Definitely a Gainer

(Don’t say I didn’t warn you. CW: implied weight gain. slob. sensory descriptions. encouragment.)

I hate to break it to you, but you’re going to be such a slob when you get fat.

I know, I know, you’re not actually going to be that sloppy, surely those folks just don’t care about their appearance, and a nice, put-together fatass is pretty hot anyway, right?

Sorry, but I just don’t think that’s going to be you. I’m sure you’ll start with great intentions, you might even try to keep up your clothes with your rapidly expanding body, but sooner or later everything is going to catch up with you.

Do you think you’re going to want to buy new clothes when you outgrow your shirts again, especially as your appetite necessitates that food budget ballooning? Or will it be easier to let your standards just…drift a little?

It might start small - you wouldn’t normally wear a shirt that makes your tits that prominent, but maybe it’s okay just for a few weeks to wear ‘em a little taut, maybe Christmas is coming up and that holiday indulgence can get covered up with some money afterwards, and you can get away with wearing an extra sweater (that’s also tight…)

You’re already used to that feeling of you being stuffed into clothes like a sausage, it makes it easier to accept when you notice that your shirts sort of rest on top of your belly, coming to rest just past your overhang, making you look even bigger - it’s not like you dislike the look, and even though you’re supposed to make sure the hem of your shirt reaches your pants, you swear you just bought this shirt a few months ago, and you’re hoping it at least lasts a year or so…so you let it go.

Of course, once all your shirts start fitting like that, it might take you a bit longer to notice when a sliver of belly starts showing, too - at first, it’s your tightest shirts, and only when you raise your arms. You probably won’t even notice until you catch yourself stretching in a mirror as you’re about to head out. Of course, you’re already dressed at that point, and you don’t want to to dirty another shirt with your natural sweat…and that little give, that little relaxation, starts gaping wide open once that sliver shows itself more and more, and starts growing into an omnipresent curve instead.

What’s that? Oh, you’re not naturally sweaty? That’s okay. Fat-You will be. Don’t believe me? You know that hot, sticky feeling of skin-on-skin, friction meeting body heat meeting perspiration, the kind that happens when getting intimate with someone while naked? Imagine that feeling across every inch of your yielding flesh.

Maybe it starts with your overhang pressing into your thighs, a joyful blossoming that’s also met with a new sweat patch. Or maybe your side rolls will start accumulating, sagging fat pressing into itself and trapping heat. There’s always the classic, too - fattened, increasingly insulated arms pressing against the sides of your fattened tits (the ones pressing into the front of your shirts), warmth and heat trapped in your new, space heater body. Eventually, your thighs will fight for space with your crotch fat too, you’ll have to fat-spread when you sit just to give a chance of getting some air.

Oh, you can try mitigating some of it - wearing extra layers (which obscure the sweat stains but insulate you even further), or caking yourself in deodorant. But face it. You’re going to be a sweaty fucking pig. Might as well enjoy it.

Speaking of those layers, you’re going to start to understand what fat fucks dress the way they do as you pack on the pounds. That aforementioned clothing budget is made a little easier with some elastic sweatpants, because at least your fat, blubbery ass won’t start hanging out of them for a little longer than usual. (Wondering what happens when you blow out the waist from over stretching? Yup, plumber’s crack.)

And even when you can find clothes that fit, you’ll find that taste goes down as Xs go up - did you think all big folks had no fashion sense? Nah, it’s because the only clothes that go past 3XL tend to be the most painfully generic brand T-shirts. You know the ones.

’Kickin’ it old skool’ in Comic Sans. Stock photo of an NES.

Star Wars Font:** ‘Big Daddy.’ **Clip Art Darth Vader.

Cartoon dog pointing. Speech Bubble: ‘VAXXED?’

Similarly, the act of bending over is going to go from difficult to untenable in the span of a few binges, and you’re going to love the ease of slipping into some cheap flip-flops once the thought of lacing a pair of shoes leaves you breathless.

Oh, yeah. Breathless. You’re going to have that fat fuck mouth breathing habit crop up, and it’ll get harder and harder to hide once a short walk leaves you winded, and walking and talking gets harder than it used to be.

Not even the most cartoonish acts of slovenly decadence will be completely obscurable - as that overhang grows, as that belly you’re going to be so proud of starts to fill your lap, you’re going to have an expanse to cross to get food to your mouth. And you know what that means, right? That’s right, tubby: food stains.

All of it will start to pile up - the stretched clothes and strained waistbands, the lethargy and the sweaty exertion, the sheer urge to no longer give a fuck…maybe you’ll start to realize - all those little things, that extra effort at your weight, will all be to try and placate people who don’t want to see past your size, to cater to tastes you don’t even share, to fit a model for your life you deliberately outgrew two sizes ago.

Then, you’ll realize - maybe those other fat fucks you’ve seen, maybe they haven’t given up. Maybe they merely chose to no longer squeeze into those imaginary rules. Maybe they’ve escaped.

Maybe that’s the feeling you’ve been chasing ever since you decided to get fat.

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First person feeding video with some help 😋

rough animation based on last piece

So you’ve decided to become a gainer.

This is you now. A 170 pound 20 year old man. Lean. Fit. Curious. And boy are you hungry.

It starts by obsessing over other men’s weight. You notice every change in men’s bodies. Your father has put on a beer gut. Your college classmates start wearing sweatpants all the time. Their lovehandles pop out in shirts. The skin around their flat stomachs becomes soft and plump. No change in weight is too small or subtle. You notice it. And you want it. 

You research it. Google “how to get fat on purpose.” “Best ways to gain weight.” “Highest calorie foods.” “Men who gain weight.” “How to gain weight fast”.

Get erect. All this excites you. And you know you need it. One day, the decision is made. You will get fat on purpose. You will force your body to get as big and plump and bloated and chubby and saggy and puffy and fat as you want. It will never be enough but at least it will be something. That day, you overeat intentionally. An extra burger from McDonalds. A pint of Ben and Jerry’s. A six pack of beer. You are stuffed and satisfied and horny. You jerk off that night feeling your bloated gut. You love the sensation. You must do this again and again and again. 

The first 10 pounds comes easy. You barely need to try. A little here, a little there, eat like a man. Finish an entire large pizza to yourself. Ice cream after. And beer. Your pants get snug. You fill out a little bit. No one notices. But you noticed. And now you realize how much more you’ll need to feel anything. This is not enough. 

190 pounds. 

No longer thin, but not noticeably fat. Just a little soft. Some call you beefy. You’ve been exploring more ways to gain. Drink a gallon of whole milk a day. You can barely move after. You push your gut out as far as it will go. The pressure is incredible. The liquid sloshes in your belly. Hard to go to the gym this way, so may as well stay home and snack. 34in jeans fit better now. You’re liking the bloat. Decide to keep it bloated every day. If you can eat until you’re stuffed bloated every day, surely you will gain weight fast. And you do.

200 pounds. 

These first thirty pounds have happened so easily. Too easily? You don’t feel like it’s any different. But it is. You are softer all over. You hate cardio and never jog anymore. Large shirts hug your budding belly. People can see your deepening belly button through your shirt. You always clean your plate, out of habit now. People offer you food, knowing you’ll never say no. You are a big guy now. He’s a beefcake. “hey big guy.” The other guys call you “thicc” and “meaty.” But you want more than that. And you will get it. 

215.

Eggnog chugs. Boost chugs. 12 packs of beer. Mass Gainer. Heavy Cream. Jars of peanut butter. Extra olive oil. You need MORE and you want it now. The next 15 pounds come fast. No amount is too much for you. You film all this now. You want a record of your progress. You pat your chubby ball gut in satisfaction. You find fat in places you didn’t realize got fat. That area around your cock is puffy and soft. The side of what once was your muscular pec is now dimpled and flabby. Your inner thighs. Your back. Softer. 

230.

Your gains are obvious. It’s been 60 lbs and two years. But college does that to people. Your parents realize your party lifestyle has impacted your diet. You’re not a high school jock anymore, but hey, why not enjoy college? You’ve graduated and you want help to keep growing. Meet up with a feeder. He’s older than you. Potbellied. Clearly he’s put on weight himself. He opens the door in his underwear. You are shy. But your gut poking through your large tee and your lovehandles spilling over your jeans are all he needs to see to know you’ve been doing plenty of damage to yourself without his help. He intends to fucking destroy you. And he will.

This is when it gets intense. He makes you open the fridge where a gallon tub of ice cream has been melting into a vat of chocolatey goo. You will drink it all and he will make you do it sitting in front of the mirror naked.You gets you high on marijuana and poppers. You step on the scale and realize in erotic satisfaction that you have put on 4 pounds instantly. 

Your gut has never been more full. You are more erect than you have ever been. You have never felt SO GOOD.

He has you now. Addicted. Welcome to gaining, pig.

250.

 There’s no going back now. Your gut is distended and chubby and bloated all the time. And you are PROUD of it. Bright red stretchmarks have erupted across your round, soft, stomach and lovehandles. They remind you of your progress and you love them. You want more. You look like a fat guy now. Your face is puffy and round. You never go to the gym anymore. You can’t hide your weight gain in the baggiest of clothes. A double chin has formed so you grow a scraggly beard to cover it. Clothes do not fit you the same. You look… disheveled. And you do not care. All you CARE about is getting MORE. 

You are becoming a proper hog.Your feeder has done some serious damage and you love it. You obey him. You trust him. He wants you fatter, and you oblige. Each session is intense and he’s pushing your limits. The challenge is so erotic, you don’t even realize the changes that are occurring. You just know you want more. You are his slob now. A greedy, hungry, gainer. You are transforming. But it is still not enough. You cannot stop now.

270.

You have gained 100 pounds. Or have you? You still look so skinny in the mirror. You’re pudgy, MAYBE. Definitely not fat. There are way more guys that are fatter than you, and they aren’t even trying. You must gain more. Your family is concerned. 100 pounds in five years is a lot. “You should get back in the gym.” “Lay off the beer.” “Too many sweets and fast food.”

This only motivates you more. You’ll show them just how big you can get. Next time they see you, they will be horrified; you will make sure of that. 

Your feeder is proud of his pig, and you need him more than ever. He pushes you to gorge unrelentlessly. New creative ways to pump you full of calories. Your skin is always tight. Every time you feed, you think, “I’ve never been this full.” Yet you crave more. Your cock throbs as you play with your soft underbelly. It sags now over your waistband, no matter what kind of pants you wear. Your ass cheeks are soft and dimpled. Your lovehandles are embarrassingly wide. People look at you funny. When you eat in public, people are grossed out. 

300.

You run into an old college classmate who has himself gained weight. He barely recognizes you with the double chin and the beard and the waddle. You converse. He says “I guess we all put on a little weight after college” as he pats your soft, flabby belly just above your navel. This excites you. But you play it off. “Yeah work keeps me busy. No time to exercise and I just love trying new restaurants.”

The truth is, you don’t care what food tastes like. You will chug anything, stuff anything into your fat face that your feeder tells you to. You are his now. He is the only person you are attractive to now. Too fat for normal men. You are now an acquired taste. Only chubby chasers and encourages want your sweaty, waddling, bloated, curvy body. 

330.

You are in denial. "It’s not that much, I think I want another 50 pounds.“ 

The statement is laughable on its face. You are a blubbery mess of a man. This is what addiction does to you. You can’t even realize that 160 pounds of pure lard packed onto your once-thin frame is a lot. Nothing fits you anymore. You are always out of breath. People you used to know do not recognize you. You’ve given up all your hobbies except the only one that matters: Gaining. 

Gaining is the only thing you want. The only thing you think about. The only thing that gets your cock hard. And you must have more. 

350.

You film yourself naked eating a pie on all fours. Sniff poppers. Then slam back two pints of melted ice cream. The flavor doesn’t matter. It drips out the side of your mouth and over your fat tits. Your nipples are swollen and sensitive. You love having your tits played with. Oink Oink. You reach under your heavy soft overhang and pull it up. Jiggle it for your camera. Burp. Slap your gut.

You masturbate to these videos you film of yourself. You are shocked when you look back at your video at 250 and think “WOW I was so thin back then.” Reality is, 250 was NOT thin. But your perception of what is fat, what is thin, is so distorted by your fetish that it’s completely disconnected from reality. 

400.

Your feeder laughs and pats your gut as the scale reads 400 for the first time.

You are fatter now than he has ever been. 

“How do you feel, pig?” he says, grinning, and with his cock leaking precum in his underwear. 

“I feel… small. Like I need another 50 pounds,” you respond as you rub the soft hanging part of your belly. “And I’m still hungry.”

He loves hearing that. He sits you down in front of the mirror and watches as you drink a Boost VHC. 500 calories a piece. 

Drink another.

And another.

And another.

2000 calories. 

“Feel better pig?“ 

“yes sir.” you respond. 

As you look in the mirror, you let out a satisfying burp and jiggle your heft. Everything wobbles on you now. What you see back doesn’t shock you, but it should.

You think: What have I become? What have I done to myself? Why do I still feel so small?