Model Husband (Chpater 5) (Patreon)

Chapter 5

We set a wedding date for June of 2019 in Moorpark, California, so you can be close to your friends and family.

I thought you might try and lose a few pounds before the wedding but you seem to be going in the opposite direction. Sometimes I wonder if you’re doing it on purpose. You’ve gone so far as to do an interview with Glamour Magazine about how the pressure for brides to lose weight is bullshit.

I see where you’re coming from with all your views and such but still I’m quite astonished that you're actually getting fat.  Not just curvy or chubby, but fat.

You do your third Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition and you look significantly thicker than you did in last year’s black and white shoot and you resemble a beached whale as you lay on the Costa Rican sands posing for the photographers. Your thighs have become incredibly chunky and look almost twice as big as they were when I met you. Turns out that SI’s curviest model ever has become even curvier, and the new photos and publicity get the attention of the bridal magazine, The Knot.

With women in America getting progressively fatter and fatter over the years, The Knot chooses you to grace their cover and be a representative for the growing population of curvier brides to be. The magazine offers to profile our wedding and outsource a company to custom make your dress. This perk may also be a necessity, as the proportions of your figure are continuing to balloon like crazy.

It seems that every time I see you, you’re snacking on something, whether it be a rice crispy treat, a handful of M&M’s, a bag of potato chips or whatever else is within arm’s reach.

It’s funny, when SI profiled you for that day in the life video, you made it seem as though you eat a little piece of avocado toast every morning for breakfast, drink a healthy green smoothie for lunch and train with a fitness coach every day after getting a facial.

I am not exactly sure what you do when I’m at work, but I know you skip most of your gym appointments and they have become few and far between. I know you drink more iced venti vanilla chais than you do healthy smoothies, and I know you eat a lot more for breakfast than what you portray for the camera.

I can tell simply by looking at you. The way your shoulders now slope into pillowy arms, the way your waist has thickened into a full blown belly, and the way your ass almost covers an entire couch cushion when you sit down.

By April of 2019, you look, dare I say, borderline obese.

I’m right beside you as we make our way up the stairs to our apartment. You’ve become so massive, your entire body wobbles like pudding with each step, and your face is flush.

“It’s okay to breathe you know,” I say.

“I know, (huff, gasp) I just get so self conscious about being so out of breath, especially when you’re not (pant, gasp) even breaking a sweat.”

I gaze down at your hips and thighs. Your butt looks enormous in those high waisted blue jeans and the front button seems to be hanging on for dear life as it sinks into the more prominent bulges of your love handles and lower belly. I breathe more audibly, just to make you feel less out of shape than you actually are. You are clearly not accustomed to being this heavy.  “Everybody (pant) gets winded going up this many stairs, it’s okay,” I say.

You continue to plod upward between pants and gasps. “We need to (huff) find a house soon, (gasp, pant) cause I don’t know how much more of these stairs I can take.”

I look at your big ass again, it’s hard not to stare. “I hear you babe.”

Once we’re finally inside you fling your purse on the floor and collapse into the sofa. “What (gasp, huff) are we doing (pant) for dinner?”

Jesus, you really are out of shape aren't you. “Feel like staying in tonight?” I say.

“Yeah, (pant) I’m exhausted,” you say.

I know you’re all pro curvy and body positive and stuff, but I’m still waiting for you to go into panic mode over your weight. You’ve literally gained over 50 pounds in the 3 years since I met you and you almost look like a different person. So far, you don’t seem concerned.

Is it because our sex life has been so good, is it because I can hardly keep my eyes and hands off you? Whatever it is, I don't want to do anything to rock this boat, and I’m genuinely curious how long I can ride this wave. How far can I push this before you realize how big you actually are? I know that you're not one to turn down pizza, although after the struggle that was those stairs I’m still half expecting you to announce that you’re going on a diet at any moment.

“I’ll call Gino’s and get your usual,” I say nonchalantly.

You fan yourself with your hand. “Okay (pant) but hurry because my blood sugar feels like super low.”

Okay, so no resistance there, I wonder if I can push it a little further. “There’s still cheesecake in the fridge. I can get you a slice to hold you over until dinner, sound good?” I adjust my glasses and peer down at you from the corner of my eye, all I see is your fat upper arm blocking your still angelic face as you check yourself out on your phone.

You don’t even look at me and you answer without hesitation. “Sure, (gasp) and maybe something to drink too.”

My excitement rises with my dick. I go to the kitchen, then come back to you with the cake and a cold glass Starbucks frappuccino bottle. You reach out towards me as if I’m not bringing you your calorically dense treats quickly enough, and I wonder if you’re beginning to develop a bit of a sugar addiction.

“Thanks bae,” you say.

“Of course.” I pull my phone out of my pocket.

You take a bite of your cheesecake then look up at me. “Just (chew, chew) make sure you get extra cheesy (chew) bread this time, you know how I just can’t get enough of those.”

My smile widens. “Calling them right now.”

By June, you're bigger than ever, maybe another 10 or 15 pounds since April, but your confidence is also at an all time high.

You love working with Kristen at The Knot and you get to help design and try on countless wedding gowns. It’s a good thing too, as any other woman of your size and weight would no doubt have a multitude of problems trying to squeeze into a dress.

You’re now measuring 40-38-50. Your boobs are getting enormous but your belly is catching up, although most of your weight continues to settle in your hips and upper arms.

You keep saying stuff like, “It’s such a misconception that like plus size women want to cover up. Like no way! We are not ashamed of our bodies, we love our bodies and we want to show off just like everyone else.”

And I keep saying things like, “For sure babe.”

You are more beautiful than I thought possible on the day of our wedding. Your strapless dress showcases your fat, jiggly arms and I am amazed by how wide you look, how wide you are. It’s flabbergasting, considering that you’re almost 6 feet tall. I’ve noticed that even your parents and your sister seem a little taken aback by how much weight you’ve gained.

Along with The Knot, People Magazine covers the ceremony and your newly added chunkiness is on display for the world to see.

You get criticized for promoting obesity. I suppose I can see why. You’re so gorgeous, but it’s no longer an opinion that you are obese, it’s a fact, and you’re only fueling the fire of your adversaries by doing a photo shoot at In-N-Out Burger, stuffing your face with pride while wearing a wedding dress that visibly strains to contain your growing thickness.

You must be well over 230 pounds now, maybe 240 or even more than that. It’s hard to tell because of your height, but that just makes your steady and constant weight gain so remarkable.

We honeymoon at a resort in Turks and Caicos and actually close on a house in New Jersey over the phone. I watch you lounge around on the beach and I can hardly believe what’s happening to me.

I am married to you. I am married to a plus size supermodel with perfect skin, perfect hair, an astonishingly beautiful face and a growing and ever softening figure of immense proportions.

I like the way your lime green bikini bottoms dig into your pudgy sides and the way you try to suck in your flabby belly as if I won’t notice. I think it’s cute how you’re outwardly so body-positive yet a part of you is secretly ashamed by how far you’ve let yourself go. I wonder if you think about how you’re such a big beautiful greedy and overfed white girl, gorging herself on excesses of expensive foods at an exclusive beach resort, while millions of people go to bed hungry every night just 200 miles to the south in Haiti and the Dominican Republic.

Of course, if you really are ashamed you’re doing very little about it. You’re being served jerk-chicken tacos in your lounge chair and drinking tropical cocktails like they’re going out of style. Despite all the amazing things that are happening to us, food seems to be constantly at the forefront of your feminine brain. At night, you talk about breakfast, at breakfast you talk about lunch and you contemplate dessert menus during 5 course dinners.

Back in the states you revel in the comfort of our new home in Upper Montclair, every inch of it seems tailor made to fit your larger-than-life figure, one of the many reasons we fell in love with it. The extra wide doorways and spacious rooms make you feel even more confident and free, and you have your walk-in closet the size of a small bedroom.

You spend the evenings indulging in your favorite foods, pizza, pasta, cheesecake, and of course, tacos. You savor every bite, loving the feeling of comfort on your tongue while I imagine your belly growing bigger and stretching your clothes tighter and tighter, although maybe I don’t need to imagine, maybe all I need to do is watch.

Your curves expand and swell, seemingly becoming more pronounced with every passing day. You move with an added sense of lethargic grace and sensuality, still relishing in the attention that comes with being such a beautiful and confident plus-size woman.

Together we explore our new neighborhood, your generous hips swaying with each step. We take Stella on short walks to the park, your voluptuous figure turning heads and causing envy and perhaps shock with each sway of your ample backside. But as the weather grows colder and the magical year of 2019 dwindles towards winter, your walks are replaced with watching TV on the couch beneath a comfy blanket, a blanket that seems to be getting smaller by the hour.

“Omigod, (pant) okay,” you say, tugging on the waistband of your jeans. “Oh my goodness bae, I remember thinking these were baggy when I bought them, and now look!”

Your face is flush and you’re topless, and I’m having trouble getting over how fucking big your naked breasts are looking these days. God, marriage really is bliss sometimes. Those blue distressed jeans are clearly undersized, and perhaps a little more distressed than they’re meant to be.

I sit up in bed, put my glasses on and blink. “Um, do you think they shrunk or something?”

You make a face and try to close the top button again, but there’s no way you’ll be able to fasten it over that soft swollen belly of yours.

“No, It’s mostly just because so many brands are crap at designing jeans in plus sizes,” you say, releasing your hands in defeat. You sigh. “But I also think it’s because of all that eating I did on our honeymoon.”

What are you even talking about? Our honeymoon was months ago. I stand and smile, putting my arm around your waist and pulling you close. “Yeah that was the best.”

You smile and take a step back. “What’s that?”

Shit, did I just say that out loud? I look down at the carpet, searching for words. “That was a very romantic honeymoon.”

You smirk haughtily, then begin peeling your jeans off over your chubby thighs. “It’s like so (huff) easy to gain weight and so hard to lose it once you get off track you know?”

Get off track? Were you ever even on a track? “Enjoying yourself on our honeymoon is nothing to apologize for,” I say.

You finally get the jeans past your feet, and now wearing only a bright pink thong, ball the jeans in your hand. “I know I know (huff) I need to (pant) stop talking like that, but baby these are a size 22!”

Your voice has become breathier and more sensual lately, and you’re noticeably winded from the simple task of undressing, and I’m finding these things to be erotic and wildly sexy. “Size is just a number, and they’re always changing what sizes actually mean and stuff anyway right?”

You toss the jeans aside and give me a pouty face. “I know but (huff) I just feel like so lethargic and lazy lately, (pant) I really need to try and get more active again.”

I get up, wrap my arms around you and smile. “I am taking you out to dinner, you deserve a night on the town.”

“Why, what did I do?”

“Baby, I could celebrate you just being you, every night,” I say.

“Omigod you are so sweet. (pant) I just hope I still have a few outfits that actually fit.”

I love how easy it is to dissuade you from being troubled by your weight. I take you to T.S. Ma Chinese, not my favorite food, but I know that you can eat chow mein, sweet and sour chicken and fried rice like there’s no tomorrow and I want to see you pig out and be the total gorger that I know you secretly are, cover girl, model or not. I want you to let loose and I want to get you drunk. I want to take advantage of your pampered chubby softness, grab your flabby love handles and fuck the shit out of you when we get home.

“Omigod, (huff)  I’m so (hiccup) stuffed,” you say, patting your swollen midsection. “Why did you let me eat so much?”

I flip on the kitchen light and look at you. Your black faux leather jumpsuit is straining against your bloated belly, full breasts, and soft wide hips. Why did I let you eat so much you say? I don’t know if I could’ve stopped you if I tried, especially with the way you went through that bottle of Riesling in addition to that cup of warm Sake. I can't help myself and say, “I like it when you eat.”

Your inebriated bedroom eyes narrow like you know exactly what I’m thinking. “You do, don’t you. Do we (hiccup) have anything to drink around here?”

“We still have that bottle of Brigitte Bardot,” I say.

You open the pantry and pull out a store-bought clear plastic tray of pink macaroons. “Yes, pour me a big glass of champagne, (huff) you said you need to celebrate me right?”

“Right.” I smile and watch as you wiggle towards the sofa with your decadent treats. The hems of your outfit are cutting into the backs of your upper thighs and your ass has never looked so bountiful and round before. Sometimes I forget how massive it’s getting because you’ve been gaining fat fairly evenly across your entire body lately.

We watch a few episodes of Friends and incredibly, you eat 10 of the macaroon cookies with the aid of your alcohol enhanced appetite, but who's counting. It still never fails to amaze me how much you can eat in one sitting when you're not paying attention.

You down the last few drops of your sparkling wine and I can see that you're drunk. It’s rare to see you drink like this, but I get the feeling that you really want to capitalize on my daughter being away for the weekend. I do too, and I know there’s a good chance that whatever I say to you now will not be retained in your champagne soaked memory.

I pull down on the front zipper of your jumpsuit and your breasts shift forward and outward with the newly added space. My jaw falls open. “Goddamn baby, is it just me or are your boobs getting bigger?”

You lean forward and plop another cookie in your mouth. “It’s not (munch, chew) just you, it’s getting (chew, munch, chew) harder for me to find bras that fit.” Sticking your chest out and arching your back, you bat your eyelashes at me as you finish chewing.

“You look so hot right now,” I say.

“So do you, have you been lifting more weights or something?”

“You’re just noticing this now?” I let you push the sleeve of my t-shirt up and I flex my bicep with a shit-eating grin on my face.  “I’ve probably gained 5 or 10 pounds of muscle since the summer.”

It’s true that I’ve been working out hard. I feel like I need to in order to measure up to your hotness and fame, and despite your proclamations that all bodies are sexy, I know you never would’ve been interested in me if I was soft and doughy when we met, and I know that you would be less attracted to me if I let myself get fat the way you have. I’m not complaining, I'm just pointing that out in my head. Also, I have ulterior motives for mentioning my weight gain.

You squeeze my arm and give me a sexy smirk. “Really?”

“Well, I suppose we could go find out,” I say, rising to my feet. “Come on.”

I lead your chunky drunk ass to the bathroom and dig out the scale from beneath the sinks. You’ve become less interested in scales since the wedding, less interested as you’ve continued to get bigger and bigger, but I’m very curious about your weight, and you just might be drunk enough for me to find out.

I put the scale on the floor, step on and notice my seven pound gain. “217 baby,” I say, flexing my arm again.

You smirk, play with your beautiful hair and with slurred speech say, “Mmmm, (gasp) that’s hot, you're such a big hot man.”

“Not as hot as you,” I say. Not as big as you either. I look you up and down then give you a subtle nod. “Step on, let's see how much you are with those giant boobs of yours.”

You wave your arm at me and almost lose your balance. “Whoa, (huff, hiccup) you are such a typical guy, always obsessed with my boobs, but maybe (pant) that’s part of why I love you.”

I clasp your long soft fingers and pull you towards the scale. “Steady, I’m going to let go of your hand just don’t fall over.”

“What am I doing again?” you say giggling. “Are you weighing me, hows many pounds do I (hiccup) weigh?”

I ignore you and look down at the glowing red digits. Holy mother of Jesus they’re dancing between 261 and 262.

Over 260 fucking pounds?

I thought you looked enormous when you made your appearance on the Tyra Banks show a few months back, but you have now seriously gotten so mad fucking fat it genuinely blows my sex crazed mind. I wrap my arms around you, pull you off the scale and let all your cushy lusciousness press me against the wall.

I pretend it’s nothing, I pretend nothing happened. I grab the collar of your jumpsuit. “I think we need to get this sexy thing off you before it rips open.”

You gasp, and in a coo of a whisper say, “I’ve been waiting for (pant) you to rip it off me all night.”

Good, either you’re unphased or in some sort of black-out-state and I suspect the latter.

We strip ourselves free of our clothes and collapse into bed.

You lay on your back and investigate your softening waist with your hands. “Like hello, whoa bae, (hiccup) holy crap I feel so bloated and heavy right now. My belly is (gasp) getting so like, huge.”

“Your belly is so beautiful,” I say.

“Do you really think so?”

“Totally.” I kiss your navel.

You grab a good handful of your now spare-tire-like love handles. “What about these stretch marks?”

“I think your stretch marks are beautiful too.”

With a thunderous shake of the bed you roll onto your side and smile. “Omigod, that is like the (pant) sexiest thing I have ever heard you say.”

I smile back. The folds of fat at your waist liken you to an overfed and very well endowed woman in a renaissance painting.  “I love your body, and stretch marks are just part of your body.”

“I know right, it’s just a natural thing that the skin does.” You roll over again, turning your back to me and sticking out your giant butt. “I’m getting cellulite too.”

“I think that’s just flat out fucking hot.” I kiss your ass. I swear to god it must be almost twice as big as it was when I first met you in person at Bobo over 3 and a half years ago. I wonder if I have had something to do with the amazing changes in your figure. Since I have entered your life you’ve gained almost a hundred pounds.

Was it me, or all this body positive stuff that encouraged you and allowed you to get so fat?

“I really hit the jackpot when I married you,” you say with a wobbly shimmy of your hips.

“And I’m the luckiest man on earth,” I say.

You crawl on top of me and with your boobs falling on my face say, “Well, duh!”