Kinktober Day 13: Magical Weight Gain

I feel like soft, gentle feedism stories are very on brand for me, but this might be the softest, gentlest feedism story I've ever written. 

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She was not the wand-waving sort of witch. She did have a cauldron, but it was small, and more for ceremonial purposes than for actually brewing anything. She was no less powerful for this.

Despite the strength of her magic, she rarely used it to do more than connect with the land. She had nothing to use her power for, no strong unmet desires. Until she met her love.

It was as if the spirits had designed them for each other, two women so alike and yet so different. They met while both hunting for mushrooms off a mountain trail. The witch was smitten immediately. The other woman’s fluffy brown curls, her dark skin like the soil after a rain, her hands slightly rough with the callouses and nicks of someone who enjoyed the outdoors, all strummed at the witch’s heartstrings. When the woman laughed as they walked through the woods, wet leaves sticking to their boots, it was deep but quiet, like she was trying not to disturb the birds.

The witch, of course, invited her crush over for dinner after their mushroom hunt. They ate fresh, roasted mushrooms together with produce from the witch’s garden and other things she’d foraged. They became fast friends after that.

They met up to forage or just to walk through the trees and listen to their forest neighbors. The witch would often give her new friend little gifts: a hand pie with a chestnut crust stuffed with mushrooms and ramps, a sigil for luck swirling across the dough; a jar of homemade wild preserves with a dash of herbs mixed in for protection and flavor. The woman always accepted graciously.

After several months, though, the witch began to realize the overtures she had thought were obvious had been overlooked. Her friend spoke of how much trouble she was having out in the world trying to find a partner. The witch felt heartbroken. But I’m right here, she ached to say.

She asked the land for guidance as she prayed at her little stone altar as the days grew colder, offering her own salty tears in return.

When it started to get too cold for long walks without bundling up, they began to meet at the witch’s house. Sometimes it was just for tea and maybe some cookies. Other days, the woman would spin yarn from the wool of the sheep she kept while the witch made them dinner. She brewed love teas brimming with cinnamon or hibiscus or jasmine and served lots of leeks, jasmine and lemon pies--all things she had in abundance and knew would inspire love.

One way or another, her careful mixtures of ingredients drew her heart’s desire to her, but it was a slow thing, and the witch was impatient. All through the winter, she would stop at her love’s home, always bearing food lovingly marinated in magic. She worried it wasn’t enough, and redoubled her efforts again and again.

The woman never refused the witch’s food, happy to have someone so kind in her life. At night, after the sheep were cozy in the barn, she would munch her way through what seemed like an endless supply of cookies and meat pies and sigil-topped breads. As spring came, the supply suddenly seemed a lot less endless as munching turned to gobbling, and all the witch’s gifts came to rest cushily on the woman’s hips.

The weather warmed and everyone stripped off their cool-weather layers. The witch was surprised at how plump her friend had become. A soft, round belly melted into generous hips, undeniable. The witch considered this a sign of her true love. She had fed her woman well all through the winter, and she was proud of it.

In the spring, she helped her friend tend to her flock and gathered up edible blossoms. When she was on her own, she filled her pantry with violet sugar and pesto made from foraged greens. She harvested morels and brought them to her love deep-fried, and creamy pastas filled with porcini mushrooms. Her love continued to bloom before her eyes, growing softer by the week. The witch was hopeful, and could almost believe that all her efforts had come to fruition. But still, she waited, and provided.

In the summer, it was clear her love had grown truly fat. All of her clothes stretched tight over a luscious belly and clung to her fattened backside. She even had a single, thick little roll of fat that wrapped around her back and puffed out at her sides, just above her stomach.

By then, it was clear to the woman that the witch loved her. Whether it was the cinnamon teas or the chicken and leek pies or simply the knowledge that she was so cared for, neither of them would ever know, but like her body, her heart had softened.

One day as they leaned against a fence near the sheep pasture, the witch made to say goodbye, but the woman pulled her witch close. The witch blushed as the woman leaned forward and kissed her forehead, her hands on the witch’s slim hips. “Stay,” she said. So the witch stayed, that night, and every night after. And though there was no longer a need for edible love spells in their home, the witch never stopped making delicious things for her wife.