted of roses and spring sunshine. I pulled her close and found myself getting as lost in my lust as I had in my gluttony. She hefted my hanging gut in her hands. “You feel so heavy and ripe,” she moaned as she moved her hands to squeeze at my hips. “I’ve been waiting so long.”

She helped me get comfortable, adjusting pillows and arranging limbs. We were both excited. This felt like the culmination of everything. Like the only place I’d ever needed to be was here, waves jiggling through every roll as she rode me and took her pleasure. I felt fatter than ever, my size apparent as my stomach rested on her plush thighs and the rest of me spread outward in all directions. It felt right. Months of nonstop eating and a constantly full belly had made me into her ideal, and I never wanted to be anything else. 

After we’d both had our fill, we curled up together under the furs. We were comfortably silent for a long while. Just as I began to nod off to sleep, I heard her speak. “Spring comes tomorrow.”

“Hmm,” I grunted sleepily.

“Will you be leaving?” she asked. The question felt loaded, somehow, but I was too dazed to parse why.

“No,” I murmured as I pressed my face into her soft hair. “I never want to leave. What’s out there for me now? I just want to be yours.”

Her hand reached up to caress my rounded cheek. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” I wrapped my fat arms around her, sighing happily. “I’m all yours.”

I heard a strange, pleased rumble coming from her throat. 

***

By the time the snow melted, she was all alone in that little house in the woods.

The wild fruit trees near her home began to blossom as she settled in for her long rest. She would need time to digest and prepare. Even with a belly full of her winter’s work, she could feel her appetite growing again, her endless hunger only momentarily sated.

She ran a hand over her distended stomach, frighteningly large. Her fingers were ever so slightly plumper than they had been the day before. A fine meal would do that to you, especially one so large and fattening. Even so, she knew she would need to start dreaming of the next feast soon if she wanted it to be half so delicious and plump as this last had been. As she began to drift off, she had the loveliest idea: if one wasn’t enough, why not dream of two? After this meal, one would feel like a mere snack.

Yes, she decided with a yawn. Two would suffice.