The Once and Future Fatty

Jen — gorgeous Jen with her lilting Welsh accent and dark eyes that seem to sparkle with warmth and mirth — has been your coworker for just over a year now, meaning that for just over a year you've been pining. The two of you got on like a house on fire at work, later beginning to socialise outside office hours which had only watered the crush taking root in your chest. Her dark, pixie length undercut hair and the lithe muscle of her shoulders under her casual tank tops had you hoping you were right in assuming she swung your way but that little bit of confirmation when she'd referred to an ex as she recently was nice. Still, you seize up with nerves every time you want to ask her to see these girls' nights in a different light or to lean over and kiss her like the red wine tries to convince you to when you're on her sofa watching some terrible horror film.

Every now and then, you could swear that she suddenly mirrors the attraction that you feel, her eyes starting to sparkle with excitement mid-conversation as she says something that you aren't sure if it is flirting or if you just want it to be. Sadly, your next interaction sees her back to her normal level of bubbly friendliness and you scold yourself for imagining feelings that she doesn't have for you. It's fine, you try to convince yourself. Jen is an amazing friend and you would far rather play it safe and keep it that way than gamble on something romantic and possibly lose her altogether. Besides, not doing a nerve-wracking thing is far easier than trying to gather the guts to do it.

Somehow, social media has cookie’d you, because an ad comes across your feed for a “genuine” lightwork magick spell that piques your interest. Of course you aren't expecting it to work, but you're bored of scrolling your phone late on a Saturday night and it gives you something to do with the last lemon in the bowl before it goes mouldy. Even if it achieves nothing, it only takes a few things that you already have in the flat. It'll do no harm. At worst, it'll waste a lemon and some string and you'll feel like a moron standing in front of the mirror chanting in probably mispronounced Latin. At best, it'll transform you into your crush’s perfect woman.

You don't expect a stomach ache to set in shortly after you've finished “sealing the spell” with wax. You don't expect your hand to meet swelling squishiness when you move to rub at the discomfort. You certainly don't expect to watch in utter disbelief as the gentle layer of fat over your belly puffs out until it pops out over the waistband of your pyjama bottoms, your vest top beginning to bunch up under your small chest.

When you had first started this job, your first nine to five office gig, the sedentary nature had added a few pounds to your slender frame — Jen's regularly given treats of a syrupy coffee and buttery pastry or creamy saucy pasta lunch had added a few more over the past year, but the weight wasn't so much that you weren't still considered slim.

You aren't slim anymore.

Slowly and steadily, you inflate with fat. Your pyjamas tighten around your thickening thighs, your ripening hips, as more and more belly spills out under the rising hem of your vest. The fabric stretches, struggling to contain your heaving cleavage. Turning and craning your disappearing neck to see the back rolls, love handles, and an enormous ass burgeoning bigger in the reflection, you watch in horrified disbelief as your clothes painfully tighten further and then give up the ghost, fabric shredding, seams popping. Panicked whimpers and moans bubble from your lips as you bloat past curvy, past chubby, past fat, and into obscenely obese territory. Every inch of your body is filling with lard and all you can do is watch, wide-eyed, as huge tits crown your massive hanging gut; as your arms, ballooning with so much fat that it begins drooping over your elbows, get pushed out by side rolls to make you look even wider; as your cellulite-stuffed thighs expand above the divots of your knees, as cankles bloat and bulge above swollen feet.

Finally, it comes to an end, leaving you massive and naked. Your hands — sausage-fingered and so puffy your knuckles are dents — hesitantly explore your doughy belly as though half-hoping they might phase through it, just a hallucination caused by burning lemon peel. Of course they don't — the new fat is real and heavy and sits in wobbling rolls for you to poke and squeeze and shake. Your face with new round cheeks and a greedy-looking double chin states back at you, heart thundering in your ears.

Not knowing what else to do, what else you could do, you phone Jen. It's dark as sin outside, but technically she's the one that got you into this mess in the first place so she can come and help sort it out. You don't know how to sort this out, you don't know-

“Hi?” Even gravelly with sleep, her voice wraps so beautifully around your name, you think because you are beyond help. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry it's late, but can you come over?”

“It's a bit late for a film and wine now, can it wait til tomorrow?”

“No, it isn't- I've done something stupid and I need you to come over now please.” Your voice cracks, tears beginning to well with panic and stress.

“Are you okay? What's happened?”

“I can't- it's easier to just- just to show you. I need you here as soon as you can.”

“Okay, okay, sweetheart, just give me two ticks and I'll be on my way. Just stay there.”

While you wait, you waddle out to the bathroom, your hips brushing the doorframe, to weigh yourself. It isn't the tears that leaves you unable to read the scale — it's your enormous gut, no matter how much you suck it in and try to gather the fat out of the way. Squeezing back into the bedroom, you grab your phone and try again, eventually managing to get a photo of your puffy feet and the 451.8lbs lit up between them.

Morbidly obese. Massively, stupidly, morbidly obese… and maybe attractive to Jen. God, you should be worrying about the fact that you don't own a stitch of clothing that would go over so much as a calf, or-or-or the fact that you have to show up to work on Monday like this, or-

You unlock the front door before waddling back into your room to make the bed creak under your new weight. After an agonizingly long wait, you hear Jen calling you, voice growing closer to your bedroom before her face appears in the doorway, expression changing from worry to shock as she takes in your blubbery body.

“Woah… what- what's- how?!”

“I did this stupid spell thinking it wouldn't work, but it did work, and now I weigh four hundred and fifty pounds…”

“Right, I, uh- what- what was the spell?”

“It said it would turn me into my crush’s dream woman.”

You study her reaction, the way she fails at nonchalance when she stumbles her way through asking, “Oh? Who- um, who is your crush, if you don't mind me asking?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Do you like this?”

“I- yeah, I do, I just- why didn't you tell me you liked me?”

“Because sometimes you seemed interested in me and other times not?”

“You didn't notice that I got excited every time you mentioned gaining weight or being full or needing to get a new skirt?”

“No…?”

“Ah. I suppose I should've told you I liked you, but I wasn't sure how you'd take being told you're too skinny for my tastes and I'd like to make you fat.” She chuckles nervously as she sheepishly comes over to sit beside you on the bed, her gaze hooked on your gut which hangs low enough between your massive thighs to keep you modest. “I'm so sorry, this is my fault.”

“Don't be daft, you couldn't have known I'd try a spell.”

“No, but it's my fault for being so shallow. If I could've just been satisfied with your personality, then you'd still fit into your clothes.”

You laugh at that. “But am I your dream woman now, are you- attracted to me?”

“Very much so, yes. Though I'm a liiittle disappointed I didn't get to feed you to this size.”

That flusters you, making your head spin with visions of Jen cooking you huge portions of meals laden with cream and butter, pushing snacks and treats into your mouth until you think you might burst, funnel feeding you litres of milkshake that make your swollen belly slosh, all of it helping make you softer and heavier and wider for her pleasure.

“Sorry, I need to stop being such a- pervert about this,” she scolds herself, shaking her head as though getting rid of those same daydreams to focus on you. “A-are you okay?”

“It still feels like a dream… but I suppose I'll just have to get used to it. I should've checked if it was permanent before I started, really, but I checked while I was waiting for you, and it is. So, it looks like I'll have to replace all my clothes and call in sick for- ever.” You can feel your chubby cheeks getting hot with embarrassment at your own stupidity and your enormous naked body.

“Do you have any wine?”

“Uh- yeah? I still have a bottle of red in the cupboard. Why?”

“We're going to need it. First, we'll need to list your entire wardrobe on Vinted and start ordering the replacements. In the morning, I'll contact my cousin and get her to get you signed off for a few months with a severe thyroid condition; that'll give you enough time and a believable reason to have rapidly gained a ton of weight before you come back to work.”

God, she's incredible. Pragmatic and ready to problem-solve and clearly cares about you. You'll have to leave a good review on the spell website.

“Do you… do you think there's any chance that you could show me how much you like this first?”

Compression leggings - 0

And then there’s the final message.

“You can still make this all go away. Nobody has to know about your shameless habits. All you have to do is indulge in the gluttony you claim turns you on so much. All you have to do is give in.”

- - -

This was ridiculous. Giving into blackmail is letting the terrorists win. But when you really considered it you would rather disappear off the face of the earth than let your family and friends know how often you were engaging with online feedist content. For as long as you can remember you’ve thought that plush, soft jiggly fat is the hottest thing in the entire world. But to get that fat would only be embarrassing.

To walk around with 50 extra pounds of horny induced blubber on your frame would give the game away. Everyone would know how much of a shameless horny glutton you crave to be.

But now, it seems like you don’t have a choice.

So you get to eating like there’s no tomorrow.

First you shove an entire pack of double crème oreo’s down your throat.

Then you chug a litre of coke.

You order an obscene amount of mcdonald’s.

You guzzle a couple packs of instant ramen.

Then, in your gluttonous, horny trance - you melt a tub of ice cream and drink it like a milkshake.

After a day of stuffing yourself like a hog you look down at your bloated tummy looking like it’s ready to burst, and you ponder on how little of a push it to push yourself to your limits.

- - -

After a month of stuffing yourself to the brim day in and day out, you finally got another message from your blackmailer.

“Send a pic to prove progress. Otherwise info will be released.”

You squirmed again at the thought of your family knowing about your goon habits. Gross.

So you set up a camera and set the timer.

How do you even take a progress pic for something like this?

I mean, you’ve seen hundreds of feeder’s before and after pics, but now that you’re taking one yourself you feel lost.

So you do what feels simple. Take off your shirt and turn to the side. That’s when you finally see the damage you’ve already done.

You honestly thought you had just been looking bloated, but seeing yourself on camera let’s you really see the fat you’ve packed onto your thin frame.

Your flat stomach has been replaced by a distended and tight belly. Stuffed full, but you can still see your lard jiggle as you bounce up and down. You now have back fat poking over your jeans which are stretched taut with the extra room your ass and thighs are taking up.

As you gaze at the screen you almost forget the point of this whole thing as you get lost in the allure of your own porked up frame until — flash. There goes the camera.

- - -

After an hour of staring at the screen it still hasn’t fully hit you. You stared at that progress pic you had taken a year ago, comparing it to the one you had just taken, and you can’t even recognise yourself anymore.

After a few months of stuffing yourself to the brim, the blackmail messages had ceased. But by that point you were already uploading your progress pics online, so maybe they were seeing them there.

You had gotten so lost in your own gluttonous sauce, that you had forgotten what even started this whole thing in the first place. You got so obsessed with making a pig of yourself that you had forgotten you could ever stop.

In that first progress pic you looked malnourished compared to now. Sure, you weren’t looking toned by any means, but a little belly and some thick thighs was nothing compared to the butter ball that stared back at you in the reflection on the screen.

That little tight belly now weighs you down, hanging over your stretchy shorts and pressing into your tree trunk, cellulite covered thighs. Your chunky upper arms spread out about as wide as your old thighs used to, and your thick sausage fingers fumble at the screen trying to get a better look at your skinny former self.