Meghan's Misadventures (Chapter 12): "Engaging the Enemy" (Patreon)

Zeke Martin couldn't see his girlfriend but assumed she was in the kitchen.  She was always in the kitchen.

The beefy construction worker looked over his shoulder from where he sat in the living room watching television. Meghan was, indeed, in the kitchen, ready to raid the fridge after another stressful day of work.  Uncoincidentally, the outfit he'd purchased for her last month was already looking snug.

"Bring me a beer, will ya, hon?"

"Sure thing, babe."

Zeke watched her waddle off to the ice box.  Part of him was repulsed.  Part of him was aroused.  What began as a petty revenge plot had become...complicated.

A moment later, Meghan delivered his High Life.   "Thanks," he said, noticing her arms were otherwise empty.  No plateful of fried chicken.  No box of donuts.  No bag of chips.  "Aren't you hungry?

"I am," the zaftig blonde said with a smile.  "But not for food."

The tubby teacher's aide clambered onto the sofa and straddled Zeke's lap, eager to engage in her second favorite stress reliever.  Her titanic tush sank him so deep he could feel its box springs.  As if to ensure his suffocation, she wrapped her meaty arms around his neck and drowned him in kisses and cleavage.

All Zeke wanted to do was relax and drink his beer--but in the brewing battle between revulsion and compulsion, compulsion eventually won.

"Oooh," Meghan giggled, feeling the caged animal stirring beneath her tent-sized skirt.  "Seems like someone else is hungry, too."  In response, Zeke slipped his free hand beneath her 'big top' and squeezed her balloons.

Colorful metaphors aside, their relationship had indeed become a three-'ing' circus of fattening, fibbing, and fornicating. However, what began as The Greatest Show on Earth (or at least Dennison County), with townsfolk fawning over the handsome couple whenever they paraded by and acrobatic acts of intimacy that rivaled Cirque du Solei, had devolved into a two-bit clown act featuring out-of-shape shut-ins.

As Meghan struggled to balance her bloated body on Zeke’s flagging pole, Zeke tried to ignore the tickle of his own belly against Meghan's.  If not for his strenuous construction job and the workouts he snuck in after Meghan fell into her nightly food coma, it was likely the foreman would weigh more than four men.  Still, the pounds of collateral damage he'd received were nothing compared to the direct hit that had blown up the former Prom Queen.

Although she refused to share with him the number on the scale, he guessed it was north of two-hundred pounds.  Just a day earlier, Meghan had emerged from the bathroom in tears, promising to diet...until Zeke pacified her with pastries and praise.

After fondling Meghan's fleshy funbags, Zeke slid his hand down the slope of her stomach.  Her face immediately tightened.  She hated when he touched her there, despite his constant assurances of liking it.  It wasn't a lie.  He did like it. The same way a farmer might like a potbelly on a prized pig.  In fact, Zeke could hardly resist slapping it and yelling, "Sooie!"

Zeke's father, a cattle farmer who tended herds for the local slaughterhouse, had instilled in him the importance of branding.  "Folks need to know which cows are yours," he had told him as a boy.  Zeke had been insanely jealous on his first few dates with Meghan.  Although he enjoyed having a '10' on his arm, he hated the constant attention and lecherous looks she received.  Months of food-centric dates had left their mark; however, and the only appreciative glances his hungry heifer garnered anymore were from regional restaurant owners.

His father would've been proud.

Nevertheless, it created a strange dichotomy Zeke found difficult to overcome.  His revenge, for all intents and purposes, was complete. Meghan was undeniably fat now.  The High School beauty that had betrayed him was gone.  However, he couldn't bring himself to break up with her.  He’d been thinking about it for weeks but kept dismissing it. "Just a few more pounds," he’d say to himself.

Even now, as his fingers probed the cratery divots on Meghan's once-smooth legs, he imagined the dimples deeper. He imagined her hips wider. He imagined her thunderous thighs flaring further and further beyond his lap, covering him in an umbrella of fat.

The thoughts jolted his manhood to life.  In response, Meghan made a doughy o-face, which made her look even fatter, which in turn made Zeke even harder.  Soon, the squeak of the sofa was keeping time with their thrusts and counting down to climax.

That’s when Zeke uttered something that would make the conclusion even more dramatic—

“Meghan,” he moaned. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes....Oh, God...Yes! Yes!! Yes!!!"