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It was one morning you found yourself waking up, passed out as you had been against her furred gut, to see her starting to get dressed. It was Monday, and she still attended her university (though none of her teachers nor fellow students had been impolite enough to mention the increasing difficulty with which she had been squeezing into seats and through doors). The weekend had been particularly long, and spent with little more than constant gorging. You noticed with a slight blush that your figure couldn’t seem to help but soften as though sympathetically, in proximity to so much food. But that wasn’t what drew your attention that morning, it was the struggling grunts and groans coming from behind the couch you had passed out on, Jenny was trying to get dressed. Trying, being the operative word. For weeks now her wardrobe had grown smaller and smaller, but today it seemed was the last straw. Even her biggest outfit no longer fit her. She looked up at you, confusion and desperation welling in her eyes, “Am... am I fat?!”
All of a sudden the hundreds of pounds she had managed to gain seemed to come crashing down on her and she clutched herself in shock, tears welling in her eyes. It’s okay, you explained. She’s just a little overweight, you admitted. Big boned, certainly. Maybe she could stand to cut back on a bit of food if she wanted to lose the weight, she had been overindulging lately of course, but did she really want to? You approached her from behind, hands wrapping around that gut of hers, holding her love handles firmly and giving them a squeeze. No, you whispered, this is so much better. She enjoyed every moment of getting to where she is, and she knows it just as much as you do.

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