Jolenedubois
patreon
Model Husband (Chapter 7)
🕑 Added 2023-07-27 17:14:17 +0000 UTCChapter 7
With a bun in the oven, you are absolutely glowing. It takes you a while to start showing because you’re so big already and we are warned by doctors that your weight could cause complications during your pregnancy. It blows my mind that you’ve let yourself get to this point, and it equally blows my mind that you’re so nonchalant about it.
I love the way you stand firm and strong against the constant fat-phobia that comes with modern western medicine but there is a part of me that worries that there might be some truth to the obstetrician’s warnings. When they weigh you during checkups you tell the doctor not to divulge what the number is and you explain that you have worked too hard to overcome your disordered eating habits to care about what the scale says.
Despite my own concerns I find myself enjoying the process of taking care of you. I don’t mind driving to stores and fast food restaurants to appease your late night cravings for fries, ice cream, chocolate cake, or another jar of peanut butter and nutella as is often your request.
You forgo doing Sports Illustrated for the first time in 4 years considering the circumstances and in the Spring of 2021 you’re as big as a house and only 7 months in, but with you being you, that was to be expected and so far all the signs indicate that you're on track to give birth to a healthy baby boy.
Your happiness and excitement about being a first time mom is shattered however, when in May we’re given the shock of our lives when we receive the phone call that your brother was killed in a car accident.
You are completely devastated as is everyone in the family. The late spring and early summer months are beyond difficult, but you don’t have the option to shut yourself down and grieve.
Together we somehow get through it and in July we are the proud parents of a son. We give him a middle name to honor your brother. Life is brutal and harsh sometimes, one ends and a new one begins.
You spend the remainder of the year mostly just being a mom, and although you’re taking time off, we hire a full time nanny to help curb the demands that come with raising a baby.
The nanny allows you to rest, sleep in and take care of your postpartum body. You now have more pronounced and distinct stretch marks across your belly, and I know that’s a lot for you to deal with, especially when you’re used to being in front of a camera your whole life. You speak out and push back against the idea that new mom’s need to quickly reacquire the same figure they had before giving birth, and you seem to be quite content lounging around the house, snacking throughout the day and watching TV between breast feeding and changing diapers, although you let our nanny do most of diaper changing.
The brief attempts you made pre-pregnancy to suppress your appetite and get physical activity on a regular basis have gone by the wayside, just like your ability to squeeze back into size 22 jeans. It’s now November and you're a size 24, and you seem to be putting on weight again, but despite the changes in your figure, you decide to go ahead and do another Sports Illustrated swimsuit photoshoot for the following year’s issue.
The magazine comes out in the summer of 2022 and it perhaps causes more of a stir then when you first appeared dressed in bodypaint, hailed as SI’s curviest model ever nearly 6 years ago.
I sit in the kitchen and stare at your photos on my laptop. You are, and you look, enormous. You are by far the biggest you have ever been, bigger than I ever could’ve imagined you getting. Your face is fuller and rounder, just one of your thighs is almost as big around as my waist, your cleavage seems to go on for days and your knees are slowly disappearing beneath another layer of newly added blubber.
Your whole body looks blubbery, especially evident in these shots with you so magnificently showcased in various swimsuits.
That yellow one-piece, with you half-way out of the ocean, your chunky thigh folding into your hip while your growing tits droop towards the surf like overly ripe grapefruits as rays of sunlight bounce against your thick golden locks and supple skin.
Another one with you posing on the sand looking like an elephant seal with the face of a mermaid, your meaty calf creasing into your thigh, your thigh that now looks almost as wide as it does long. Then there’s that skimpy blue swimsuit with criss crossing ties in the front that seem to be straining to contain your billowing belly like an overfilled net and I imagine that if those skimpy straps were to break your gut would explode out in front of you like a gelatinous beach ball.
I turn away from my laptop and gaze at you in the living room. With our son already put down for the night you’re taking advantage of the free time by grazing on tollhouse chocolate chip cookies paired with a tub of rocky road ice cream.
Holy shit. You’re fucking huge. I mean I knew that already, but I guess I was too blind to fully realize just how huge before, but you are now undeniably obese and you are a total fat girl.
You look obese in the magazine, but those photos were taken a while ago and I swear to god you are even bigger now.
I stand up and make my way towards you. You’re wearing only a black tank top and a pair of pink panties. I come behind you and gently massage your upper back and soft shoulders with my thumbs. “You look fucking amazing in those photos babe,” I say.
With your eyes still glued on an episode of Friends that you probably seen a hundred times before, you curl your feet beneath your butt. “Oooh, (pant) thank you. I’m glad you think so. It was kinda scary doing that, with my 6 month (gasp) postpartum body and everything.”
It's funny how you keep mentioning the whole 6 month thing. 6 months is a long time, more than enough time to lose weight and get in shape, but you make it sound like you gave birth one day and then posed on the beach in Belize the next, but then I’m only a man so what do I know. I bend down and give you a kiss on the neck. “You looked fucking flat out hot, and it’s good that you did it,” I say. “I’m sure a lot of new moms will find it super relatable.”
You set your ice cream carton on the coffee table and replace it with the plate of cookies and you immediately grab one and take a big bite. “Yeah, (munch, chew) because it’s real, (chew, chew) it’s not some made up fantasy that women are supposed to look like (chew, munch) Kate Moss right after giving birth.”
I come around the sofa to sit down next to you and you scoot over a little to make room. “You are so beautiful, inside and out,” I say.
You finish off your cookie and daintily place your chubby fingers above your cleavage. “Thank you bae.” Still holding your plate in your lap, you grab another cookie and plop it between your lips. “Yeah (chew, munch) whenever I get down(munch, munch) about my soft spots or my stretch marks, I just remind myself that my body is what made our son, our beautiful baby boy, so how can I be like critical of my body you know?”
I touch your exposed arm. It’s so big and pillowy that no matter how much I squeeze it I can’t seem to find any indication that you have a humerus bone beneath all that squishy fat. My eyes draw down to your waist and the rolls upon rolls that lay in thick protuberant creases at your sides and spill over your panties like oozing bread dough. Your black tank top is riding up towards your breasts and a good several inches of your white belly is left exposed for me to drool over. “That’s right, your body is amazing, and I don’t know that I’ve ever been more attracted to you than I am now.”
You shift your hips towards me and raise an eyebrow. “Oh really?”
I nod slowly with my eyes locked on yours. “Yes really.” I place my hand on your belly and I feel it rise and fall with each breath you take. I ignore the fact that you still have a habit of trying to suck in your stomach when I’m around. “This top is looking a little tight babe, I think we need to get it off you.”
You sigh. “Mmmm, yeah, (gasp) I think I’ve outgrown it, but that’s okay.”
I lean over and kiss your newly developed upper belly, just below your amazing tits. “Yes, that is very okay.”
We tumble into bed just as quickly as we can free ourselves of our clothes. I fuck you and I can’t keep my hands from squeezing your thick love handles and massively chunky ass cheeks. I have never been so turned on before, I have never been so hard, and I make it undeniably clear that your weight gain and abundance of ample curves and excessive fat is a major turn on for me and not the opposite. You let yourself get taken by me and relish in the groping grabbing touch of my greedy fingers and my penetrating steel rod of a penis as it prods then seeps into your sweet wet pussy.
9 months later, In March of 2023, you give birth to our second child, this time a baby girl. This pregnancy was a little bit scarier than the first, as you developed preeclampsia about 5 months in because of your high blood pressure.
Even though I have become more and more in love with your relaxed attitude towards food and your total lack of motivation to exercise, I have to say that in situations that involve the health of our baby, I found myself worrying that perhaps you had let your weight get too out of hand this time. You were eating for two and you weren't holding back, gorging yourself on burgers, fries, pizza, copious doordash orders of Mexican food and tray after tray of store-bought vanilla cake like there was no tomorrow, but I suppose all is well that ends well. We are a family of 5 now, or 6 if we’re counting Stella, and you won’t find a prouder husband and father anywhere else on earth.
After bringing our precious little girl into the world, you settle into life as a stay at home mom, a suburban housewife, and now a less than a part time model. If you miss that life of first class seats and flights to exotic locations with a team of photographers and helpers catering to your every need, you don’t show it.
The podcast you’ve been hosting with your sister seems to help fill that void and you stay in close touch with the fashion industry due to your All Worthy clothing line and occasional zoom calls with QVC. Most everything that you do you can now do from the comfort of our home and you’ve turned your humongous walk-in closet into sort of an office or your own feminine version of a man cave, you’re diva den as you sometimes call it.
The second pregnancy has really taken a toll on your figure, and by June of 2023 you are almost unrecognizable from the curvy yet flat stomached girl that I met over 7 years ago. You haven’t lost the baby weight, not at all by the looks of you. Your arms have doubled, maybe even tripled in size, not from any added muscle, but purely from fat, and I am genuinely shocked to notice that they are now almost as wide as your head at the extra flabby part just below your shoulders.
You've also developed quite a gut. While in the past the weight that clings to your midsection has mostly settled in your lower back and love handles, it has run out of room in those areas and is now piling on with a hefty wobbly roundness just below your breasts, and it folds into an upper and lower belly when you sit.
You sleep a lot, taking naps and dozing off in front of the TV frequently. You’ve started snoring more, sometimes so loudly that I feel the urge to wake you up, just to make sure you’re okay. With summer in full force, you complain that your feet are sore and you blame the hot weather for the swelling in your ankles and hands, never once admitting to me that these problems just might have something to do with all that opulence of extra weight that you’re carrying on you’re long, yet naturally dainty feminine figure.
You need a vacation, and on somewhat of a whim I take you on a quick getaway to the remote island of Petit St. Vincent in the Grenadines, seemingly one of the few locations in the Caribbean that you haven't been to on one of your supermodel excursions.
It took a little bit of convincing for you to leave our infant daughter and toddler son, but it’s only for a few days and your mom and sister Michaela jumped at the chance to babysit, and you eventually agreed to the idea, and we call it a belated way to celebrate your now 30 years of being alive.
We fly to Barbados, then book a small private plane to Union Island. The small plane requires us to weigh ourselves before boarding, and they actually force us to step on their scale as we’re told that accuracy is extremely important in order for the plane to stay balanced.
“Omigod, (gasp, huff) okay I’ll step on but you can (pant) write it down, I just think weight is so stupid and I don’t want to know what the number is,” you say as you fan yourself in the tiny terminal.
I shrug and smile, my eyes stuck on your cleavage like superglue. Weight is still such a trigger for you, and as I watch you sweat and get out of breath from simply standing and walking around, I wonder if your anti-scale attitude is more of a form of denial than anything else. “Yeah of course babe.”
“Thank you.”
With your arms at your sides you step on the scale and close your eyes. You look so big and voluptuous in your floral print babydoll sundress. I think it’s meant to be loose, but you’re filling it out so much that it clings tight to your hips, reveals the complete shape and outline of your belly, and your huge boobs look ready to pop out at any moment.
I am truly amazed by how massive your ass looks in that thing, but I pry my eyes away and watch the numbers compute your incredible girth. When they’ve reached their conclusion, my jaw nearly hits the floor.
Is this pounds or kilograms? I look closer and I see that it is in fact pounds, but that number couldn’t be right, could it?
Still with closed eyes you say, “Got it?”
I blink and clear my throat. “Yep, got it.”
You step off the scale and take a deep breath. “Great (pant) cause I really need to (gasp) sit down.”
I nod and thank god that you can’t see the astonishment in my eyes beneath my sunglasses. I glance over and watch you plod your widening hips on the wooden bench before I step on myself.
Afterwards I go back to the front desk and finish filling out our paperwork. For our weight, I write down 216 pounds for me, and for you I put 308.
When I’m done I walk back to you on the bench where you’re now frantically trying to cool yourself with your handheld japanese fan.
“Hey (gasp) baby?” you say in a meak and breathy voice. “Can you (huff) please get me like a twix bar or something from the vending machine? (pant) My blood sugar feels super low.”
“Um, yeah of course.”
“And maybe (pant) something cold to drink too, I feel (gasp) like I’m dying over here.”
“No problem,” I say. I come back moments later and hand you a pepsi and a butterfinger. “Sorry they didn’t have twix.”
“This is fine, (pant) thanks bae,” you say before tearing open the wrapper and taking a bite like it's the last candy bar on earth. “Omigod, (chew, chew) I can’t wait til we get to the resort so we can order (munch, chew) room service. I’m literally starving.”
I gaze at your hips as they spread so widely across the bench, your belly folding over itself and spilling onto your lap as the high slit in your dress exposes your massive dimpled thigh. I can’t stop thinking about what the scale said and I keep repeating it in my head. 308, 308, 308. My supermodel wife, my Sports Illustrated cover girl, is now tipping the scales at over 300 pounds.
I wonder if you have any clue as to how big you have become, I wonder if you’d freak out if I told you.
The more I silently repeat the number the more unreal it seems, but then I look at you again, with all your bulging curves and incredible girth and I know that the number is accurate. I tilt my head up, take off my glasses, stare into your gorgeous hazel brown eyes and I smile. “Yeah, me too.”
