Fattened into Comfort. (A Short Story) (Patreon)

Your girlfriend Clara was first through the door to the quaint cottage, cheeks pink from the cold, chestnut hair blown up by the wind. The moment you both stepped inside, the warmth and cosiness of the place hit you. Pine logs crackling in the stove, cinnamon candles adorning the mantel, and yellow and orange woollen blankets folded and waiting to be unraveled on an old leather sofa. 

Then she saw the chair.

It sat beside the fire, upholstered in faded gold fabric, broad and deep and absurdly inviting. It almost looked too big for the room… almost. One thick knitted throw spilled over its arm like it had been waiting for someone to collapse into it.

Clara gave a little laugh. “That looks dangerously cosy.”

She was twenty-six, and pretty. Her heart-shaped face was framed by loose brown waves, her lashes were dark against flushed skin. Her cream cable-knit jumper hung comfortably over her slender frame, charcoal leggings hugging her thighs, thick winter socks pulled almost to her knees.

You had barely set down the bags before she drifted toward the chair with a mug of hot chocolate. You weren’t quite sure where she’d had the time to make it. 

Clara sank into the chair with a long, helpless sigh, curling one leg under herself, both hands wrapped around the mug. “Ohhh,” she murmured, eyes half-closing. “This is perfect. You’re going to have a hard time getting me out of this thing.”

You watched her take a long, slow sip. Cream clung to her upper lip. She licked it away, smiling sleepily, and settled deeper into the cushions.

Within minutes, she had fallen asleep.

She dreamed of her college days.

Not the college she had told you about, all long study sessions, deadlines, schedules, and nervous parties. This college was older, it looked like a castle. Clara sat in a dining hall beneath stained-glass lamps, surrounded by trays piled high with pancakes, sausages, buttered toast, jam-filled doughnuts, and steaming mugs of cocoa.

Everyone knew her there. Everyone smiled when she arrived.

“Clara! Do you need help getting to the comfy booth?”

That’s a curious question, she thought. 

“Why would she need help?” She asked, unsure who had asked her in the first place. 

“Well, we know getting from one end of the breakfast hall to the other can be a bit of a struggle for you. Wouldn’t want you getting all sweaty before you’ve even eaten!”“Struggle? What are you talking abo…owowow!” 

She looked down and gasped.

Her body was enormous.

The cream sweater stretched over a belly that rounded and sagged heavily into her lap, the knit riding up just enough to reveal a soft lower roll pressing over the waistband of her leggings. Her thighs were spread wide, thick as pillows, touching from hip to knee. Her breasts sat full and weighty against her chest, the neckline pulled tight, every breath making the fabric strain. When she lifted a hand to her cheek, she felt softness there too: fuller cheeks, a second chin, fuller lips parted in surprise.

She should have been horrified.

Instead, she felt familiarity. The question had been a kind one. Her body did work up a sweat quicker than the skinny girls. It was nice of them to ask. 

Without thought or memory of how, she was now sat in a comfy booth at the end of the hall. She was panting slightly and warm. 

Food appeared in front of her, and dream-Clara ate with an appetite so deep it made her blush. Pancakes soaked with syrup. Croissants flaking butter onto her swollen chest. Thick spoonfuls of pudding. Bite after bite, warm and sweet, her belly pressing forward, gurgling contentedly beneath the table.

She rubbed it in slow circles.

“Mmmph… God, that’s good.”

Her body answered..,

 Her hips widened against the booth. Her ass sank deeper into the cushion. Her thighs grew heavier, softer, fuller, spreading until she had to shift them with both hands. The motion made her gasp. All that fat belonged to her. Every inch of it felt sensitive and warm, as though comfort itself had been poured beneath her skin.

When Clara woke, the fire had burned lower.

Her mug was empty.

For a moment, she only blinked at the gold-lit room, dazed and breathing hard. Then you saw her expression change. Confusion first. Then shock.

Her belly rose beneath the sweater.

Round. Massive. Real.

She stared down at herself as if the dream had quietly rewritten her while she slept. Her body had become large and fattened, belly bulging over into her lap, thunder thighs filling the chair cushion, hips wedged snugly between the arms. Her leggings had stretched impossibly to fit, dark fabric clinging to every roll and swell. Her sweater was tight over breasts that had grown full and deep, the knitting pattern pulled and stretched into wide curves.

Clara’s mouth fell open.

“Oh my God.”

She touched herself cautiously. Her palm sank into warm softness. Her belly jiggled. Her thighs compressed beneath her fingers. A small whimper escaped her, half shock, half something deeper awakening.

You took a step toward her, but she barely seemed to notice. She was too busy feeling the new weight of herself. Her hands moved over her belly, then her hips, then the thick curve of one thigh.

She should have stood up. She should have panicked. She should have demanded a phone, a doctor, an explanation.

Instead, the chair was so warm and cosy.

Her new body made the warmth even better. The blanket, tugged across her lap, was big, designed to be snuggled under by a big girl like herself. Clara leaned back, feeling her belly jiggle then settle, feeling her breasts rise and fall, feeling the chair hold all of her softly. She wondered just how fat she was. And then the answer chimed into her mind like she knew it off by heart. The last time she’d checked, she was 387lbs. 

A sleepy smile touched her lips.

“Maybe…” she whispered. “Just another minute.”

Her eyelids closed again.

The second dream was just as vivid.

Clara lived above a bakery and an Italian restaurant. Her apartment was on the third floor, with tall windows, and a bed that had needed reinforcing twice. Every morning, the baker downstairs sent up almond croissants, cream buns, donuts, and fat cinnamon knots heavily glazed. Every evening, the restaurant owner laughed up the stairwell and delivered lasagne, carbonara, gnocchi, tiramisu in glass dishes, and loaves of bread still steaming from the oven.

In this dream, Clara was larger than before.

She moved through the apartment as an SSBBW goddess of comfort, immense and glowing, wrapped in a robe that barely closed over the vast slope of her distended belly. Her body swayed with every step. Her thighs brushed with a lush shhhk-shhhk. Her ass rolled behind her, wide and heavy, making furniture creak when she lowered herself. Her upper arms were soft, her wrists dimpled, her face round and beautiful, cheeks flushed from pleasure and warmth. Cellulite covered her body from head to toe. 

And she was happy.

Not resigned to the fate of a huge women. Not frightened. Not even pretending.

Simply happy.

She ate at the window while the city glittered below, stuffing food into her mouth with lust. She licked chocolate from her fingers, gasping when her full belly pressed against the table edge. Her body felt amazing. Every added pound was another blanket, another cushion of softness that made her feel held. 

She didn’t hurry.

She didn't deny herself.

She grew, and adjusted accordingly.

“Bellissima,” someone called from the restaurant below.

Clara laughed, low and breathless. Her triple chin jiggling. She ate another spoonful of tiramisu.

When she woke again, the cottage chair groaned beneath her.

The fire had become a bed of red coals. Snow silvered the windows. 

Clara, your girlfriend was huge. Possibly the biggest woman you had ever seen. 

You should have been shocked. You should have called for an ambulance. But as Clara slept, so did you on the leather sofa. And as her body morphed and swelled, so did your reality. You have a long history of dating huge, obese women. You’ve always preferred them. Skinny chicks have never turned you on. The fatter they are, the more curves, rolls and cleavage, the more pulled towards them you are. Clara is the most beautiful woman you have ever met. And you’re lucky to have her. 

You wake up and see the new version of her. Bigger than ever. She’s still taking it all in for the first time. 

Her belly dominated her lap in a magnificent, soft mound, spreading wide against her thighs, rising and falling with each stunned breath. Her hips filled the chair from arm to arm. Her thighs were massive, round, and compressed together, leggings stretched over their expanse. Her breasts rested heavily on her upper stomach which folds at the belly button and remerges as the largest gut you’ve ever seen. Even her socks seemed smaller now, hugging fattened calves and swollen ankles.

Clara lifted one chubby hand and pressed it into her belly.

It sank in.

A slow, needy sound left her throat.

“Mmm…”

She looked impossibly cosy. Fattened into comfort. Wrapped in warmth from the inside out. Her shock was still there, flickering at the edges, but beneath it was a deep satisfaction that made her toes curl in her wool socks.

She glanced toward you, cheeks flushed, lips parted.

“I should get up,” she said softly.

But she did not move.

The idea seemed to frighten her. You could see it in the way her fingers curled into the blanket. What if standing broke this new reality? What if leaving the chair unwound the dream and stole all this fatness away? What if she became small again? What if she was no longer 607lbs? The number rang like a small, pleasant dinner bell. 

Clara shifted slightly, and her enormous body rolled and settled with a delicious, heavy thwump. The chair creaked. The blanket barely covered half of her now, and she tugged it over her belly with both hands, smiling as it slid over the great curve.

“Later,” she murmured.

Perhaps later she would try to rise. Perhaps later she would find the mirror and see every inch of the woman the chair had made. Perhaps she would waddle over to you and lead you slowly, with heavy breath towards the bedroom.

For now, Clara only wanted to sit by the fire in her gorgeous, huge body, breathing slowly, belly warm, thighs spread, tummy full, perfectly still in the cosy chair as snow buried the cottage in white.