Tito Makani Vibes

It was true: neither of you were able to finish your dinners. You kept thinking about it, though, now that you were sitting down for lunch at work, leftovers steaming from the break room microwave. Full servings of orange chicken, rice, lo mein, shrimp, and crab rangoons, and they'd only slipped a single fork and a single fortune cookie into the delivery bag? Could they really expect someone to eat all that food by themselves? Why would someone even assume it was all for just one person?

You laugh under your breath, knowing that, realistically, they weren't thinking anything at all about the order size when they put it in the bag, but it makes something stir low in your belly. You swallow it down with your food, opting to ignore the embarrassing — and surprising — throb between your legs. You have work to do.

~~~

You couldn't stop thinking about it, not even enough to stop yourself from getting off on the thought of packing away that whole bag of takeout by yourself. It was embarrassing, something you should be ashamed of, but it was an electrifying fantasy. You knew you wouldn't be able to let it go.

You're home alone for the weekend, your roommate out of town visiting family, and you place a duplicate order. Takeout twice in a month was a little steep, but you'd gotten a raise last month, so it doesn't hurt to get a little treat to celebrate, right?

The food is still hot when it arrives, and you snatch it from the apartment entry like someone's going to catch and interrogate you about just why you ordered this much food when your roommate is out of town. Nobody does, of course, but it doesn't stop you from half-jogging back to your door and locking it shut behind you.

Your heart is pounding in your throat; the bag in your hand is heavy, proof of your decision to give this a shot. Your core quivers. Just do it.

The table is quickly laden with all your takeout containers. You grab a plate from the cabinet — no, two plates — and settle yourself down in front of your feast. You don't know where to begin, but getting them out of their containers feels like a good first step.

First, the rice, making a warm bed for your orange chicken — this time there's only three pieces of broccoli, lucky you. It takes up the entire plate, so the other is used for the takeout box of lo mein. Noodles and shrimp cascade out in a mass, glistening cabbage and onions threaded throughout, wafting through the air as you breathe in the delicious aromas. Your mouth is watering, at least, and your stomach growls angrily. You'd avoided eating all day, aside from a granola bar to make it through the morning, all in preparation for this.

The bag of crab rangoons sits, greasy and, yes, once again tempting, behind your two mountainous plates of food. It looks like even more now that it's not all packed into their containers, and it gives you pause — just enough hesitation to make you ask yourself, "Am I really gonna eat all this?"

Your squirm in your seat as you lift your fork. You want to. You really, really want to.

You start off fast, hoping that, if you eat quickly enough, it'll trick your brain and body into not noticing you're full. It starts to hit you, though. Rice and noodles and breaded chicken settles dense in your stomach, but it makes you more excited. You slow down, not exactly eager to hurt yourself, and chew through a bite of shrimp lo mein as you lean back in your chair. You've made a good dent, what looks like well over half of what you ordered for entrees, which is already more than you usually eat, so you take it as a win.

You think about eating all of it, though, for a half second, and a heady throb pounds between your legs. Your free hand tentatively settles against your belly. You're not stick-thin, but you're not fat either, so you can already feel the gentle swell of this big meal beneath your skin. You can't help but whimper at the thought of your belly getting rounder, bigger, as you stuff yourself full, and you push through the woozy near-pain of being so full already and start shoveling food into your mouth again.

You impress yourself by managing to clean your plate of chicken and rice, despite the wooziness taking over your vision and settling low in your throat. You'd planned for this, though, and reach for your cup of water. It washes the taste out of your mouth enough to chase off most of the nausea, and instead gives you the chance to register how that slight bend of your abdomen in your reach had felt immensely different than it usually does.

Well, immensely was perhaps an exaggeration, but there was the honest beginnings of a telltale dome of too-much-food as it pressed against your waistband and increased in pressure when you moved forward. You lean back again and stare down at yourself. Your hand shakes just a little as you go to pet your belly again, and, yeah, it's tight and full, and there's that throb in your groin again.

You make yourself sit, for just a minute, before the desire for more outpaces the caution and you're holding your second plate to your face as you push noodles into your mouth without regard for how this would look to an outsider. You're safe, though, in your locked apartment, free to whimper just a little as you slurp back the last bit of cabbage and feel the fastener of your pants dig into the underside of your belly.

You're so full — too full — but that's the appeal, isn't it?

And what's more? You still haven't touched the rangoons.

They stare at you from their spot on the table, grease stains taking the shape of a grin as they sit amongst your clean plates and nearly half-dozen empty takeout containers. Without thinking, you clutch your belly with one hand and whine. Not entirely out of discomfort, though.

The rangoons are in your hands quickly — six of them, still warm and crunchy in their wax bag — and are even more quickly pressed to your lips. One is gone in three bites, another in two, and before you know it, you're on your last one. You stare at it, bag discarded on the table so you can paw at your belly and pull your shirt up and out of the way. It's taut and blushed red at the very front, so full that it hurts, but you're so horny that it's making you dizzy.

You savor the last crab rangoon, finishing it in four bites, before placing your second hand on your distended midsection. You rub over the warm skin, fingers leaving trails of overwhelmed, excited tingles against your stretched, sensitive skin. It makes you blush, how good it feels to rub your full belly, but you can't bring yourself to be too embarrassed when you wiggle in your seat and feel yourself get wet at the sensation.

You twitch in your pants, and bite the bullet. Your fingers easily find the button and fly, and you shiver at how tight it feels stretched against your middle. It still pops open easily, and you can't help but moan as your belly is granted the extra half-inch of room it was begging for.

Your hands rub over your belly again, pushing your pants down and out of the way so you can feel every square inch. You can't bring yourself to stand up just yet, but you know this high of arousal won't be gone so soon, and your bed will be put to good use... as soon as you digest a little bit.

~~~

"Why not? I deserve a little treat."

The justification comes more and more easily as the months go by. You've branched out, trying more restaurants, exploring the menu and letting yourself order anything and everything that catches your eye.

What started as a once-a-month indulgence became two, then three, then every week on your day off over lunch when you wouldn't have to be mortified by your roommate seeing you spend nearly $100 on takeout delivery for yourself. You even found yourself heading out earlier in the morning, hitting up the drive-through to load up on pancakes, hash browns, and a heavy breakfast sandwich loaded with bacon, eggs, and cheese.

Of course you'd taken advantage of the free lunch orders at work, too. Nothing too crazy (you didn't exactly want to be reprimanded for stretching the lunch budget when you began being tempted to order enough for three people), but enough to have you stay full the whole day on top of your breakfast. If you really knew you couldn't make it, you'd pack yourself a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, or some homemade cookies or other baked treat, or a full bag of greasy, salty potato chips... sometimes even two, but nobody's caught onto that yet.

Besides, at the end of the day, you can leave the office and drive down the block to the local bakery, who've begun to know you by name, as you order yourself a six-pack of doughnuts and a freshly baked cookie. If you're feeling really hungry, you get one of their massive, chocolate-filled croissants that drips with butter in your fingers. None of them ever make it home now, all of them tucked away in your belly as you drive, one hand on the wheel, the other sticky with warm sugar which you lick off as the sweet taste of doughnuts coats your tongue.

Your seat belt is getting tighter, and you wonder if one day your belly will be big enough to touch the steering wheel. The thought makes you moan as the buttons on your shirt strain against your gut, and you wonder what you're going to order for dinner tonight.

Oh, and you can't forget a drink. Where you'd once stuck to water with dinner, you then bumped it up to a small soda. It's only a few extra bucks on the order, right? Besides, it's fun to get a sweet drink every now and again. And then it became a medium - gotta have a bit more to chase all that salty food, right? - and now a large, the syrupy carbonated goodness sloshing in your cup holder as you stuff your face before work.

You'd decided to indulge today and get a shake - chocolate with cookie dough bits swirled throughout. It's rich and thick, just like your burgeoning body.

It had started off slow, of course. Once a month wasn't that killer on the waistline, but it was noticeable.

Where your pants had once been comfortable, yet requiring a belt, they began to fit you perfectly, if not a little bit too snug at times. Your shirts had always been a mix of mediums and larges, but the mediums began to fit just a little too small, while the larges, once roomy and either tucked into your pants or hanging halfway down your thighs, now fit snug across your chest and, eventually, you spent a good portion of the day tugging the hem back down over your belly as it rode up every time you lifted your arms. Hell, it began to ride up simply from you huffing and puffing as you walked from the grocery store, the restaurant, the bakery, back to your car to sit at home and gorge yourself on your "little treats."

After nearly two years of your exponential increase of "little treats," going from an easy 2000 calories a day, to 2000 calories in a sitting, to double, triple, and god knows how far beyond, it was more than noticeable on your frame.

Your doctor had voiced their concerns, eyes nearly popping out of their head when you went in for your yearly checkup and were a hundred pounds up from your last visit. You weren't sure of the exact number right now — your scale had already been old, a hand-me-down from your family, but it had finally groaned out of commission when you began teetering at the three hundred pound mark, and that was almost a year ago.

You could go get another scale, but why bother? It was more fun being surprised once a year, and it wasn't like you'd really be able to see the number anymore anyway. Your gut blocked your line of sight, and then some, and you didn't particularly care about the numbers anyway.

You just like how you feel and how you look.

"Maybe I'll get one of the kind they have at the doctor's office," you think to yourself with a chuckle around your straw, only pausing to chew through a few hunks of cookie dough and lap up the drips of chocolate that pepper your lips, "The kind that has the weight at eye-level so I don't need to try very hard."

With a little saving, you'd be able to afford it easily. Despite your new favorite distraction, you'd continued to prove yourself a stellar employee, and with that came a promotion at work, with a substantial raise to match. You'd been able to get an apartment on your own, freeing yourself from the embarrassment and potential judgement of a roommate who wouldn't be able to keep up with your ravenous appetite.

It meant the freedom to buy even more food, to indulge the desire even further, and to afford to keep up with your rapidly changing (growing) wardrobe.

Your car wheezes as you pull into your parking spot at work — right at the front entrance, which was simply an added perk of leaving earlier. Intent on finishing your shake before it melted, your breakfast is still sitting untouched in the passenger seat. You've got 20 minutes until you need to clock in, though, which is plenty of time to finish.

It gives you a bit of a thrill, that thought. This much food would have once taken you almost an hour to nurse, but now it's hardly enough to leave you stuffed.

You gulp down the last of your large shake, smacking your lips contently as the cup finds its way back to the cup holder. You bite your tongue as you lean against the driver side door to wedge your hand down between the center console and your hip to undo your seat belt, sighing happily as the pressure is relieved around your midsection.

When you let yourself settle again, you smile at the sensation of your love handle pressing into the center console, just enough to make it tight. Your button down shirt is starting to get a little too small, given the way the buttons pucker across your chest and right at your belly button. Undershirts really were your savior, in that regard. Even your pants were starting to go, already going thin in the thighs from them constantly rubbing against one another. It had been a struggle to get them to button around your lower gut this morning, and you had an emergency hair tie in your pocket in case you needed an extra fastener.

Your cardigan, a quadruple-extra large, was thrown across the back seat in case of such an emergency. Though you were becoming less and less ashamed of your size, you didn't exactly want to risk a total wardrobe malfunction and flash a little too much skin in the workplace.

It's the least of your worries now, though, as your stomach growls and you reach for the still-warm paper bag of breakfast goodies.

First is the hash browns, obviously. Two orders of the little buggers, because one is nothing more than an absentminded snack. They're gone in a few minutes, knocked back two at a time, as their salty, starchy grease paves the way for the rest of your meal.

Your belly seems to gurgle happily, and you sink yourself farther back in your seat as your bag of food rests between your belly and the steering wheel. It's not close enough to touch, not yet, but it's close enough that, when you angle yourself right, it creates a perfect perch for the bag to sit against the growing dome of your belly, the butt of it resting against the horn.

On top of the shake, as an additional treat — because you deserve it — you'd nabbed yourself a large coffee cake muffin, topped with brown sugar crumbles and drizzled with caramel. It looks divine, and you peel back the wrapper with a giddy smile before taking a massive bite. Crumbs stick to your bulging cheeks, but that's what napkins are for.

It's sugary and sweet, and it makes you moan happily. Just as fast as the hash browns, the muffin is gone, and you still have fifteen minutes until work starts.

French toast sticks are next on the docket, dunked in their little packets of syrup. You'd asked for extra, of course, because those fast food places always skimp out on the dipping sauces, which grants you the opportunity to put the packet to your lips to drink the syrup that's left over.

Half a dozen french toast sticks are hardly anything to you anymore, but on top of the shake and the other pieces of your meal, you're feeling it begin to settle heavy in your stomach.

One of your hands finds its way to your belly to rub at it absently. It's become an automatic habit, something you do without thought, though you can admit to yourself that you're keenly aware of how it makes your face burn and your groin get hot, and it's not just because of your growing fat pad.

You take a half second to breathe, feeling the gentle rise and fall of your big belly, before you're cramming your pudgy fingers into the bag to bring out your favorite part of the meal: the breakfast sandwich.

And today, you'd gotten three of them.

Each one was heavy and hot, tall with sausage, bacon, eggs, and cheese between two warm, toasted english muffins. You don't even pause, opting to shove it into your mouth and down nearly a third of it in one bite. You hardly even finish chewing before you take another, cramming your mouth full as you peel back the wrapper and grunt around the salt and grease.

When you get to the second one, you get it completely out of its wrapper so you can have a free hand pressed against the side of your filling belly, rubbing soothing circles into the soft skin there. You press, shivering around your blissful mouthfuls as the layers of fat squish between your fingers.

When the third one comes out, you're halfway to climaxing as you rock weakly against your own fat lap. You close your eyes as you paw the front of your belly — or, much to your pleasure, struggle to. Between the reach of your belly and the heft of your arms, you have to stretch yourself just right in order to hook your fingers into your belly button fold. The buttons of your shirt are straining more than they were earlier, and it makes your breath hitch with excitement.

You shove the last bite of your sandwich into your mouth, moaning as you toss aside the now-empty drive-through bag so you can feel up your belly with both hands.

As you swallow your final mouthful, you pry your eyes open to admire yourself. As you bend your head down, you feel your neck and cheeks bunch up against your face, too much fat in too many place with nowhere to go other than squish.

Past your heavy, sagging chest, your belly sits, round and proud, pushing against buttons that are putting up a valiant effort to keep your shirt closed. You can't see the fastening of your pants, but you can feel the waistband digging into your ample flesh.

You know you’ll be lucky if your lunch break doesn’t require you to break out your backup button fastener.

For now, breakfast is over. You spend the last five minutes before your start time grunting and huffing as you gather up your garbage and stuff it in the takeout bag, struggling just a touch with your own heft as it gets in your way as you bend and twist to gather up your things and prepare to head inside.

Your face is warm from the minimal exertion, which only makes you blush harder, and you have to give a good ol’ heave-ho to get the momentum to push yourself out of the driver seat and onto your feet. Your little sedan seems to sigh with relief.

You grunt and burp gently into your fist, muttering an “excuse me” to yourself, as you swing the door shut and stuff your car keys in your bag. You used to keep them in your pocket, but with the space being taken up by your belly, hips, and ass, you’d rather not risk accidentally hitting the panic button anymore.

You waddle forward, which had been a new and exciting realization when it first started. Your meaty thighs fwip fwip fwip with every step, the rolls of fat stuffed like sausages into your slacks, forcing your legs constantly ever so slightly apart, no matter how hard you try to stand up straight.

Your belly leads the way, entering the building before you do, as your arms stick out at your sides. Your upper arms, like your thighs, are wrapped tight by the sleeves of your shirt, and their mass constantly presses into the rolls of your sides. Your chest practically wraps all the way around your body, and that’s nothing compared to the roll that sits beneath them, kept aloft by the domed apron of your belly as it bulges over the top of your pants.

Sure, the front-most section of it is tucked into the front of your pants, giving you an increasingly round look, but with their strain, you’re back to having a muffin top like when you first started packing on the pounds.

You shift sideways as you enter the office, and still, your belly and ass brush the door frame. The floor creaks beneath you in various spots, unlike the rest of your coworkers, and you fight off the excited thrill of the milestone reminders. You have a big meeting today, followed by a client presentation, and you can’t be distracted, no matter how tempting.

Warm in the face and breathing heavier than anyone should after walking just a handful of yards, you make it to your little office. Again, the doorway kisses your sides as you enter, but management had at least had the good graces to get you a bolstered desk chair.

Even so, it groans under your weight as you ease yourself down and catch your breath. The arms are beginning to dig into your sides, and your belly is pushed up into your space without the room to spread your legs to let it drop below the edge of your desk. You scoot yourself forward until the protrusion of your middle presses into the edge of the desk — you can’t comfortably reach the keyboard otherwise — and sigh out of the corner of your mouth.

“Having to waddle that much should be a crime,” you joke under your huffing as your cheeks finally stop burning so red, and you get to work.

~~~

You don’t want to sound cocky, but you’re confident your meeting went smoothly, and your presentation hit it out of the park. The client was happy, which meant your boss was happy, which meant they disappeared near the end of the day only to return with three dozen doughnuts and a “well done!” note. Tucked inside was a $50 food delivery gift card, and you try not to act too excited about it as you tastefully take one doughnut before letting your coworkers take their picks. You have a small team, so everyone knows you’ll be going home with most of the leftovers, but you all leave it unspoken.

All said and done, you wind up taking a full dozen to your car as you leave for the day (not including the five you’d eaten inside already). Doughnut number three, after polishing off three-quarters of a pizza at today’s lunch, had finally been what burst the button on your pants. It had been away from prying eyes, thankfully, and you’d swiftly tied your spare hair tie around the fly to keep it in place before pulling on your (barely) oversized cardigan and closed the lowest few buttons to hide the evidence.

No one would be wise to the mishap, unless they decided to notice how pink in the face you were, and how you kept squirming in your seat as you fought the impulse to get off on your own obesity.

“Bursting out of my clothes already?” you think to yourself as you waddle to the car and grunt as you settle inside, feeling the car sink several inches under your heft. “I haven’t even had these pants two months…”

Your arousal throbs in your groin, and you manage to stifle your soft moan until you shut the driver side door and start the engine. The center console pressing into your side makes your head spin, but you whimper even harder when you feel your opposite hip and ass brushing the inside of the door.

“Maybe my next promotion will be a shift to working from home…”

Wouldn’t that be something? The thought makes you gasp as you imagine how easy it would be to stuff your face all day; really let yourself blow up as you stick your fat ass in front of a computer and never have to leave your home again; never have to burn off those precious calories by walking a total of 3 minutes every day.

Your stomach growls, that $50 gift card burning a hole in your wallet, as you strain to fasten your seatbelt, grab for a doughnut, and pull out of the parking lot to head home.

~~~

There’s six doughnuts left when you arrive at your apartment, but you’re just getting started for the evening. Your stomach growls around all the sugar as you balance the box on one fat hand to fumble your keys with the other.

The ground floor was a requirement for this new apartment. One, because there was no way you were making it up the stairs in one piece, and two, because you’d have to apologize to whatever sad sap lived below you as your heavy footfalls shook the groaning floorboards as you kicked off your shoes and waddled yourself inside to plop down onto the couch.

The seventh doughnut was already halfway into your mouth before your ass spread out on the cushions, and the eighth was right behind it as you fought to undo the temporary fastener on your pants.

The hair tie flew across the room with an audible snap, and you let yourself moan openly into the living room as your belly was granted the freedom to surge forward.

The buttons on your shirt continued to hold down the fort, but without your pants pinning it in place, it rode easily up your expanding midsection as you pressed the ninth doughnut to your lips.

The couch creaked beneath your behemoth of a body, but it hasn’t broken yet, so you continue to focus on your treat. Tenth doughnut — no, fifteenth, you correct, as you recall the five others you’d eaten just a couple hours ago. Already more than a dozen doughnuts in a day — practically in one sitting — and you whimper and sink farther back into the couch cushions, letting your belly stick up and out and look even bigger than it already is. It rumbles, hungry for more, and you paw across the couch to grab for your phone and open your delivery app.

You chew through the last two doughnuts with ease one-handed while the other scrolls through your favorite restaurants. All of them sound good — you could eat everything right now — but one in particular speaks to you.

Well, your stomach seems to speak to you, as it growls, loud and eager, as you scroll into your favorite Chinese takeout menu. Orange chicken, shrimp lo mein, beef stir fry, sweet and sour pork, fried rice, and, of course, crab rangoons.

You order everything, dropping well over $100 in an instant, and gleefully using up that $50 gift card without even blinking. You wonder how long someone else might be able to stretch that much money; you wonder how you used to survive off a $12 order of food and feel full from it.

You drop your phone to the side and stare down at your fat belly, your fat legs, your fat hips, your fat ass, your fat everything.

You quiver all the way to your core. It’s thrilling, letting go like this, and you can’t wait to continue.

Your phone pings. Your order is being prepared, and your delivery driver should be here in thirty minutes. You brace your hands against the cushions and use all your strength to get back to your feet. Just enough time to get into something more comfortable.

Meaning, the biggest sweatpants you own, which you actually still have to tie to keep them up, and a shirt that used to be oversized, but now clings to the dome of your belly like a lifeline. You caught a glimpse of the lower hang of your belly in the mirror as it slapped against the front of your thighs as you waddled back to the living room, and you bit back a giddy smile at the sensation. Your fat pad rubbed against the wobbling apron of your underbelly, opting to keep it out over the waistband of your sweats for now. Why try to contain it if you’re only going to be breaking it out in — you check your phone — two minutes?

Your stomach growls again, louder this time, and you laugh softly as you give it a soothing pat.

“Don’t worry, it’s almost here.”

In an attempt to appease it, you head to the kitchen to grab the bag of chips you’d bought at the store yesterday. You crack it open and stuff handfuls against your face, and after only a short delay, you get the ping on your phone that your food has arrived and been dropped off at the front entrance. Half the bag of chips gone, you clip it closed and hurry as fast as you can (which isn’t a lot) to the door to gather your dinner.

The hall is empty as you waddle to the front door, belly half out as your shirt rides up with every shuffling step. Your face is pink out of both exertion and excitement as you bend to reach your two heavy takeout bags, with a large soda cup to match. You have to twist just a little to avoid the obstruction of your belly, but soon enough, you have the bags cradled in your arms and the soda straw already between your lips as you gulp it down. You can feel the cold air of the apartment building against the exposed majority of your middle, but you really don’t care how you look as you squeeze your fat ass back into your apartment so you can sit on your couch and gorge.

You stopped eating off plates a long time ago, instead simply pulling out all your containers one by one to spread them across your coffee table. Your heavy breathing gives away your ridiculous desire, and it only really hits you when you realize you’d forgotten to grab a fork from the kitchen before you sat down.

Impatient, hungry, heavy, and horny, you’d rather not have to stand back up, so you snatch the bags off the table to peer inside in the hopes a fork was provided.

Much to your pleasure, there is.

Just one, singular fork.

And right beside it, one, singular fortune cookie.

In an instant, you’re reminded of that first night; of the first time this desire reared its gluttonous head, and in that same instant, you’d never been more excited to eat your weight in Chinese takeout.

You’d ordered four entrees and two sides, all of which contain enough substance to comfortably feed two people on their own, and you’re going to eat it all by yourself, and you know there won’t be any leftovers.

Without thought other than “eat,” you dig in with your little plastic fork, looking so small as it’s clutched between your fat fingers, while you shovel fried rice into your mouth before chasing it with a bite of orange chicken and following it up with a forkful of beef stir fry.

Bite after bite, you pack the food into your gullet, hardly taking a breath between each one as you chase the high of full, stuffed, aching, more.

Your belly balloons in front of you, the usual soft flab becoming taut and round as one, two, then three containers come up empty on your coffee table. You pause only long enough to take deep sips of your soda, and you wish you’d gotten a second one as the ice cubes shake inside.

Four, then five, and now you’re left with your crab rangoons. Like any good fatass, you’d doubled your order of them this time around, and you lean yourself back on the couch as you prepare to inhale a dozen of them.

You place the wax bags atop your belly, giving you easy access to them so one of your hands has the freedom to rub over your belly and feel just how much more weight you’re adding to it.

Your shirt sits up high on it, both because it doesn’t fit, and because you want to see the angry red stretch marks on your stomach grow even bigger as your skin stretches to accommodate the thousands of calories you’d just stuffed inside it.

You grab for the soft underbelly, tracing the thick roll of your love handle until you can squeeze the cellulite-filled flab that cushions the packed orb of your upper belly against your lap. It settles heavy against your thighs, pinning your fat pad between those three massive piles of fat and lard. Even with your legs spread, your thighs kiss until their halfway point, and your belly has little to no room to sink between them and make room for the rest of you.

You toss one empty wax bag to the side and stuff your hand in the other.

You shift slightly, trying to ease the pressure off the rest of your organs as your stomach strains against its capacity. Beneath you, your ass spreads out like a wave, easily taking up the space of two people and encroaching on three. Your hips are wide and plush, and you move your hand from your belly to your side to fondle your rolls on rolls; to paw and squeeze at your swelling backside and hips as you cram rangoon number ten into your mouth.

You can’t believe how big you’ve gotten, but you absolutely can.

Your stomach groans, though not unhappily, as it churns with all that salt-laden, sweet and savory food. You wheeze and grunt as you finish the very last rangoon, crumpling and tossing aside the empty bag and reveling in how round and full you are.

You plant both hands against your belly and rub, groaning as your arousal fogs your mind and throbs between your fat, suffocating thighs. Despite not being around your belly, your sweatpants feel tight, and you struggle for a few minutes against the heavy weight of your belly to wedge a hand down there to undo the tie. You brush your fat pad as you do so, and you give it a little loving squeeze before returning to your belly to commend yourself for your efforts this evening.

Your grunt and burp softly when you give it a little squeeze, whimpering when the top portion has less give than it usually does. You try to shift your legs apart even more, lifting your belly one side at a time, even if it’s only an inch, to give yourself the room to stretch your hips and spread your fat out even farther. It allows your belly to sink just a little lower in your line of vision, and grants you the view of your half-dozen empty containers that are left scattered over your coffee table.

“I really ate all that…” you mutter, and you can feel your fat cheeks jiggle as you speak. You blush, rubbing big, wide circles over your belly as you strain to reach the very front of it. You still can, only barely hindered by your fat arms as they press against the rolls of your heavy chest and sides, but there’s a tantalizing little thrill deep inside you that asks, “What if you couldn’t reach it anymore?”

You whimper and gasp as you squeeze your flab and rock, barely, in your seat. It rubs in all the right places, and you shiver as you revel in the sensation of being so fat that you can rub off on your own body. Your fat pad and thighs offer the perfect amount of plush, dense friction that leaves you shaking and begging for more.

As if on cue, your stomach lets out a weak little growl.

You ate all that, but you’d kill for more.

You grunt and twist to find your phone, squishing the side rolls of your body to reach where it was discarded on the couch, and you tap away with your fat fingers.

Dessert. You should get dessert. After all, you deserve a little treat for eating all that food and barely breaking a sweat.

Your stomach barely hurts anymore when you stuff yourself, which is great when it comes to not feeling a little like garbage when you’re done, but… oh, who are you kidding, it’s not a downside that it practically makes you a bottomless pit, always having room for more, always ready to pack away another 2000 calories and wake up to an extra inch on your circumference.

The ice cream shop is near enough that it’s never melted by the time it arrives, but you don’t stop at a triple-scoop bowl topped with brownies and butterscotch chips. They’ve got a wide range on their menu, and soon your checkout cart has an added half-dozen variety cupcakes, a personal banana cream pie, and a pint of their house-made cinnamon swirl ice cream.

Another $60 well spent, but you don’t stop there. As your first order processes, you seek out another food joint. After more than a dozen doughnuts today, you’ve got a craving, and soon you have another dozen digitally placed in a box and eager to melt on your tongue.

An outsider might think you’re ordering with your eyes, not your stomach, but for you, that’s become synonymous.

Besides, even if it becomes “too much,” you can just push yourself past that limit, because if you do, it’ll no longer be a limit, and that’s always an exciting change.

You wait patiently for your orders to arrive, spending those twenty-odd minutes rubbing your belly, pinching and squeezing, and rutting against your own fat until you’re pink in the face and dizzy. Your groin throbs uncontrollably, and all it takes is a well-time press down on the top of your belly for you to be moaning openly into your apartment and twitching through a stuffing-induced orgasm. Your ears ring with it, blood roaring and heart pounding heavier than is probably healthy, but you don’t care as you float down from your high and find yourself becoming nice and loose, pliant to the food you know is going to be at your door any minute.

Your phone pings.

It takes a few tries, but with some rocking and a hard push off the arm of the couch, you manage to get to your feet. Your belly juts out ahead of you, and you have to lean back to accommodate the added weight of your meal. You grab the sides of your belly, wobbling on your feet for a moment as you try to slow your momentum. If you fall onto the floor, you’re not sure you’d be able to get up on your own for several hours, and you’d rather not have to call for help, even if the thought of being stuck makes your arousal rear its head again.

You shuffle forward, body swaying as you waddle, in an even more exaggerated manner now, to the front door. You make a feeble attempt at pulling your shirt down over your belly, covering most of it, but where just a couple inches had hung out the bottom before, it was now skin-tight all the way to the hem and flashing a good six inches of skin and flab.

It puckers around your chest and suffocates your arms, and you try not to feel too excited as you feel your sweatpants stretch against your backside, the seams whining around your hips as you peek out into the empty hallway before huffing and puffing your way to the front entrance.

You can see your ice cream order waiting, smiling at you through the glass door, and despite your hindrance of a body, you manage to pick up the pace as your excitement takes over. Your lower belly slaps audibly against your lap as you nearly manage to jog the last few feet, your ass and thighs rippling even in their tight confines. You can barely even make it through the door, and you wind up holding it open by the sheer size of your ass as you bend over. You chuckle a bit as you grunt and snort from the effort, like a pig, and you groan as you reach around your engorged belly to hook your pudgy fingers around the bag’s handle and lift it off the ground.

Nearly so distracted by the anticipation of more food, you don’t notice your next delivery, the doughnuts, are already here.

The delivery driver stares at you, clearly trying not to gawp at your physique, especially when you have a bulky ice cream order in one hand, and they’ve got your dozen doughnuts in theirs.

They stammer as they read out your name and apartment number in question, and you smile wide, cheeks bunching under your eyes.

“Yup, that’s me! Thanks.”

They pass off the box, and you sigh gratefully at not having to bend over and get that up off the ground.

You could swear the floor was shaking as you waddled back to your door, stomach back to growling loudly now that the food is already in your hands, and you waste no time in appeasing it, other than grabbing a massive spoon from your utensil drawer, which you struggle with even when you turn yourself sideways to reach it.

Of course, you start with the ice cream first. The triple-scoop is heavenly, the mounds of different flavored ice cream melting down your throat as you knock it back like it’s a shot of alcohol. You hardly even chew the brownie bits and butterscotch chips, too excited to make yourself fatter to care.

In a matter of minutes, the cup is empty, and you lick your lips as you grab for the cupcakes next. You peel off their wrappers and finish them in three bites, and you wish you’d realized how small they were so you could’ve doubled your order. You know that they’re actually average sized cupcakes, but you make the mental note anyway.

The icing is light and sugary, the perfect complement to the soft cake and their dense, rich fillings as cream and jam dance across your tongue. You moan, using one hand to grab your belly, continuing that wonderful subconscious habit, while you stuff the last cupcake into your mouth with the other. You lick icing off your fingers - can’t waste any of it — before grunting as you lean forward, belly making it quite the effort, to take a stab at your banana cream pie.

Being a personal pie, it’s not a full ten-to-twelve inches, but a six inch diameter sure is still a lot. Plus, it’s piled high with banana slices, custard, and whipped cream, easily making it more than half your average pie.

You lean back and rest it atop the dome of your belly between your fat breasts, freeing up your hand, once again, to paw at your middle while you shovel creamy, refreshing spoonfuls between your lips. You can practically feel your belly expanding as you take each bite, and it’s only when you lift the pie pan to your face to lick off the remnants that you start to feel a tightness in your gut.

There’s no stopping now, though, as you strain for the pint of ice cream. You grab for the box of doughnuts as well, placing them on the seat cushion next to you so you don’t need to lean forward again. You peel off the pint lid, gleeful to see the edges are soupy and the core is beginning to melt.

Rather than using your spoon, you press the rim of the pint to your lips, and begin to chug. It’s not entirely melted, but the cinnamon swirl is soft enough that it slides into your mouth with ease. You can feel the liquid topping you off, filling in all the gaps between the solid food that’s packed into your gut. You moan, your fingers trembling as you feel your belly bloat out farther beneath them.

Much too soon, your pint is gone, and you make a note to buy a second one next time as you lick the remaining cinnamon and sugar off the corners of your mouth. You look at the empty pint, turning it in front of your face to look at the nutrition label.

Excitement flutters in your chest as you read the whopping “1150 calories” for the full pint. Half a day’s worth of calories, and you finished it in less than two minutes.

And your work isn’t done. The doughnuts are practically begging to be eaten, and you don’t even pause to take a breath before grabbing a chocolate glazed one and shoving it into your mouth. Two bites and it’s gone, and you’re reaching for a strawberry cream, then a traditional glazed, then a powered jelly, and then, and then, and then…

You clutch your belly as you stuff your face, moaning and whimpering around each bite as you rock and twitch in your seat. Your belly’s skin feels so tight, so hot, and you beg silently to add another ten pounds by morning. Your rolls rub and chafe together, and you feel your sweatpants groan at your sides. Your shirt is whining too, the seams at the side popping as you shift your body. You pull it up your stomach until it’s only covering your chest, completely showing off your gravid middle, and you can’t help but sigh happily at the sight.

You pet the topmost portion of it, shivering at how hard and packed it is as your stuffed stomach presses out into your palm. It’s getting harder to breathe, but you don’t care as you finally hit two-dozen doughnuts in one day, and you still have five left to go.

Sprinkles stick to your lips as you take a bite of doughnut number twenty-five. It's exhilarating, being this hedonistic. Two years ago, you never could have imagined you'd become like this, but you wouldn't have it any other way.

Twenty-six, and you start to slow down. Partly because you don't want to hurt yourself, but also because you want to really feel each doughnut as it slides down your throat and settles in your engorged, churning stomach.

The fluffy, flaky, melt-in-your-mouth dough is like air — which may be why you're having such an easy time eating two dozen in a day — and you shut your eyes as you savor the bite in your mouth while your free hand roams over your body.

Twenty-seven, and you swear your pants are about to rip right off you. It's like you can feel all that food turning into pure fat, adding to the already mountainous piles on your body, as it slowly becomes digested.

It's only been two hours, and you've eaten enough for twelve people in that time alone. It makes you shiver excitedly, and you wonder just when you'll be able to eat for fifteen in a single sitting. You ponder, briefly, the concept of cooking a meal that size yourself. It wouldn't be hard, but it wouldn't contain the same amount of processed, easily-packed-in calories that fast food does. You want more bang for your buck, so to speak, and that can be easily gained by shoving a twenty-eighth doughnut into your mouth.

You shove the whole thing down your throat in two bites, enamored by the feeling of your cheeks stretching to fit the big mouthful. It makes you feel even fatter than you are; you love the thought of looking desperate for food despite the hundreds of pounds hanging off your figure. You feel greedy, and that makes you hot.

The final doughnut, a Long John, is sticky in your hands, covered in chocolate glaze, sprinkles, and a caramel drizzle to top it off. Sugar on butter on sugar in the shape of a ten inch brick, and you moan as it hits your lips.

Your fat hand rubs your fat gut, pawing at your love handles and pinching your blubbery thighs and hips. Your chest is bunched up practically to your chin in this position, reclined full against the weary couch and shoved up by your intensely full belly while you strain to get the last bits of the doughnut down your throat.

You chew, chew, chew, swallow, and lick the caramel off your fingers as that final little treat travels downward to add an extra few hundred calories to today's count.

You sigh, reverent and pleased, as you finally, finally, feel full.

It's not too much, but rather just enough. It hurts just slightly when you breathe, but that's part of the appeal. You feel just a touch woozy, but like you would if you were drunk. It makes you giggle a little, and you rub firm circles over your belly as the food shifts inside and slowly breaks down into layers of fat to add to your figure. You have to overdo it, otherwise what would be the point?

"That's why I should get a scale... so I can see how much I gained overnight," you think to yourself as you rub your hands down your sides and sink them into the shelf of your hips and ass. They jut out nearly a foot on either side of you, a great deal wider than the widest point of your belly, and you must be taking up the space of three people at this point as you realize you've nearly met the limit of your couch with your fat ass alone. It pools around you like an inner tube, and you shudder as your hands sink down into the mass of plush, voluptuous fat. No wonder you waddle.

You lay there for a while longer, huffing and grunting despite the fact that you've simply been sitting for the last twenty minutes. Slowly, you begin to feel like you can stand up without upsetting something, because you'd love to lay down in bed and look like a real beached whale.

You sigh, resolving to get headed to bed and let your body work its magic in making you fatter, but it's tougher than you'd come to expect. It was already difficult to stand after a big meal, but you'd really outdone yourself this time in your excitement to fatten up.

You rock forward, then fall back with a huff. You reach for the arm of the couch, but your wide hips make it hard to get a good angle. You try to push off the back cushions, but you're too heavy and your belly too round. There's simply too much of you in the way, weighing you down, stranding you in the middle of the couch as it groans and creaks beneath your attempts at simply sitting up straight.

By the time you're sitting forward, your face is red and you're panting like you just ran a mile. You throb between your legs.

Your underbelly hangs down between your spread legs, the heavy apron of it swaying and twitching as you catch your breath. Your hips burn as you stretch them apart to accommodate the mass of fat, and that's when it happens.

Riiip.

You gasp, the flab of your chest wobbling, as you feel the tightness around your thighs dissipate. You twist and stretch to try and see what happened, but your fat is in the way. You press the side of your belly and try to peer down around your sagging breast and the cellulite-puckered rolls of your arm and side. Your sweatpants look loose, and you eagerly paw with your hand down to your lap.

Your heart skips a beat.

The seam ripped clean down the side, leaving a massive hole in the side of your pants, stretched open by the unhindered fat of your thigh. For the longest time, these were your "safe" pants, always big enough to accommodate you stuffing your face like a glutton and only protesting a little.

Not anymore.

You whimper, but fight off the urge to sink back into the couch and rub off on your unbridled obesity and finally, finally, manage to rock forward and up onto your feet.

Your belly hits off the edge of the table, knocking over a few of the food containers, but you pay it no mind as you clutch your midsection and try to stay stable on your feet. With all that food, you were probably up at least twenty pounds just in your gut alone, and you could only hope that would reflect in your weight gain tomorrow.

Your burp softly and rub your swollen stomach. You try, just for the thrill of it, to pull your shirt down your belly.

It barely reaches your belly button, and that's when you realize... you did it: you can't reach the front of your gargantuan middle.

Your legs shake beneath you as you tremble at the realization, stretching to no avail as your hands refuse to meet in the middle of the furthest point of your belly.

"Holy shit..." you gasp, throbbing between your massive thighs — the size of a person, each — as you will yourself to walk forward.

Your waddle is more than exaggerated now — it's downright comical as you huff and gasp and pant with each step toward your bedroom, your whole body swaying, ass shaking, belly wobbling, tits rippling, as you pound your way down the hallway.

Before long, your hips are going to be brushing the walls, and you wonder what would happen if you got stuck one day. It makes you moan, and you take a breather and brace a hand against the wall while the other rubs away at your belly. It feels too good to stop, your sensitive, stretch skin tingling with every little touch. You stare down at yourself in awe and adoration, giddy beyond belief at how much you've wrecked yourself over the last two years. You wonder, briefly, what the record for most weight gained in a year is.

Your door barely accommodates you, and you have to squeeze your way in with a bit of effort as you waddle toward the bed.

Might as well strip, you think, since your clothes are barely covering anything. You pull off your shirt with ease, tossing it onto the floor as your nipples harden under the cool air.

Your pants are a different story, and you have to fight a little with the waistband to get it over the lumps of your hips and fat pad. You push and squeeze at your body, trying your damnedest to get them to shimmy down past the widest point of your hips.

By the time you manage it, you're red in the face and gasping again, entirely too out of shape to even get undressed. Your work clothes hadn't been this difficult to change out of in the afternoon, so it's a testament to the power of your gluttonous evening binge.

Thankfully, aided by the stretched holes down each pant leg, the sweats fall down the rest of your legs with ease. You kick them aside with a bit of a struggle, given the limited mobility of your fat-layered legs, but then you're left in your underwear. You can't see them, but you know they're there, and you think you might have to eat your way out of them in order to get them off as your fat swallows the thin fabric between your folds.

The bed is calling to you, but you need to look in the mirror first.

You place one hand on your belly and shut the door to reveal the full-length mirror on the back, and the sight you're met with makes you tremble all the way to your core as you're hardly able to contain the whimpering moan that tumbles past your perpetually pursed lips.

You take up the entire width of the mirror, and then some. You can't even see the insides of your arms as you stand there, so you take several shuffling, wobbling steps backward. More... another... and you jump a little when the backs of your legs hit the edge of your bed. The very edge of your figure doesn't even fit within the frame of the mirror, so you have to twist your whole body in order to see the extent of the damage. Soon, you'll need a wall-width mirror just to get ready in the morning.

Your rolls are deep and thick, stacking atop each other like pancakes - careful, don't make yourself hungry, there's not enough places open late into the night to accommodate you - and wobbling with every slight movement. Your stomach sticks out far in front of you, domed, heavy, and dense. It alone must be teetering on the hundred-fifty pound mark, and you laugh in disbelief at how your entire self used to weigh less than that.

It's a clear mark of your efforts over the last two years, littered with stretch marks that frame your wide, deep belly button. Already, you can see a few new ones, red and angry, mingling with the older, silvery ones. Your hands roam across the wide expanse of skin, and you curl your fingers into the roll formed from your belly button. The top portion of your belly is hard, round, and blushed a deep pink, while the lower roll is wobbly and dense, puckered with cellulite and flapping against your mound of a fat pad.

You stretch yourself back just a little, lifting your belly as much as you can, in order to see your underwear barely containing the roll of fat covering your genitals. If you weren't so full, you'd be grabbing a handful, but as it stands at the moment, you can only get a whisper of a touch with the tips of your fingers against the wide curve of fat that is no longer contained by the front of your underwear, instead seeping out the leg holes against the top of your thighs.

Your thighs... massive is an understatement.

They're as wide as you once were, and your feet have to plant themselves more than shoulder-width apart due to the globular double roll of your inner thighs keeping them spread. They ripple and wobble as you step in your little circle, trying to view yourself at every angle and admire your physique.

If you could see it around the roll of your neck, the fat of your cheeks, and the plush of your shoulders as they prevented you from fully swiveling your head, you'd get to admire the width of your massive backside, two ass cheeks sagging off your hips, so huge that they also have rolls of their own. Your underwear is hanging on for dear life as you try to twist and see your ass in the mirror, and you wouldn't be surprised if you woke up to a few new holes in them come morning, if not them having ripped off completely. It forces your ass into a muffin top, pinching the fat into a deep divot as it tries to escape its confines.

Your back rolls are a thing of beauty, swooping and wobbling between your flabby, wide arms as they wrap all the way back around to your globe of a belly. On top of it sits your heavy chest, the girth of them pushing your arms out far enough that you can hardly ever get your arms to sit flat against your sides. Your nipples are huge, bigger than a half-dollar, and you fondle them gently, tweaking them between your fingers until the sensitive buds have you whimpering and shaking.

The front of your underwear is wet already, your legs shaking as you try to support your weight in your woozy state, but you don't want to stop looking at yourself.

In a moment of inspiration, you manage to take the mirror off your door, and you shimmy around the room, peering at your bed and back at the mirror until you put it in the perfect spot.

You step back to admire your work, pleased that, when the mirror sits across the room from your bed, you'll be able to get a perfect view of yourself laying in bed from the side.

You waddle your way over and plop yourself down. You hear something snap in the frame, but pay in no mind as you struggle to shift yourself up the mattress and against the headboard. You stretch for your blankets, taking a tentative peek out of the corner of your eye at the mirror, but then you can't stop staring.

You looked huge standing up, but sitting, your belly forced outward with no room to hang, makes you look absolutely massive. You rub your belly, watching as you wouldn't even stand a chance at trying to touch the front-most curve of it.

And deep between between your legs, under your massive belly, buried by your mountain of a fat pad, you climax for the second time that day, entirely untouched by anything other than your own obesity.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you grip your belly, your fat arms shaking as you tremble through the tail end of your orgasm, whimpering as you stare at yourself, huge as you stick up off the bed like a beached whale, and sink lower down into your pillows.

Your belly rises up above you like a mountain as well as pooling out around you, effectively pinning you in place, and you only have half the mind to wonder how you're going to roll over in the morning. Your flab spreads to your sides, and your back arches as your fat ass prevents your spine from hitting the mattress. You groan as you rub your middle and stare at your state in the mirror, pink in the face and gasping, as you look like nothing more than an orb of fat and flesh, rising and falling with your deep breathing while your stomach churns through the thousands of calories packed inside.

You close your eyes and catch your breath, whimpering as you try to hardest to feel all that food melting into fat on your body.

Below you, the bed groans, begging for mercy as your weight sags it down between its legs. You can hear the frame splintering in places, but it sends a thrill through your chest and leaves you dizzy and content. You'll call the fire department to get you up off the floor if you have to, but you're confident your stomach will be empty enough in the morning that it won't be such a task on your own.

The thought of your empty stomach makes you whimper with need, and with that, you're already thinking of what you're going to order for breakfast tomorrow. An early-morning bakery will be your first stop, of course, and you might go there yourself to pick up a basket of pastries so you can show off how you spent your Friday night.

Besides, you want to feel how hard it is to stuff yourself into your clothes and walk down the sidewalk with all the new flab caking your body.

After that, you'll probably order a brunch delivery, including stacks of pancakes, potatoes, eggs, sauteed vegetables, the whole nine yards. You might even order a few cream-heavy beverages along with a whole menagerie of fruit smoothies, because you know just one won't suffice.

You smile and rub your belly, willing it to digest faster so that heavenly Saturday morning of nonstop food can come faster, and beneath you, another few slats in your bed frame creak and snap. Another thrill rushes through your core, and you stare up at your belly, your neck bunching and breasts falling against your chin. Your legs stick straight out at forty-five degree angles, forced apart by the pools of thigh fat wrapping around them. Your arms are no better off, stuck straight out to the side as you let them fall to the mattress, barred from any other position by their girth and the splaying width of your side rolls.

Your belly rumbles, and though it might all be in your head, you feel a new layer of voluptuous fat begin to spread over the entirety of your body.