Feast of Devotion

The spreadsheet glowed on the wall screen, forty feet of data, and I stood in the dark watching a woman in Oaxaca eat her fourth breakfast.

Her name was Marisol. Twenty-four years old. Five foot three. Two hundred and ninety pounds. I couldn't see any of that from the satellite feed, of course, just the top of her head bent over a clay comal, her hands moving with the economy of someone who has cooked the same meal ten thousand times. But the file was open beside the feed, and the numbers were all there, cross-referenced against seventeen other data points I'd paid a small fortune to collect.

She lifted a tortilla off the comal with her bare fingers, folded it around a mound of black beans, and ate it standing up. Then she made another. And another. The file said she'd already eaten at four that morning, before her shift at the market, and would eat again at nine when her mother opened the food stall. The file said she thought about food constantly. The file said she'd never once in her life turned down a meal.

I picked up my phone and called the head of my acquisitions team.

"Marisol Vega," I said. "Oaxaca. She's the one."

There was a pause on the other end. "Sir, we're still processing the Mexican cohort. We've only reviewed the first four thousand."

"I don't need four thousand. I need one."

Another pause. I could hear the man breathing, could picture him in his glass office in Zurich, surrounded by analysts, all of them staring at the same data I was staring at. I'd hired him six months ago, this Swiss man with a PhD in behavioral economics and no discernible sense of humor, and I'd paid him more than most people make in a decade. He'd earned it. The soy agency had already identified twenty thousand women across six continents, women whose relationship with food bordered on the devotional, and we'd narrowed them down to a shortlist of three hundred who met the physical criteria. Height. Age. Disposition. The rest was just waiting.

"Shall I arrange transport?" he asked.

"No. I'll go myself."

"Sir, that's not..."

But I'd already hung up. I stood there in the dark a moment longer, watching Marisol lick her fingers, watching her reach for another tortilla, and I felt something open in my chest, some warm and patient thing that had been waiting a long time.

---

The flight to Oaxaca took eleven hours. I spent most of it reviewing the files.

Marisol Vega. Born in a village outside Tlacolula. Father deceased, mother runs a food stall in the central market. Three sisters, all married. She'd worked in her mother's stall since she was twelve, cooking, serving, eating. The file noted that she'd been known to consume up to eight thousand calories in a single day, and that her weight had climbed steadily since adolescence. It noted that she'd never dieted, never expressed a desire to lose weight, never shown any sign of body dissatisfaction. It noted that she was, by every measure we'd devised, perfectly content.

The file also noted that she'd never married. That she'd had two boyfriends in her life, both of whom had left her for thinner women. That she lived with her mother and slept in a room the size of a closet. That her entire world was food and family and the market, and that she'd never been more than fifty miles from the place she was born.

I closed the file and looked out the window. The clouds were thick and white, a whole country of them, and below them, somewhere, was a woman who didn't know I existed.

That would change.

---

The market was chaos. This was a Wednesday morning, and the aisles were packed with women in aprons and men in straw hats, all of them shouting, all of them buying and selling and eating. The smell hit me first, a wall of it, chilies and chocolate and roasting meat, and I stood at the entrance for a moment just breathing it in. I'd been to markets before. I'd been to markets on five continents. But this one felt different. This one felt like a place where food was not a commodity but a language.

I found the stall easily enough. It was in the back corner, near the meat vendors, and it had a hand-painted sign that read "Comida de la Casa Vega." The woman behind the counter was in her fifties, broad-faced and broad-hipped, with the same eyes as her daughter. She was ladling something into a bowl, and she didn't look up when I approached.

"¿Qué le doy?" she asked.

"I'm looking for Marisol," I said.

Now she looked up. Her eyes moved over me, taking in the suit, the watch, the shoes, and something in her face closed.

"¿Para qué?"

"Business."

She set down the ladle. "She's not here."

"I can wait."

She stared at me a long moment, then shrugged and went back to her work. I stepped to the side, out of the way of the customers, and I waited.

An hour passed. Then another. I watched the market move around me, watched the women come and go, watched the children run between the stalls, watched the light change as the sun climbed higher. I wasn't bored. I was patient. I'd learned patience a long time ago, in a different life, and I'd found it served me better than urgency ever had.

Then she appeared.

She came through the crowd like a ship through water, her body parting the sea of people without effort. She was wearing a yellow dress that stretched tight across her breasts and belly, and her arms were full of paper bags, and she was laughing at something someone had said. Her hair was black and thick and pulled back in a braid that hung past her shoulders. Her face was round and brown and open, and when she smiled, which she did constantly, it was like watching a flower turn toward the sun.

She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.

She set the bags down on the counter and kissed her mother on the cheek, and then she turned and saw me. Her eyes widened slightly. Then she smiled.

"¿Eres tú el que me busca?" she asked.

"Sí."

She looked me up and down, the same way her mother had, but her expression was different. Curious. Not hostile.

"¿Por qué?"

I stepped closer. "I have a proposition for you."

She laughed. "A proposition. Like in the movies."

"Something like that."

She picked up one of the bags and began unloading it, arranging vegetables on the counter, and she didn't look at me as she spoke. "My mother says you've been standing here for two hours."

"Yes."

"Waiting for me."

"Yes."

She paused, a tomato in her hand, and looked at me. "You're not from here."

"No."

"Where are you from?"

"Everywhere. Nowhere. It doesn't matter."

She smiled again, and I felt it in my chest, that same warm thing I'd felt on the plane. "What's your name?"

"Adrian."

"Adrian." She said it slowly, tasting it. "I'm Marisol."

"I know."

She laughed again, a full-throated sound that made several people turn and look. "You know. Of course you know. You've been watching me."

"Yes."

"And now you're here."

"Yes."

She set down the tomato and wiped her hands on her apron. "Okay, Adrian. What's your proposition?"

I looked around the market, at the noise and the chaos and the smell of food. "Not here. Somewhere we can talk."

She considered this. Then she nodded. "Okay. Tonight. After I close up. There's a cantina on the corner, two blocks east. I'll meet you there at eight."

"I'll be there."

She smiled one last time and turned back to her vegetables, and I walked away through the crowd, feeling her eyes on my back.

---

The cantina was small and dark and smelled of mescal and lime. I was there at seven thirty, sitting at a corner table, nursing a beer I didn't want. The bartender, a heavyset man with a mustache, had looked at me with suspicion when I walked in, but he'd served me without comment. Now he was wiping glasses and watching me in the mirror behind the bar.

Marisol arrived at eight exactly. She'd changed out of her market clothes and into a blue dress that hugged her curves, and her hair was down, and she'd put on lipstick. She looked around the dim room until she found me, and then she walked over and sat down across from me, and the chair creaked under her weight.

"You came," she said.

"I said I would."

She signaled the bartender, who brought her a glass of something clear, and she drank half of it in one swallow. Then she set down the glass and looked at me.

"So. Talk."

I leaned forward. "I'm going to ask you some questions. Some of them may seem strange. I need you to answer honestly."

She raised an eyebrow. "Okay."

"How often do you think about food?"

She blinked. "What?"

"How often do you think about food? Every day? Every hour?"

She stared at me. Then she laughed. "Is this a joke?"

"No."

"You came all the way to Oaxaca to ask me how often I think about food?"

"Yes."

She shook her head, still smiling. "Okay. I'll play. I think about food all the time. When I wake up, when I'm working, when I'm sleeping. I dream about it. I plan my day around it. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

I took a breath. "Because I'm looking for a wife."

She went still. The smile faded from her face, replaced by something else. Confusion. Wariness. A flicker of interest.

"A wife," she repeated.

"Yes."

"And you're looking for a wife who thinks about food all the time."

"Yes."

She picked up her glass and drained it. Then she set it down and looked at me, really looked at me, her dark eyes moving over my face.

"You're serious."

"I'm serious."

"Why me?"

"Because you're perfect."

She laughed again, but it was a different laugh now, softer, more uncertain. "I'm not perfect. I'm fat. I'm poor. I live with my mother. I've never been anywhere. I'm nobody."

"You're exactly what I've been looking for."

She shook her head. "You don't even know me."

"I know everything about you. I know you eat eight thousand calories a day. I know you've never dieted in your life. I know you've been hurt by men who couldn't see your worth. I know you're lonely, even surrounded by family. I know you dream of a life where you can eat whatever you want, whenever you want, without shame."

She was staring at me now, her mouth slightly open.

"How do you know that?"

"Because I've been looking for you for a long time."

She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "What exactly are you offering?"

"A life. A house. A kitchen with a thousand chefs who will cook you anything you desire. A bed you never have to leave. A man who will love every inch of you, every pound, every curve. No work. No worry. No shame. Just pleasure, forever."

She stared at me. "You're crazy."

"Maybe."

"You're offering me... what? To be your fat wife in a mansion somewhere?"

"Yes."

"And what do you get out of it?"

I smiled. "You."

She shook her head. "That doesn't make sense."

"It makes perfect sense. I've spent my whole life building an empire, and I've realized that what I want, what I've always wanted, is someone to share it with. Someone who will let me take care of her. Someone who will let me love her without reservation. Someone who will eat and grow and be happy, and let me watch."

She was quiet for a long time. The bartender wiped glasses. The cantina hummed with the sound of a distant radio.

"You want to watch me eat," she said finally.

"Yes."

"And get fat."

"Yes."

"And you'll... love me?"

"Every part of you."

She looked down at her body, at the belly that pressed against the table, at the breasts that strained against her dress. Then she looked back at me.

"I don't believe you."

"I know. That's why I'm going to prove it."

"How?"

"Come with me. Tonight. Let me show you the life I'm offering. If you don't like it, you can leave. I'll pay for your ticket home. No strings."

She bit her lip. "My mother..."

"I'll send someone to explain. You can call her every day. You can visit whenever you want."

She was quiet again. Then she said, "I need to think about it."

"Of course."

She stood up, and the chair groaned in relief. "I'll meet you here tomorrow. Same time."

"I'll be here."

She walked out without looking back, and I watched her go, watched the sway of her hips, the curve of her ass, the way she moved through the world like she owned it.

I ordered another beer and sat there for an hour, thinking about the future.

---

She said yes.

Not that night, not the next, but three days later, after I'd met her mother and her sisters and eaten at their stall and walked through the market with her hand in mine. She said yes after I'd told her the truth about my life, about the money and the houses and the years of searching. She said yes after I'd kissed her, softly, in the doorway of her mother's house, with the smell of cooking drifting out into the warm night air.

She said yes, and I took her home.

---

The mansion was in the hills above Los Angeles, a sprawling white thing with columns and arches and windows that caught the light. I'd bought it five years ago, before I'd even started the agency, because I'd known that someday I'd find her, and I'd wanted a place that was worthy of her. I'd spent those five years renovating it, perfecting it, turning it into a palace of pleasure.

The kitchen was the heart of it. A thousand chefs worked in shifts, twenty-four hours a day, preparing food that was designed to be irresistible. They'd studied the science of addiction, these chefs. They'd learned how to combine fat and sugar and salt in ways that bypassed the brain's satiety signals, that made you want more even when you were full. They'd created dishes that were beautiful and delicious and utterly, perfectly fattening.

And they'd placed food everywhere.

In the entryway, a table of pastries. In the hallways, carts of tacos and tamales. In the living room, a buffet that never emptied. In the bedroom, a mini-fridge stocked with ice cream and chocolate and cheese. There was no corner of the mansion where food was not within reach, no moment of the day when it was not available.

I'd designed it that way.

---

Marisol arrived on a Tuesday. I met her at the door, and when she stepped inside, her eyes went wide.

"Dios mío," she whispered.

The entryway was marble and gold, and the table of pastries was the first thing she saw. Croissants and danishes and muffins, all of them glistening with butter and sugar. She looked at them, then at me, and I nodded.

"Go ahead."

She picked up a croissant and bit into it, and her eyes closed. "Oh my God."

"There's more."

I took her hand and led her through the house, showing her the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, the pool, the garden. Everywhere we went, there was food. Everywhere we went, she ate. By the time we reached the bedroom, she'd consumed three pastries, two tacos, a bowl of ice cream, and a plate of enchiladas. She was breathing hard, and her dress was stained, and she was smiling.

"This is... this is..."

"Yours. All of it."

She looked at me. "Why?"

"Because I love you."

She shook her head. "You don't even know me."

"I know you. I've known you since the moment I saw you in that market."

She was quiet. Then she said, "What happens now?"

"Now you rest. And then you eat. And then you rest again. And you never have to worry about anything ever again."

She looked around the bedroom, at the king-sized bed with its silk sheets, at the mini-fridge, at the television mounted on the wall.

"And you'll... stay with me?"

"I'll stay with you. Every night."

She bit her lip. "And you'll... love me? Even when I'm..."

"Even when you're everything you've ever wanted to be."

She looked at me for a long moment. Then she nodded.

"Okay."

---

The first month was a honeymoon.

She ate and she slept and she ate again, and I watched her, and I loved her. I loved the way she moaned when she tasted something new. I loved the way her belly grew rounder, fuller, the way her breasts swelled, the way her thighs thickened. I loved the way she'd look at me after a meal, her eyes half-closed, her lips shiny with grease, and say, "I can't believe this is my life."

I'd say, "Believe it."

And she'd smile, and reach for another plate.

The chefs outdid themselves. They created dishes specifically for her, based on her preferences, her cravings, her moods. They made her mole that was so rich and complex she cried when she tasted it. They made her tamales that were so light and fluffy she ate six in one sitting. They made her churros that were so crisp and sweet she couldn't stop until the plate was empty.

She gained twenty pounds in the first month. Then another twenty in the second. By the end of the third month, she'd gained sixty pounds, and her body had changed in ways that made my heart ache with joy. Her face was fuller, rounder, softer. Her arms were thicker, her fingers pudgier. Her belly was a soft mound that spilled over her waistband, and her breasts were heavy and full, and her ass was wide and round and perfect.

She'd stopped wearing the clothes I'd bought her. They didn't fit anymore. Instead, she wore loose dresses and caftans, things that could stretch with her, and she didn't seem to mind. She'd stopped weighing herself, too. She'd stopped caring about numbers.

She was happy.

---

The fourth month was when things changed.

Not in a bad way. In a different way. She'd settled into a routine, a rhythm of eating and sleeping and eating again, and she'd started to slow down. She'd started to spend more time in bed, watching television, asking the chefs to bring her food on trays. She'd started to nap after every meal, and then after every snack, and then just because.

I'd come home from work and find her in bed, surrounded by empty plates, her eyes glued to the screen.

"Hi," I'd say.

"Hi," she'd say, not looking at me.

"What are you watching?"

"I don't know. Something."

I'd sit on the edge of the bed and stroke her hair, and she'd lean into my touch, and I'd feel the warmth of her body, the softness of her flesh.

"Are you happy?" I'd ask.

"Yeah," she'd say. "I'm happy."

And she was. I could see it in her eyes, in the way she smiled, in the way she reached for another cookie without thinking. She was happy in a way she'd never been before, a way that had nothing to do with achievement or approval or anything external. She was happy because she was full, because she was warm, because she was loved.

---

The fifth month was when she stopped leaving the bed.

It happened gradually. First she'd get up to use the bathroom. Then she'd get up to shower. Then she'd get up to walk to the kitchen, even though the chefs would bring her anything she wanted. Then she stopped getting up at all.

I'd come home and find her in the same position I'd left her, propped up on pillows, the television flickering, a tray of food on her lap. She'd gained another forty pounds by then, and her body was enormous, a landscape of soft flesh and curves. Her belly was a huge round mound that rested on her thighs, and her breasts were so heavy they spilled out of her nightgown, and her arms were thick and dimpled, and her face was round and flushed and beautiful.

"Hi," I'd say.

"Hi," she'd say, and her voice was slower now, lazier, like she was speaking through honey.

"What did you do today?"

"Nothing. Ate. Watched TV."

"Did you like the food?"

"Yeah. It was good."

I'd climb onto the bed and lie beside her, and she'd turn her head and look at me, and her eyes were soft and unfocused.

"I love you," she'd say.

"I love you too."

And then I'd make love to her.

---

Making love to Marisol was like sinking into a warm bath.

Her body was so soft, so yielding, so generous. Every touch was absorbed, every caress was welcomed. She didn't move much, not anymore. She'd lie there and let me explore her, let me kiss her neck and her breasts and her belly, let me run my hands over the vast expanse of her flesh. She'd moan softly, not from passion exactly, but from pleasure, from the simple animal joy of being touched.

I'd kiss her belly, that huge round mound, and I'd feel it rise and fall with her breath. I'd kiss her thighs, those thick columns of flesh, and I'd feel them tremble. I'd kiss her breasts, those heavy soft pillows, and I'd feel her nipples harden against my lips.

And then I'd enter her.

She was always wet, always ready, always welcoming. Her body had been made for this, I thought, for pleasure and abundance and love. She'd wrap her arms around me, and her flesh would envelop me, and I'd lose myself in her, in the warmth and the softness and the sheer overwhelming presence of her.

She'd come with a sigh, a long slow shudder that rippled through her whole body. And then she'd lie there, spent, her eyes closed, her breath slow, and I'd lie on top of her, feeling her heartbeat under my cheek.

"I love you," I'd whisper.

"I know," she'd say. "I love you too."

---

The sixth month was when she stopped talking.

Not completely. She'd still answer questions, still say yes and no and thank you. But she'd stopped initiating conversation, stopped asking about my day, stopped telling me about her dreams. She'd just lie there, watching television, eating, sleeping, and when I'd come home, she'd smile and say hi, and that was it.

I didn't mind. I understood.

She was in a state of bliss, a constant low-grade ecstasy that came from being full and warm and loved. She didn't need words. She didn't need anything. She just needed to be.

I'd sit beside her and stroke her hair, and she'd lean into my touch, and we'd watch television together, and it was enough.

---

The seventh month was when she started to grow.

Not just gain weight. Grow. Her body had become a project, a work of art, and the chefs were dedicated to their craft. They'd figured out exactly what she needed, exactly what her body craved, and they'd perfected the art of feeding her.

She was eating ten thousand calories a day now. Maybe more. It was hard to keep track, because she ate constantly, mindlessly, reaching for whatever was nearest and putting it in her mouth. The chefs had started leaving trays of food on the bed itself, within arm's reach, so she wouldn't have to move.

She'd gained a hundred pounds by then. Maybe a hundred and twenty. Her body was massive, a monument to pleasure, a temple of flesh. Her belly was so big it rested on the bed beside her, a huge round planet of softness. Her breasts were enormous, each one bigger than her head, and they lay on her chest like two great mounds of dough. Her arms were thick and heavy, her legs were like tree trunks, and her face was so round and full that her eyes had almost disappeared into the flesh.

She was beautiful.

I'd never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

---

The eighth month was when she stopped getting out of bed at all.

Not even to use the bathroom. The chefs had rigged up a system, a series of tubes and hoses that took care of everything, and she didn't have to move. She didn't have to do anything. She just lay there, eating and sleeping and watching television, and her body grew and grew and grew.

I'd come home and find her exactly where I'd left her, a tray of food on her belly, her eyes half-closed, her mouth moving slowly as she chewed. She'd look at me and smile, and her smile was slow and sweet and utterly content.

"Hi," she'd say.

"Hi, baby."

"Did you have a good day?"

"Yeah. Did you?"

"Yeah. I ate a lot."

"I can see that."

She'd pat her belly, that vast expanse of flesh, and she'd giggle. "I think I'm getting bigger."

"You are."

"Is that okay?"

"It's perfect."

She'd smile and reach for another cookie, and I'd climb onto the bed and lie beside her, and we'd watch television together, and I'd feel her warmth, her softness, her presence.

She was everything.

---

The ninth month was when I realized I'd succeeded.

I'd set out to find the perfect wife, and I'd found her. I'd set out to create a life of pleasure and abundance and love, and I'd done it. I'd set out to make her happy, and she was happy, happier than she'd ever been.

She was a goddess now, a being of pure flesh and pure joy. She weighed over four hundred pounds, and she was still growing, still eating, still sleeping, still watching television. Her body was a landscape of curves and folds, a geography of softness, and I loved every inch of it.

I'd lie beside her at night and run my hands over her, feeling the warmth of her skin, the weight of her flesh. I'd kiss her belly, that huge round mound, and I'd feel it rise and fall with her breath. I'd kiss her breasts, those enormous soft pillows, and I'd feel her nipples harden against my lips. I'd kiss her neck, her cheeks, her forehead, and she'd sigh and smile and close her eyes.

"I love you," I'd whisper.

"I know," she'd say. "I love you too."

And then I'd make love to her, slowly, gently, reverently. I'd enter her and feel her warmth, her wetness, her welcome. I'd move inside her and feel her body respond, feel her flesh ripple and quiver. I'd come with a groan, and she'd come with a sigh, and we'd lie there together, tangled in each other, lost in each other.

She was everything.

---

The tenth month was when she started to talk again.

Not much. Just a few words here and there. But it was something.

"I'm hungry," she'd say.

"I know, baby. The chefs are bringing food."

"Good."

Or:

"I love this show."

"I know. You've watched it three times."

"It's good."

Or:

"You're so good to me."

"I know."

And then she'd smile, that slow sweet smile, and reach for another plate.

---

The eleventh month was when I realized she'd become something else.

Not just fat. Not just lazy. Something else. Something almost... transcendent.

She'd stopped watching television. She'd stopped talking. She'd stopped doing anything except eating and sleeping and making love. She'd become a creature of pure appetite, pure pleasure, pure being. She'd lie there in bed, her enormous body filling the room, and she'd eat and sleep and eat and sleep, and she'd smile, and she'd sigh, and she'd be happy.

I'd come home and find her exactly where I'd left her, and I'd climb onto the bed and lie beside her, and I'd feel her warmth, her softness, her presence. She was like a sun, a great warm sun, and I was a planet orbiting her, drawn by her gravity.

"I love you," I'd whisper.

And she'd smile, that slow sweet smile, and she'd say, "I know."

---

The twelfth month was when I knew I'd never let her go.

She weighed five hundred pounds now. Maybe more. It was hard to tell, because she never moved, and the scale couldn't hold her. But it didn't matter. The numbers didn't matter. What mattered was her, her happiness, her pleasure, her presence.

She was everything I'd ever wanted.

I'd sit beside her for hours, just watching her. Watching her eat, watching her sleep, watching her breathe. Her body was so vast, so soft, so beautiful. Her belly was a huge round mountain, her breasts were two great hills, her arms and legs were thick and heavy and perfect. Her face was round and full and flushed, and her eyes were soft and dark and content.

She was a goddess.

And she was mine.

---

I'd like to say I planned it all. That I knew, from the beginning, exactly how it would go. But that wouldn't be true.

What I knew, from the beginning, was that I wanted her. I wanted her in a way I'd never wanted anything before. I wanted to feed her, to fill her, to watch her grow. I wanted to take care of her, to love her, to make her happy. I wanted to give her everything she'd ever wanted and everything she'd never known she wanted.

And I did.

I gave her a life of pure pleasure. I gave her a kitchen with a thousand chefs. I gave her a bed she never had to leave. I gave her food, endless food, food that was designed to be irresistible, food that was designed to make her grow.

And she grew.

She grew and she grew and she grew, and she was happy. She was happier than she'd ever been. She was happier than anyone I'd ever known. She was happy in a way that was almost holy, almost sacred, almost divine.

And I loved her.

I loved her more than I'd ever loved anything. I loved her more than I'd ever loved anyone. I loved her with a love that was pure and patient and eternal.

She was my wife.

She was my goddess.

She was everything.

---

The days passed.

They passed in a blur of food and sleep and love. They passed in a haze of warmth and softness and pleasure. They passed, and I watched her grow, and I loved her more with every passing moment.

She was six hundred pounds now. Maybe seven. It was hard to tell. She was so big that she'd become a landscape, a geography, a world. Her belly was a vast plain, her breasts were mountains, her arms and legs were rivers of flesh. She was so big that she couldn't move at all, couldn't turn over, couldn't lift her head. She just lay there, eating and sleeping and being loved.

And she was happy.

She was so happy.

I'd come home and find her exactly where I'd left her, and I'd climb onto the bed and lie beside her, and I'd feel her warmth, her softness, her presence. She was like a sun, a great warm sun, and I was a planet orbiting her, drawn by her gravity.

"I love you," I'd whisper.

And she'd smile, that slow sweet smile, and she'd say, "I know."

---

The days passed.

They passed, and I watched her grow, and I loved her more with every passing moment. She was eight hundred pounds now. Maybe nine. It was hard to tell. She was so big that she'd become a force of nature, a phenomenon, a miracle. Her body was so vast that it filled the room, so soft that it seemed to absorb everything, so beautiful that I couldn't look away.

And she was happy.

She was so happy.

I'd come home and find her exactly where I'd left her, and I'd climb onto the bed and lie beside her, and I'd feel her warmth, her softness, her presence. She was like a sun, a great warm sun, and I was a planet orbiting her, drawn by her gravity.

"I love you," I'd whisper.

And she'd smile, that slow sweet smile, and she'd say, "I know."

---

The days passed.

They passed, and I watched her grow, and I loved her more with every passing moment. She was a thousand pounds now. Maybe more. It was hard to tell. She was so big that she'd become a world, a universe, a cosmos. Her body was so vast that it had no edges, no boundaries, no end. She was everything, and everything was her.

And she was happy.

She was so happy.

I'd come home and find her exactly where I'd left her, and I'd climb onto the bed and lie beside her, and I'd feel her warmth, her softness, her presence. She was like a sun, a great warm sun, and I was a planet orbiting her, drawn by her gravity.

"I love you," I'd whisper.

And she'd smile, that slow sweet smile, and she'd say, "I know."

---

This is the part where I should tell you that I learned something. That I grew. That I changed.

But I didn't.

I stayed exactly the same. I stayed the man who'd stood in that dark room watching satellite feeds. I stayed the man who'd flown to Oaxaca. I stayed the man who'd built a palace of pleasure and filled it with food.

I stayed the man who loved her.

And she stayed the woman who let me.

---

We're still here. Still in the mansion. Still in the bed. Still in love.

She's bigger now. So much bigger. She's the biggest woman in the world, I think. The biggest and the most beautiful and the most loved. She lies there, her vast body filling the room, and she eats and sleeps and smiles, and she's happy.

I lie beside her, and I feel her warmth, her softness, her presence. I feel her heartbeat, slow and steady, like a drum. I feel her breath, slow and deep, like a tide. I feel her love, slow and endless, like a river.

And I know, with a certainty that goes beyond words, that this is where I belong. This is what I was made for. This is the meaning of my life.

To love her.

To feed her.

To watch her grow.

And she knows it too. She knows that she was made for this, for pleasure and abundance and love. She knows that she was made to be worshipped, to be adored, to be fed. She knows that she was made to be my goddess.

And she is.

She is my goddess.

She is my everything.

She is my wife.