I’m Fat

I want you so spoiled, that you become entitled. Any moment spent without a full belly, or delicious, decadant food in your mouth feels like abuse, because a constant stream of goodies has made gluttony feel like breathing

I want you dumb, even though you once were a genius. I've taken care of everything, made all choices for you that aren't driven by immediate pleasure, leaving you with only when to cum or what to eat, so that you've forgotten how to hold a real thought

I want you fat in the way that pounds and BMI can't convey, where the only thing the few people who see you can think is fat, like you've outgrown your human identity and become nothing more than a wheezing pile of lard

I want you unfit, barely able to move. Your atrophied muscles hardly able to hold yourself up, aching with effort to waddle your obese self around even using your walker

You put the heavy cream in front of me like it was a challenge you already knew I would lose.

Three liters.

Thick, cold, sweet, heavy.

I laughed at first, trying to act like it was impossible, like my body wasn’t already curious, like my belly didn’t already know what was coming.

But then you picked up the belt.

“Put it around your belly.”

So I did.

I tied it tight enough to feel every breath press against it, every little movement reminding me there wasn’t much room left to grow. My stomach was soft under my hands, rounder than before, already sitting heavy in my lap.

Then you looked at the cream.

“Drink.”

The first few swallows were easy.

Too easy.

Cold richness sliding down, filling me slowly, making my belly feel warmer and heavier with every second. I could feel it settling inside me, thick and loud, moving when I shifted. You noticed before I said anything.

“You can hear it, can’t you?”

My face got warm.

I could.

Every time I breathed, every time I leaned back, I felt the cream inside me. Heavy. Sloshing. Claiming space.

The belt started to press harder.

At first, it was just tight.

Then it became impossible to ignore.

My belly pushed forward against it, growing rounder, fuller, more trapped with every swallow. I tried to adjust it, but you stopped me.

“Leave it.”

So I did.

I kept drinking for you, even when I had to pause, even when my body hesitated, even when little burps slipped out and made you smile like you were proud of what you were doing to me.

By the end, I was the biggest I had ever felt.

Round, heavy, swollen with cream, my belly pressing so hard against the belt that when I finally took it off, there was a red mark left behind on my skin.

Proof.

I lay back on the sofa, completely beached, breathing slowly, one hand resting on the curve of my stomach while you watched me from every angle.

I should have felt embarrassed.

Instead, I felt massive.

Spoiled.

Full in a way that made my whole body feel slower.

And when you asked if I would do it again, I didn’t even pretend to think about it.

I just rubbed my belly, felt the cream move inside me, and smiled.

I want nothing more than to watch you try to resist. I want to see you ache for that slim waist you used to have, tormenting yourself with a diet we both know you can't keep. But what I crave most is the exact moment you break.

Imagine coming home, utterly spent, only to find the pantry and fridge bursting with every sweet, decadent temptation I bought specifically to ruin you. I want to walk in and find you soft, flushed, and half-dressed in the glow of the open refrigerator—hopelessly losing yourself to a half-empty carton of ice cream, a silver spoon heavy in your hand. I want to watch your throat work as you swallow, your lips sticky and sweet, completely helpless to your own hunger while you stuff that beautiful, softening body.

The ambient lighting of the upscale dining room does nothing to hide the soft, heavy expanse of your body as we walk in. Even before we sit, your tight satin top is straining, the fabric stretched white across the plush curve of your belly. The hostess’s eyes dart from my lean frame to your ample, heavy form, her polite smile faltering as she evaluates whether we fit the elegant aesthetic of the room. Whispers ripple from a nearby table, couples exchanging looks of shock and fascination at the sheer contrast between us. They look at us with judgment, but it only fuels the dark, thrilling dynamic we share.

Sliding into the plush velvet booth is an immediate challenge. As you press your weight down, the tight bench forces your flesh upward, and your stubborn top immediately rides up, exposing a heavy sliver of your soft, bare midriff to the room.

When the appetizers arrive—crispy calamari, rich pork belly, and baked brie—I slide them all to your side of the table. I take only a single, teasing bite before pressing my hand flat against your warm, tight stomach. It’s already round and firm to the touch.

“Don’t worry, piggy," I whisper, leaning across the table as your breathing deepens. "This is just the beginning."

By the time the main courses land, the table is a decadent battleground of carbs and protein: two bowls of rich, cream-laden pasta, a massive ribeye steak with a mountain of buttery mashed potatoes, and twin lobster tails swimming in clarified butter. The waitress’s hands shake slightly as she sets down the feast. She looks down at you in sheer disbelief; your top has completely surrendered, riding all the way up to the underside of your breasts, leaving your massive, expanding belly entirely bare and glistening under the chandelier light.

Passersby don't even pretend to look away anymore. They stare in rapt fascination at the sight of you—a beautiful, soft glutton mindlessly consuming every rich bite while my fingers slowly, possessively trace the stretched skin of your stomach.

An hour passes in a haze of heavy breathing and rhythmic chewing. You’re huffing, your cheeks flushed red as you stuff every remaining ounce of rich food into your rapidly swelling torso. Your pants are digging mercilessly into your soft hips, the button crying out under the immense pressure. You let out a breathless, heavy moan, looking at me with pleading eyes.

"Can I please be done?" you whimper, rubbing your hand over the tight, aching dome of your stomach.

I lean back, a dark smile playing on my lips. "Hush now. You've never been one to turn down dessert."

I snap my fingers, and within minutes, every single dessert on the menu is laid out before you: molten lava cake, towering cheesecake, and a deep-dish apple pie. For a second, your face shows pure exhaustion, but it quickly melts into a look of flushed, primal pleasure. You moan through the ache of stretching your limits even further, your fork moving in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

The hostess finally returns to our table, her face tight with disapproval as she quietly asks us to leave to maintain the ambiance. Your belly is so huge now it’s practically resting on top of the mahogany table.

"We’ll leave discreetly," I tell her smoothly, "just as soon as she finishes her pie."

The hostess hesitates, unnerved by the sheer hedonism of the scene, but nods and steps back. I take the fork from your trembling, sticky fingers and feed you the last three massive, decadent bites myself, watching your throat swallow them down.

When it’s finally time to go, the real struggle begins. You try to shimmy out of the booth, but your heavily stuffed, bloated body is completely wedged between the table and the bench. Your shirt is rolled all the way up, completely exposing the massive, rounded sphere of your midsection, and the seams of your trousers are audibly popping.

I take your hands, bracing my feet as I firmly pull you out of the tight space. The moment your feet hit the floor and you try to stand upright, the strain is too much. With a sharp, loud pop, the button on your pants flies off, and the zipper splits completely open. Your entire, gorgeously overstuffed belly cascades outward, hanging heavy and free over the ruined waistband.

I want to dominate you completely, binding you helplessly to a chair, your wrists and ankles secured as I take total control of your pleasure. I want to slowly, relentlessly feed you—funneling rich, velvety ice cream, thick milkshakes, heavy cream, and sweet, bubbling soda down your throat until your belly is beautifully stretched and you’re breathlessly begging me to stop. Only when you are completely stuffed to capacity will I reward you, whispering breathless praise for your delicious, gluttonous surrender.

I want to reduce your entire existence down to a single, intoxicating number on the scale. Every morning, I will weigh you, tracing the new soft curves of your flesh. If the numbers don't meet my demanding expectations by nightfall, you will be exquisitely punished, reminding you exactly who owns your appetite. Notice how I say our desires—because we both know how intensely this excites you. You ache for the thrill of your own expansion just as much as I crave every new pound and silver stretch mark blooming across your gorgeous, changing body.

As giving and caring a feeder could be, I'd still be relegated to some background presence. Only as good as the food I bring. Only as good as the chores and caretaking I offer.

Each passing day is a success by keeping her in bed. Any ambition snuffed out by a steady snack and meal regimen. Laziness becomes a trait, an identity. You don't "get" to eat in bed all day long. It's who you are. It's what you do.

I want that liberating feeling that every single action I take is turning someone into a blob. I want to strip away all the social grace. She HAS to have food in reach at all times. She HAS to be a bit unpresentable.

Erode her sensibility. There's no guilt to how bad these habits are, because any outside voice has long been silenced and removed. It's not bad that you are overstuffed and still hanging your mouth open when I hand feed you. Who's going to say it's wrong? Who's going to stop you? Who's going to stop me?

It'll all settle once your body eventually makes the decisions for you. It isn't a choice to stay indoors when the thought of lumbering across the house is unthinkable. Any whimsical ideas of going out into the world disappears. Why fantasize about the impossible?

All that's left is to keep eating and growing. The obscene reality that you haven't had a weight plateau in months and years isn't a problem. It's normal to feel your body take up more space in more inconvenient ways. Thighs too heavy for your legs to move. A belly that pins you down. Heavy arms and a heaving chest that dominates your field of vision. Even a neck and face so thickened by fat that you begin to forget what you used to look like.

i want you bigger. lazier.

i want you hungrier. i want you going to bed each night stuffed, and waking up each morning a little softer and puffier than the day before. shirts fitting tighter, pants becoming harder to button.

i want you desperate. constantly craving, constantly thinking about eating and getting fatter. when you’re not eating, i want you thinking, fantasizing about it.

and when you do eat, i want you giving in to it completely. mindlessly swallowing thousands of calories, moaning as you eat. oinking when you’re finished. i want you losing track of yourself, focused solely on the taste of the food and the feeling of your gut filling up until it aches.

so helpless and pig-brained that it’s all you think about. all you desire. and maybe you’re dimly aware of the fact that you can’t stop. maybe part of you knows that your level of addiction is unhealthy, and that every stuffing just feeds into it more and more. that every time you get turned on by stuffing yourself, or by playing with your fat, or even just by observing the changes to your body as you gain, you push yourself deeper and deeper down the path of no return.

but any concern or self-awareness is far overshadowed by the pure pleasure you’re chasing. the pleasure of being overstuffed to the point of discomfort, of waking up bigger the next day. tighter clothes, and the feeling of soft fat as it clings your body. all of it just feels too good. you can’t help yourself. you can’t stop, and you don’t want to (though you and i both know that wanting to wouldn’t change anything).

i want your gluttony to consume you until it dictates every choice you make. i want you huge. hopelessly addicted. make yourself a symbol of gluttony, a cautionary tale to ordinary members of society.