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Kinktober '22 #27: Revenge Fattening
🕑 Added 2022-12-22 04:15:49 +0000 UTCThe prompt for day 27 was supposed to be "college gains," but I ended up going into a completely different direction with the prompt! Hope y'all enjoy it.
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Marcie had spent so long trying to be perfect for her husband. She anticipated his every need: cooked all his meals; kept their home spotless and pleasant to be in; balanced their budget, even though he couldn’t be bothered to save; kept herself in good shape; practically wrote every essay that earned him his undergraduate degree and his master’s after that; never said no every time he wanted sex, and initiated often herself. They were happy. They were happy. She wanted so much for them to be happy.
But even if she was happy, he never was. There was always some flaw–in her work, or in her. So she was always better. Better than better! Marcie aimed for perfection. That was what he wanted out of her, wasn’t it? It might not be humanly possible, but she would try, and without a whit of complaining. No one wanted to be married to a whiner.
Still, it hurt every time he nitpicked. He’d leave clothes on the floor at night when they were getting ready for bed, and would chide her when they woke up, as if she was supposed to pick them up in her sleep. He complained that her cooking was too fattening, then too healthy and bland the next night. One night in bed, buried in her, his little potbelly pressing against her nearly concave stomach with every thrust, he told her, “You’d be so pretty if you just lost a few pounds.” She said nothing, but the hurt was plain on her face. “You’re starting to get fat lazing around the house all the time.”
As if she hadn’t spent all day scrubbing nooks and crannies of the house he didn’t even know existed on her hands and knees for hours, her wrists aching and her knees bruised. As if he himself was the picture of fitness, even though he could never be bothered to exercise.
Years of all the resentment she’d swallowed down rushed forward. He thought she was fat, when she didn’t have an extra pound on her to lose? That she was lazy, when her whole life revolved around picking up his messes and making sure he barely had to think about anything beyond his pathetically easy job that barely kept them afloat? She was incandescent with rage, even as he finished inside her and rolled over to go to sleep. She lay in bed, face hot, heart pounding. She kept trying to tell herself she would do better, be better–but she’d done all that already.
It was time for something different. She was going on strike, at least until he realized the error of his ways. No more workouts, no more cooking or cleaning for him, no more diets or counting calories to keep herself whittled down for him. Marcie would do what she wanted, and no more.
The results arrived more swiftly than she ever would’ve imagined. She cooked things she loved and ate them until she was stuffed so full all she had energy for was a long nap. She ordered lavish lunches from all her favorite restaurants with his credit card, especially the ones her husband hated, spending her afternoons gorging herself and watching trash TV he always told her not to watch. She baked his favorite sweets and finished them off herself, leaving the smell lingering in the air for his stomach to grumble over when he got home.
After a month, the waifish, hungry look was gone from her frame. After two, she started to look soft, toned muscles slowly losing ground as she found a new routine that revolved around her own pleasure.
The third month, she started taking herself out while he was at work. Buying herself new clothes in larger sizes and shoes to match, then taking herself out for all-you-can-drink brunches and midday meals fit for a queen. She ate until her stomach ached, drank until she couldn’t drive herself home, knowing every dollar she spent and pound she gained was a perfect revenge. She was getting used to spoiling herself, and loving the chance to find out what she liked.
She’d never really had a chance to think about it before. Now it seemed like she had endless time to learn. And what she learned was that nothing felt better than an orgasm with a belly packed full of champagne and rare steak. Well, maybe hiring a maid to clean every other week while she lounged on the couch with a quart of ice cream and a can of whipped cream to shoot into her mouth.
By the fourth month, Marcie had truly blown up. She wasn’t sure how much weight she’d put on–thirty pounds? Fifty? The number didn’t really matter. What mattered was how mad it made him. He came home from work to her sipping rosé and eating a hundred-dollar box of chocolates in nothing but a silk robe that was only a month old but hardly seemed to fit, and he nearly had a stroke.
He confronted her, and all she could do was laugh. He’d kept her under his thumb for so long, breaking her down with every bullshit complaint and cruel remark, and all it had gotten him was a fat wife who couldn’t give less of a fuck about what he thought. He was incensed by how casual she was about it all. “You’re spending all of our money!”
“What, like you normally do? Maybe you should get a better job.” Like he could without her hovering over his shoulder, writing every cover letter and polishing his resume. She chugged the rest of her wine and held out the empty glass toward him. “Could you get me a refill? I’m too lazy to get up.”
He was speechless. She felt deliciously smug, shifting a little so he could see the robe pull tight across her soft belly, the bottom riding up her lush thighs. He could complain about her getting fat all he wanted, but she’d never felt sexier. “Well? Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to help? God, it’s like I have to do everything around here,” she said, popping a chocolate into her mouth as she turned back to the TV.
He left, and returned with a full glass for her. She resisted the petty urge to call him a good boy. “Thank you,” she said dismissively. He left wordlessly, leaving her to enjoy herself in peace and quiet.
