Spoiled

There’s just something about hearing someone promise they’re going to spoil me. Or, even better, hearing them throw it in my face like it’s an insult. “You’re just so spoiled.”

I know I am. But it’s so hot to know that other people think so. As if they wouldn’t love to be spoiled, too. Sometimes they even go further, call me “pampered,” which gives me full-body shivers. “Coddled” is a good one, too. My boyfriend used that one as he pushed me up onto the kitchen counter and spread my thighs. He only had to say it one more time to feel me shatter around him, begging him to say it again.

It used to be that I just liked to be spoiled with touch. It made me feel special to have my hair played with, my scalp massaged, my feet rubbed—mostly because no one would ever do it for me. The men I dated didn’t seem to understand what a turn-on it was for me to be touched like that, loved on and prioritized and, yes, spoiled. But then I finally dated someone who got it. Whose face lit up when he heard me sigh and watched me sink into the couch while he ran his fingers through my hair, and didn’t expect to be sucked or fucked just for touching me. He just wanted me to feel good. (Which only made me want him more—there’s a reason we’re still together, years later.)

I still like being touched. I live for the full-body massages he gives me every Friday night. But there came a point where touch wasn’t quite enough. Once I knew he didn’t mind it, knew I had a steady supply of all the touch I could ever want, I wanted more.

At first, it was things. I work, and I’ve got my own money, so it’s not like I can’t buy myself what I want. Getting a gift is different. Especially gifts that come with extra pampering. It could be something as simple as a fluffy robe, or something as extravagant as jewelry. I loved the gifts he bought me. I loved wearing sparkly things and knowing people were jealous. That there were some people who thought I didn’t deserve it. And yet, here I was wearing a ruby necklace at our corporate holiday party, dressed nicer than everyone else. Everyone knowing I always get what I want.

The thing that really got me going, though, was a good vacation. I can be a little bit of a workaholic. I know work won’t love me back, but I’m a natural workhorse. I sometimes forget I even can take a vacation. And who wants to do all the planning and research and booking of things? Much better to bank all my PTO for… well, I wasn’t even really sure. Until he started telling me “take off these ten days in August,” or “How do you feel about a four-day weekend next month?” I wouldn’t have to lift a finger. No planning. Not even always knowing the destination in advance.

As soon as we arrived to our destination, I’d get to enjoy massages at expensive spas, multi-course meals, fluffy hotel mattresses, breathtaking views. And maybe it was those multi-course meals where things started to shift. Because soon, I didn’t feel like I was being properly spoiled while we were on vacation unless my belly was full. Which is funny—I’d never really connected food with pampering before. The first time he fed me a bite from his own plate, giving up a little bit of his own sustenance just to see me purr, the wires connected.

Even so, I didn’t become a glutton overnight. At home, I kept my usual routines. Indulging my appetite felt like a vacation-only thing. And, really, we’d eaten everywhere even remotely nice close to home. It didn’t give me the same rush, because they weren’t a special treat anymore. But my partner is brilliant, always able to find new ways to spoil me rotten. I was feeling crampy and irritable one night, whining about how much I just wanted a big loaf of French bread—the real shit, from a place we’d visited in Paris that I’d loved—and good, fancy, expensive French butter to spread on it—the boutique stuff that gets made by hand that you’d never find anywhere else—so I could just tear into it. I unseriously swore that it was the only thing that could possibly make me feel better, and that it was the only thing I really wanted to eat.

I wasn’t expecting him to have a few loaves and the fancy butter overnighted and delivered right to our door. Having my food flown to me from thousands of miles away? That was real luxury. Between the craving and how gloriously wicked it felt to eat a Parisian baguette for breakfast at home, I actually did eat the entire thing in one sitting. It was too much to have all at once, especially with all the butter—I must’ve eaten close to a quarter pound of it, spreading it thick on every slice—and it felt heavy in my stomach. That didn’t stop me from lustfully watching him clear away the breakfast dishes, letting me know there was plenty more for me to have later.

I made both of us late for work that morning. I tugged him into bed and asked him to tell me how much it cost while he fucked me. “Does it really matter? You’re worth it, princess.” That nearly undid me.

“I don’t think even princesses get this kind of treatment,” I told him.

“Only the most spoiled princesses. And that’s what you are, aren’t you? The most spoiled princess.” He ran his hands over my stomach then, slightly hard to the touch because I was so full. “You might lose your figure if I keep overindulging you like this.”

We locked eyes then. He’d cracked something open in me, in both of us.

“I want what I want,” I insisted, pulling him close. His hands kneaded my stomach and slipped to my hips.

“I know. You only want to be cosseted.”

A quiet “fuck” burbled from my lips, my knees gripping tightly against his sides, keeping him close. He was right. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

So my cravings were indulged. Ramen from Tokyo andFukuoka so I could eat them both and compare them side by side? Of course. A full box of pastries from a place we’d eaten once in Italy that I’d been thinking about for months? Why not. It was infrequent at first—only a few times a year, when we both really wanted to spoil me. I grew to crave that full-bellied feeling more often, though.

A full belly isn’t such a difficult thing to pursue when you live like we do. Having food shipped in was lovely and special, but my boyfriend is an excellent cook. The labor and effort he put into it all made it feel so lavish—somehow even more special than just paying for it. Really, who handmakes croissants at home? And is there anything like a belly packed full of homemade tortellini and cream sauce? Anything more indulgent than devouring in moments what took hours to make, and then asking for seconds?

The weight gain was inevitable. I never fought it, though sometimes I considered it. But going to the gym didn’t make me feel spoiled. Sitting on the couch and eating a full batch of gooey fresh-baked cookies while he rubbed my belly did, though.

He hadn’t been into big girls before. I don’t even know that he is now—not generally. But he likes me getting bigger. He knows I would’ve never gotten chubby if he never gave me the chance to be a pampered, soft piglet every day, stuffing myself full of his cooking (and begging for some off his plate every night, just to know he’ll give it to me, just for the foreplay of it all).

Him going out of his way to accommodate my size is hot as fuck, too. That ruby necklace? It wouldn’t still fit if he hadn’t taken it to the jeweler to have it sized up, but he’s not about to ruin a chance for me to show off. I’m not anywhere near big enough to need it, but he’s started getting my clothes custom made so it all fits perfectly, and by “perfectly” I mean it’s all designed to showcase my always-packed, well-rounded belly. No matter what I wear, everyone can see I’m not missing any meals. They can see exactly how loved I am.

How completely, deliciously spoiled I’ll always be.