Kinktober '22 #28: Post-Pregnancy Weight Gain

Putting some content notes on this one because it's a pretty big departure from what I usually write! This is a post-pregnancy WG story with the husband gaining weight, with a heavy emphasis on lactation/breastfeeding kink and a little breeding kink. Male weight gain only, with the wife discovering she's into it. If any of that sounds squicky to you, definitely skip this one! 

I'm actually a little nervous about posting this one because it feels pretty out there, but I've had the draft for this story sitting around for ages and it felt perfect for a post-pregnancy WG prompt so 🤷‍♀️ Hope this doesn't awaken anything in anyone... (jk, it's a cute kink even if it is a lil taboo, you're welcome if you pick it up)

***

I have a secret. I swore to myself I’d never tell a soul, but… you seem trustworthy.

Here’s the thing: my husband was always very slim. The kind of guy who never seems to put on weight, unless it’s muscle. All the other moms in the neighborhood were always kinda jealous of me. I would be, too, if I was them. How many guys manage to stay so fit after years of marriage?

He was so good in bed, too. Always knew just how to push my buttons. Which was how I ended up pregnant—you know how it goes.

He was so excited about the whole thing—the baby, being a dad, all that. If it’s possible, he was even more excited about me. You’d think once he’d knocked me up he would calm down, but something about me being pregnant really did it for him. And maybe this is too much information, but the thing that would really get him going was my tits. Hand to god, any time I wanted a little tender affection I just had to flash some cleavage or talk about how sensitive they were getting.

I started to realize exactly why he was so excited a little later into my pregnancy. One night while we were in bed, he was sucking on my nipples and really riling me up. Right when he knew I was about to come, he told me he couldn’t wait to taste my milk. Which is pretty wild, right? I thought so, for a second, but he made me come so hard a second later I was seeing stars. Put it right out of my mind.

Right after the baby was born, we were both pretty distracted. Newborns are a helluva lot of work, and it takes a while before you figure out how to be a person and a parent again. After some time, though, I ran into a problem I’d never heard of before. I’d done all this research while we were trying for the baby and then while I was pregnant about breastfeeding, trying to plan for whatever issue I might run into, and kept reading about women who produced so little that they had to give up and use formula. I read so many stories from ladies in Facebook groups and stuff about how sad it was for them and everything they’d tried.

But in all that time searching, not once had I ever seen anyone say they had too much milk. That sounds bananas, right? How can you make “too much” milk? But that’s what happened to me. I didn’t realize it wasn’t normal because so much of what I was dealing with sounded like what everyone else was dealing with. Who doesn’t complain about their boobs being swollen and sore and leaking when they’re breastfeeding?

Then I went from sore and swollen to tits that felt like bowling balls between feedings. Looked like ‘em, too. It hurt to be. I think I went up three cup sizes in the couple weeks right after I gave birth. That was when I found out about overproducers and realized I was one of ‘em.

You’d think milk overproduction would be kind of ideal, right? Plenty of food for your new baby, no need to worry about ever buying formula! I could stockpile breastmilk in the freezer right from the get-go. But it hurt, and on top of that, I found out my baby wouldn’t even be getting all the nutrients they needed. They couldn’t eat fast enough to get through all the foremilk I was producing to the hindmilk they actually needed.

Thankfully, I was lucky. My husband stepped in with a solution: he would drink up all the extra milk. At first, I thought it would be too weird. But then we tried it for the first time, and it was like magic. Totally intimate, and it felt so good I didn’t care if it was weird. Having his hands on me, always gentle but possessive, too, like he’d never wanted to be anywhere more… it was hot, I can’t lie. The milk letdown was always so intense right as he’d start feeling me up, this hot prickling all through my breasts until I started to spill. I’d always liked having him suck on my tits, but with all the new sensitivity, all those nerves lighting up–it was the biggest fucking turn-on. And fucking while he drank from me? Transcendent. I felt spoiled.

We were back at it like rabbits in pretty short order, like he was trying to get me pregnant all over again. I felt like a fertility goddess, bountiful and sexy in a way that felt too right to be wrong.

There were consequences to all this, though. Minor, at first. I noticed he started looking a little chunkier. I didn’t say anything about it or even think much of it. I loved him no matter what, and the connection we had was so electric I couldn’t care less about a little pudge. I kind of liked it, even.

He mentioned it, said maybe he should cut back at meals, but he never really ended up following through. I realized all the extra calories from our feeding sessions were starting to add up. That he was getting pudgy because of me in the most direct way possible. The thought was delicious to me. Seeing him with a too-full belly after dinner, sloshing full of hundreds of extra, milky calories on top of whatever I’d cooked for him made me sopping wet every time.

The slow creep of weight gain turned into pounds piling onto him almost too quick to count. His belly was what really got me every time. It seemed like he was getting rounder and wider every day. I asked him if he wanted to stop. But he was greedy now, and I loved him for it.

Even after I didn’t actually need to breastfeed anymore, he didn’t want to stop. He’d gotten used to glutting himself on me, tasting how different it was every day, fattening himself up like a piglet. I think he’s put on at least a hundred pounds now, with no sign of slowing down. I’m not complaining even a little. It turns out I like having a fat husband. After all, I did practically make him myself.