Happy Thanksgiving (Patreon)

Year 1

I was never a big fan of Thanksgiving. No one in my family cooked particularly well, and the thought of a plateful of dry turkey and mushy pumpkin pie made me gag. Not to mention how fattening everything was. No matter how I felt about the food, I’d always end up eating too much of it. Didn’t want to insult anyone’s cooking or spoil the holiday with talk of diets and waistlines. It was only one day, after all.

Then I met Asher Murray. Asher loved Thanksgiving. You know how some families are big into Christmas or Halloween? His family was all about Thanksgiving. From the first of September onward, his parents decorated their house with fall decorations. Everything smelled like cinnamon and sugar all the time.

They had even stretched their holiday celebrations out to a full week, and the whole Murray clan was expected to come. I avoided it the first couple years we were together, but the year we were married, he insisted.

I was entirely unprepared.

See, he’d told me about the family’s Thanksgiving obsession. But until I walked into his parents’ massive kitchen, which boasted two ovens and an industrial stove, I hadn’t fully understood. Even as his mother greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a plateful of pumpkin cookies I realized were all for me, I couldn’t have predicted the onslaught of food and fall coziness about to be thrust upon me.

That first year, I don’t think I stopped eating once, except when we went to sleep for the night. There were three buffet-style anchor meals each day, but one was expected to snack in between. I took the lead of my three sisters-in-law, both of whom had married into the family a few years before. They encouraged me to just relax and think of it as a vacation. It was important to the whole family, especially Asher and his brothers, and their mom always worked to make everything perfect. So I ate.

And ate.

And ate even more.

I was sorta surprised to find out that the food was actually good. It wasn’t hard to grab a fourth slice of pie or another pig in a blanket when every bite felt like heaven. I started to understand why Asher’s family enjoyed Thanksgiving so much. Who didn’t want an excuse to wolf down a ton of good food?

That first Thanksgiving meal was like a victory lap. We were all so used to being stuffed to capacity after six days of gorging ourselves that we all really pushed our limits. Especially me. I ate like it was my last meal. Asher didn’t help. He kept my plate loaded up with food. I noticed vaguely that the other brothers were doing the same with their wives. Even as we began to eat more slowly, our faces flushed with the effort it took to swallow each bite, they kept us eating.

I downed a mountain of creamy mashed potatoes, finished an entire apple pie, and chewed my way through half a ham. I could hardly breathe. Across the table from me, Rebecca, the oldest of my sisters-in-law, had hardly flagged. She was dipping buttered biscuits directly into a serving bowl of cranberry sauce and shoveling them into her mouth. Anna was finishing off a whole turkey leg in obscene fashion. Elle, the youngest besides me, was getting a semi-discreet belly rub from her husband as she sat back, belly rock hard, trying to catch a second wind as she eyed a platter of buttered corn on the cob.

It felt like an alternate reality where all normal etiquette had been suspended. Belches and slurps resounded around the table. Fingers were licked clean of gravy and grease. At a certain point, I heard moaning, and then I realized it was me as I ate a bite of gingerbread cheesecake.

By the time it was all said and done, every plate was clean, and I was stranded in my chair. Even Asher looked like he was going to have trouble sitting up. He turned toward me, rested his hand on my domed belly, and said, “Happy Thanksgiving.”

Year 2

Over the course of the next year, I often found myself thinking about Thanksgiving. To my surprise, it was often with excitement. Despite the damage it had done to my waistline, the feeling of being free to eat good things until I couldn’t possibly move had been wonderful.

So wonderful I occasionally found myself attempting to replicate it. On weekends when Asher was away for work, I’d order massive amounts of takeout and eat until I could hold no more. But it was never quite the same. I could never quite let go in the same way. And besides, I couldn’t let myself go up another pant size.

When Thanksgiving week finally arrived, I was fully in the holiday spirit. Asher seemed a bit surprised, but I knew he was pleased.

I was equally surprised when we greeted his family. His brothers looked the same as ever, but all their wives had… softened. The year before, Rebecca has been the largest, sporting a double chin and soft upper arms to match her potbelly. She had maintained that title, ballooning at least seventy pounds and now undeniably fat. Elle, who had been nearly as small as me the year before, was close behind. All her weight rested in her hips, ass, and breasts, which Ben, her husband, clearly loved. Anna was only a few pounds heavier than the year before, but it was enough to be noticeable.

I wondered what they thought of me being so much slimmer than they were. Not that it mattered much—fat and happy was what we all wanted to be during Thanksgiving week.

I spent much of that week in the kitchen helping Asher’s mom as she churned out sheet after sheet of cookies. I learned how to make pie crust properly (“You need shortening and butter—it just doesn’t work with only one”), and some of the secrets that made her turkey so good. I also sampled plenty of our work, and found my appetite was even more endless than the year before. I even found myself getting up in the middle of the night for snacks, often running into Anna or Elle doing the same.

As the week wore on, I noticed Asher growing more attentive. He started making a plate of food each night and setting it on the nightstand. I would insist I didn’t need it, but always wound up finishing it—including one night when Asher finished me at the same time.

That Thanksgiving meal was as debauched as the one before it. We glutted ourselves on the seemingly endless feast until there wasn’t a crumb left. And despite being so full I was beginning to fall asleep in my chair, I was disappointed. Had the week already gone by so fast? Would I really have to wait another year to feel this content again?

Year 3

After experiencing the wonder of a second Murray Thanksgiving, I was determined to find similar pleasure the rest of the year. I became an accomplished cook. I called Mrs. Murray for advice on a weekly basis, trying to capture some of her magic and put it into that night’s soup or steak or whatever I’d decided to make.

I also started to grow. I fought it at first, trying to hit the gym and force myself to eat smaller portions. But in the end, I couldn’t keep it up. Especially not when Asher insisted that I looked beautiful, “and don’t beautiful girls deserve seconds?”

By the time summer arrived, I weighed nearly double what I had on our wedding day. And it wasn’t like I was about to stop eating anytime soon. Summer ice creams and key lime pies and cookouts only added to my belly-heavy figure. I reveled in it. I finally began to feel like I had brought the joys of Thanksgiving into my everyday life.

In fact, each morning, I took a minute to marvel at myself in the mirror, hands always roaming back to my hanging belly. I’d heft all that fat in my hands and think about all the good food I’d been eating that had made me so soft, how happy all of it had made me. How much more I would eat that day. And then I’d lie back in bed, one hand on the quivering globe of my belly, the other reaching around it to pleasure myself, and give thanks.

Asher was nothing if not overjoyed. He called me his “plump little wife” as he fed me at the dinner table. He would bring home cakes from my favorite bakery, set them on the bed, and take me from behind as I ate. I’d grind my widening hips back against him, glorying in the feeling of his hands gripping at pounds of soft flesh, at the ripples going through me as he thrusted deeper..

By the time our third Thanksgiving rolled around, I was waddling around like I was meant to be the Thanksgiving turkey. And like every year before, I brought my appetite.

Which was probably a good thing. Because for all that I’d grown, each of my sisters in law had matched me. Every one of us was fat. As we settled in the living room and munched on appetizers and sweets, we marveled at each others’ rapid growth. We compared weights and measurements, whispered and giggled about the high points of sex at our size, and competed to see who could eat the most. Our gluttony nearly outpaced Mrs. Murray’s food supply, but she insisted we have as much as we liked.

By the end of the second day, our husbands had taken on the job of ferrying food from the kitchen to our chubby, grasping hands. They seemed to revel in watching us stuff ourselves, which only made us eat more. Asher would sometimes stand behind me, massaging my rounded shoulders and asking me what I’d like to eat next. Meanwhile, his brothers would be caressing their wives’ softest bits, all inhibitions falling away.

As the week came to a close and we sat down to that magical final meal, I took Asher’s hand and rested it on my swollen stomach, already heavy with food. I kissed his cheek. “Happy Thanksgiving. Now hand over those sweet potatoes.”