Feedee Kitten

But it wasn't enough. It grew, the inclination, the tendency, the innocent squeezes and pokes. Turning this way and that in the mirror, brow furrowed and crotch throbbing. You brush it off, you laugh and smirk, it's not a thing.

Yet.

And yet...

It starts to snowball. You stop going to the gym, the sight of your constantly bloated middle becoming too much of a turn on to hide. You dip greasy fingers into paper bags and pull out pure lust more times than you can count, and those whispers of sex and gorging and fat start to shout.

Then, you fall. Your muscles lie deep under swathes of softness, swaying with every lumbering footfall. You groan with aching hunger every time your mammoth stomach isn't 100% stuffed full, and you embrace each temptation for just one more bite with rippling, flabby, open arms. And with each tease, each mouthful, each handful of fat, you get more and more enamoured with your body and all it encompasses. Lust. Sex. Excess. Indulgence. Greed.

Your will was broken by your appetite and your libido, and now it's reaffirmed with each night spent in perpetual overfed bliss.

when the gravity of their gluttonous decisions literally weighs on them, when stuffing themself so full so often makes their gut begin to spill over all the time. the fact that you can heft and cradle it, jiggle and palm it easier, play with it more, squeeze and slap all that fat, watch it push out and fill their lap as they lose control with every meal and endless snacks

i love that crease that develops at the hips, with stretchmarks running up their sides at the strain from constantly eating. how it is a constant reminder that there was a before, that there's so much more of them now, and that they're only going to get bigger. the fact that they just look permanently heavy

there's really nothing like running your hands along that fold, then underneath to the underbelly. such a sensitive spot. being able to sink your teeth into it, leave hickeys on their overhang that they can't see unless they shift or look in a mirror

such a milestone to be celebrated! with more food of course

I’ve always found beauty in the quiet changes of life — the way a seedling cracks its shell with imperceptible resolve, growing from unassuming seed to delicate sprout; tightly coiled shoots of verdant flesh unfurling vibrant fronds that glimmer with confident repose.

My lover, Sara, was once a sapling: slender, careful, sharpened by years of self-restraint. But love, I’ve learned, is a greenhouse. Under its humid embrace, even guarded roots swell.

The first sign was her ring. A delicate silver band I’d sized down to fit her slim finger. I told her to wait until she fit the ring but her impatience could not be reasoned with. Within a month of the ring’s resizing, she could no longer fit into it.

She told herself, “it’s probably just hormones, a bit of swelling that’ll go away in a few days.” She left the uncomfortable ring off for a week and tried again after the water weight diminished — sure enough, it fit again! Wait, “oh no” she said to herself. It wasn’t wearable for more than an hour so she hid it away again, concealing a portent she wasn’t willing to accept yet.

A week or two later, I decide to finally ask her why she hadn’t worn her ring, joking that she must’ve lost it. She opened a drawer filled with rings and told me she thinks she’s gained a bit of weight. Almost none of her rings fit her. I feel my skin begin to flush as I look down at the rings. She began showing me how even her big rings no longer passed her knuckle. I looked down at the floor to compose myself before reassuring her that she looks amazing.

I said “Maybe it’s the summer heat that’s causing some swelling in the extremities. The same thing happens to me, especially if I don’t drink enough water.”

It was not a lie; she looked largely the same besides a subtle roundness to her face, hips, and arms, juxtaposing the petite, lithe girl I met a few months ago — but I’d be lying if I said my heart rate wasn’t piqued as I watched her struggle to fit into those rings that fit so recently.

She replied, “You think so? I guess I could be better at my water intake…”

“Of course, it’s not uncommon at all, don’t stress it.”

…

I have a feeling that feeders tend to possess greater powers of observation than most. Voyeurism seems to be an implicit aspect of our kind, except our type of voyeurism is more discrete than its usual form. We’re not watching people undress or have sex through a window; we simply observe people the same way everyone else does.

The contrast lies in our internal monologue:

“Did her side profile always have that little double chin? It seems like she no longer needs a belt for those pants… Am I crazy or have her arms started to get bigger? I know that dress is supposed to be tight but the fabric around the buttons is visibly stretching… Did she always burp this much? Wow, she really enjoys unbuttoning her pants after dinner almost every night now.”

As we progressed into a more exclusive relationship, her shift in eating habits was immediate. She was still a slow eater but a persistent one, leaving her plates empty before asking for my leftovers or another serving. With saucy dishes, she licked the dish clean, savoring every bit of flavor, punctuating a delicious meal with a modest belch.

It’s odd because our form of voyeurism is permissible — Sara’s existence is sensual to me in a way I can’t fully control, which means permissibility can easily drift into exploitation if one’s appetites lean toward excess.

I’m sure some of us relish the surreptitious aspect of this kink more than others; One might encourage a girl to wear clothes a size too small when going out, or arrange her laundry so that her large or athletic clothes are easier to access than her smaller ones, or continuously deny that you notice her weight gain despite your growing attentiveness towards her love handles and tummy while cuddling. Some might even go a step further, an awful, immoral step further, and become shameless servants to her every whim, craving, and fleeting desire.

Is it really so vile to find pleasure in giving pleasure?

To be honest, my convictions were loose from the start. I quickly took note of what her favorite foods were, what she craved when she was on her period, what time she took her lunch breaks, etc. In many ways, I simply wanted to be a loving and attentive partner. In more sincere ways, I couldn’t help myself.

I would make homemade teriyaki bowls and gyoza and take them to her at lunch, defer to what she wanted to eat for dinner whether it was takeout or cooking, never finish my plate and offered her what was left. I’d prepare whatever dessert she craved whether it was cookies, pie, brownies, French toast, etc. She never had to verbalize a craving or desire twice to me. I was and am a willing captive to her appetites, and she an eager patron of indulgence.

The rapture of our relationship concealed the growing number of changes enveloping her. Small changes began to compound. The range of her preferred clothes became noticeably smaller, as did the size of those outfits around her figure. It became a morning ritual to watch her hop and shimmy her growing thighs and ass into pants that were loose a few months ago. Belts were a necessity of a bygone era; in fact, she started to utilize the rubberband trick just to keep her pants closed as she could no longer button them. It was only a few weeks ago that I noticed her consistently unbuttoning her pants after dinner to let her tummy breathe — now her pants were lucky to still be buttoned by the time she got in the door. Large sweatshirts and baggy shirts became a necessity.

She sensed the growing softness of her body, a softness that was once a whisper capable of being shoved into a jewelry box, was now pleading to be emancipated from her strained skims. She stuffed her supple body into them, hiking the hem up below the bottom of her swelling breasts, before glancing in the mirror and realizing she still looks 7 months pregnant. “It’s bloating,” she said to herself as she hurriedly slipped into her technically socially acceptable sweatpants and sports bra (now a majority of her daily outfits).

She hurried into the kitchen, her breasts nearly bouncing out of her bra. I hand her a breakfast burrito which had become her part of her morning ritual, a habit that no doubt assisted in the colonization of her wardrobe by athletic wear. She flurried out the door before stopping and yelling “babe, can you bring me a McFlurry for my lunch today? Please?”

I smile and run to kiss her, “yes, of course, have a good day, baby.”

It’s funny that she even feels the need to ask politely. I suppose even the loveliest flowers practice humility in the morning twilight. Her soft new growth finally cresting over the edge of their stifling pot, ready to bask in the perfumed sunshine they’ve unknowingly sought since the first broadening of their leaves. Her smile was already arresting in its organic beauty; her body could commit excessive force without even touching you. Even small changes on a marmoreal body like hers could spell ruin for an empire, and I’m just a man! Yet in true Hellenistic fashion, I’d gladly follow her muse to the end of history and exalt her with my final breath.

God, I love admiring small changes, the stretch in the seams of her jeans, the steadily growing pile of clothes in our Good Will donation storage bucket, the soft imprint of her breasts spilling over the top of her outgrown bras whenever she wears thin shirts. I tell myself that I’m just a passive observer, a lover without ideology or allegiance. Perhaps this mantra protects me from the truth of my cravings, prolongs the story that I hope never ends. My denial facilitates her denial — if I’m a lover without cause then she’s a piggy without fault.

To her dismay, all of her clothes are starting to feel suffocating. Yet, she’s resistant to buying new ones — wasn’t it only a few months ago that she promised herself to get back down to 120lbs? Is she really on the verge of outgrowing her “chubby” clothes that she never even meant to keep?

At times, it seems as though she’s aware of what is happening, noticing my fascination and attention toward her growing body. She catches me looking at her belly when she leaves the shower before quickly covering herself with a towel. She notices that my hand prefers to rest on her stomach when cuddling, and in response, she’s now gently nudges my hand onto her belly without a word spoken. Sometimes she even openly acknowledges her weight gain, the tightening of her clothes, the swelling of her breasts and hips, while maintaining an almost playful tone.

We were laying in bed one night when she suddenly says, “Remember when this used to be loose?' she whispers, guiding my hands to her hips where her old 'comfy' pajama shorts now cut into her flesh. The elastic waistband had become a demarcation line, creating a soft roll of pudge that spilled over the top. I trace the deep imprints left in her skin, marking where she'd grown too plump for her loungewear. She shivers at my touch, and I pull my hand away, “sorry, didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

She says “no, it just felt… good. I like when you touch my hips, maybe you could even kiss them…”

I bend down over the roll of soft pudge that was exposed and gently kiss it. She laughs, “sorry, that tickled, maybe bite it a little, like you’re giving a hickey.”

I did as I was told, gripping her soft thigh while aggressively sucking on her love handle. She moaned. She said “Hm, that felt good, maybe you should incorporate that into your bag of tricks for next time.”

She grins and rolls over to sleep, followed shortly by a soft snoring. “Huh” I muse to myself.

A few days later, I walk into the bedroom as she’s struggling to find what fits and what doesn’t. I debate whether I should tell her about my predilections or not. I’ve given most of my self to her already, but there’s still that awkward, unspoken crumb I’ve yet to give her. Small changes go both ways, right?

As she stood in front of the mirror, sighing at the way her sweater clung to her newly rounded hips, I linger in the doorway. “You’re staring again,” she says, not turning around. Her voice was light, but her knuckles whitened on the hem of the fabric.

“Not staring,” I say. “Admiring.”

She meets my eyes in the reflection, a flicker of vulnerability in her gaze. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If this… bothered you?”

I step closer, my hands hovering at her waist. “Does it bother *you*?”

She hesitates, then leans back into me. “Sometimes. But not when you look at me like that.”

My thumbs traces the curve of her love handles. “Like what?”

“Like I’m something to worship,” she whispers.

I grip her tightly, kissing her gently on her forehead.

“You have no idea how much I worship you, Sara.”

In that moment, I tell her everything, even the voyeuristic aspect of it. I admit that my obsession with pleasing her is both an expression of genuine love and an aspect of my sexuality that I genuinely do not know how to disentangle.

“No matter what, my infatuation is not transient or dependent on a single thing other than you. I have loved you from the beginning and I’ve loved you more every day since.”

She looks up at me and chuckles “You’ve loved me everyday since because I’ve been fatter every day since?”

“Stop, I’m being serious” I say while laughing.

“I know” she whispers as she melts into my arms.

Despite revealing everything to Sara, I did not feel the relief that I hoped to feel. We went about our days as normal, not really acknowledging what had happened. I still cupped her curves when we cuddled and kissed every part of her when intimate, but there was tension that existed where none existed before. I wondered if I had ruined things. If I had ruined us.

In order to reignite our connection, I planned an elaborate date night at home that included her favorite flowers, a sparkling tennis bracelet, her favorite meal, dessert, and a movie. She seemed caught off guard when she came home, followed by gratitude. Around midnight, we lumbered to bed without much energy for sex, just cuddling.

As we laid down, I noticed her shirt rode up as she stretched, revealing a sliver of stomach. My breath caught—not at the softness, but at three faint, parallel lines glowing pink in the lamplight. She followed my gaze and yanked her shirt down. “Bug bites,” she said too quickly.

I said nothing. But that night, I dreamt of roots breaking through soil, of bark splitting to make room for new life.

The next day, Sara wondered at her body as she washed herself in the shower. With small physical changes comes small psychological changes as well, and both begin to work upon the other, gaining more and more inertia before bursting into a new, spacious expanse. Anxious excitement swelled within her as she examined herself in the mirror as she began to dress herself for the day.

For years, she kept herself closed off and focused on moving forward, occasionally allowing herself to be accompanied by one of the many suitors that buzzed around her. After experiencing abuse in her youth, finding herself warped into an object of desire for another to use, she guarded every part of herself. Beauty, pleasure, desire — these concepts were things she craved, feared, and utilized for her benefit and maturation. Her power over them meant she had power over the way others perceived and treated her.

Then she met someone that had no interest in taking away her control, instead offering himself to her. She was invited to be seen and acknowledged as a whole person and not just a delicate, pretty flower to be admired and discarded. She resisted at first, unaccustomed to being treated with sincerity and reverence. Then, she blinked. She opened her eyes and found herself in a state of abandonment, her world usurped by love — their world.

This was the catalyst that cracked the small, unassuming seed deep inside of her. Their love strengthened as the days passed, providing more nourishment for the budding flesh inside of her. Her self-confidence was rooted in a new foundation defined by security and unconditional love. Had this not been the case, she probably would not have ignored her weight gain for as long as she had. Fears over her body faded whenever loving hands massaged her back, rubbing her knotted insecurities into oblivion as he’d dig into a tense spot with one hand and conspicuously rest his other hand on her love handle, kneading with both hands as she felt herself losing all resistance… slipping away…

*SNAP*

The sound of threading ripping jolted her from her daydream. She looked down just in time to watch the button of her largest jeans shoot across the bathroom like a silver bullet, pinging off the mirror before rolling under the sink. The denim gaped open, revealing the deep creases her softening belly had worn into the fabric's stress points. She ran her fingers over the reddish indent marks stretching across her hips, she held both hands around her paunch, grasping its heft.

“No wonder these pants finally gave up” she thought as she sighed and bent down to get the button…

*RIP*

“Are you kidding me,” she couldn’t help but laugh out loud to herself as leaned up, turned around, and saw a large tear down the middle of her pants revealing her purple panties.

She remembered something I had mentioned the other day about my kink, how she kept acting out his fantasies without even realizing it. She remembered me telling her that I had to hide my erection every time she struggled to put on clothes clearly too small for her. “Hmm,” she thought, before folding the torn pants, placing them on the bathroom counter with the tear facing up, and the button resting right next to it.

Was it after the second size of jeans you outgrew? When I would put more food in front of you without asking? What about when your gym membership *magically* got cancelled? How about when I can’t keep my hands off your belly when I wrap my arms around you?

When did you decide you didn’t care?

You let me do this to you. You could have said no, confronted me, or left at any time. It only took me a month to completely destroy your regular routine. I took you out instead of meal prepping. Gave you alcohol so you’d be too hungover for the gym. I stocked your pantry with junky snacks and hid your healthy food. It’s no wonder you started putting on weight so quickly.

When did you realize you liked it?

I want to haul you in front of a mirror to show you exactly what I'm going to do to you. I want you to watch me trace my hands over every inch of your underfed body as I tell you exactly where I intend to grow you. I want to make you step on a scale to see the smallest weight you'll ever be again. I want you to feel me wrap a measuring tape around your too-narrow waist so you can remember just how small you once were.

And then I want you to watch yourself grow.

I want to bring you back to that mirror every week so you can see just how fat I'm making you. I want you to watch me squeeze every bit of new pudge, pinch every new added fold, grab every new bulging curve. I want you to watch those numbers climb on the scale as I track all the pounds I've piled on you. I want you to feel the measuring tape slide to ever-increasing lengths as you threaten to outgrow it entirely.

I want to pin old photos of your once-tiny body to the mirror so you can compare your overfed figure to what I've made you into. I want to write your starting weight in your reflection so you can see just how much lower it used to be. I want to force you into all your outgrown clothes so you can see how incredibly small they are on you now.

I want to pour pints of weight gain shake down your greedy mouth while you watch, all while I tell you just how much bigger, how much rounder, how much fatter it's going to make you.

Today’s feeder thought: tightness.

Let’s imagine we’ve ordered takeaway, the usual spread fit for a family of four. But, as usual, it’s all for you.

Let’s imagine you’ve been a really good feedee for me, and you’ve eaten it all. You’re surrounded by the destruction your appetite has left in its wake: empty boxes, wrappers, drink cups.

Now, you’re beached. The sheer quantity of food inside your belly pushes you back, lying on the bed. I place my hand on your belly, and it’s tight. Especially the upper part. It’s solid mass.

Usually, your belly jiggles. I can push, pull, run my hands all over you and through your folds. But now, you’re bloated, taut, full and tight.

Belly rubs turn into just the tips of my fingers grazing the skin stretched across your belly. You breathe light, shallow breaths, because anything deeper hurts. You can’t think or speak, only being able to lightly moan, because you’re too focussed on breathing through the tightness, focussed on your belly.

You were wearing a pair of loose joggers at the start of this meal. Their waistband is now stretched tight across your belly, pressing in against you now. For a few moments it’s painful whilst I help you take them off, but then a breath of relief as your belly is freed.

I whisper in your ear:

“You’ve done so well, I know it’s painful, but this is how you grow. This is how that beautiful belly will get bigger, how you’ll become fatter. You want that don’t you? Rest now, try to relax, and I’ll be back later with dessert.”

 “So gluttony turns you on huh?”

You have no idea. So let me give you a taste.

I can think of few things hotter than someone who can’t stop eating - who won’t stop eating - until they can’t move. Someone whose breathing quickens at the sight of food. Someone who just can’t help themselves.

Someone whose body bears the marks of their indulgence - belly softened and distended by countless huge and heavy meals, hips and thighs padded with the richness of millions of calories. A face rounded by bingeing, chins multiplied by lack of self control.

Stretchmarks make me weak in the knees because they show me that person will gorge themselves until they’re literally splitting at the seams.

Give me an eater so eager their world shrinks to the size of a laden table, who doesn’t see beyond the edge of their next plate. I want someone I can feed into a stupor, until they think only about the feel of one mouthful hitting their stomach as the next hits their tongue.

If you really want to impress me, get on all fours and eat until that belly touches the ground.

What is eaten doesn’t matter as long as it’s eaten enthusiastically and to excess. Restaurant plates piled high or bag upon bag of greasy fast food. Sweet, fattening treats or healthy, homecooked meals made for four. Eat it all for me and top it off with a gallon of melted ice cream gulped straight from the tub.

Eat until you’re panting from the pressure of your overstuffed stomach against your lungs. Until your belly bloats out into your lap, your skin stretched taut and shiny over all that you’ve stuffed into yourself.

Eat slowly, neatly, savoring every bite and letting not a single crumb or calorie go to waste. Take the time to revel in the knowledge that your gorging will only make it easier to eat more down the road. 

Or cram handfuls into your face like you can’t fill that growing belly fast enough. Stick your face right in your plate like a pig at a trough, groaning in gluttonous ecstasy.

Let yourself moan in pleasurable discomfort even as you continue to eat as though you’ll never stop.

Loosen your belt, two notches then three, until the tongue slips through the buckle. Undo the button of you pants and let the weight of your heavy gut push the zipper down.

My ideal relationship is one in which there are never any leftovers.

Show me the glutton that you are and I will tease you for your lack of self control and remind you that your unchecked greed is exactly why you got this fat. I can see exactly how much of a pig you’re making of yourself in every roll of fat hanging from your frame.

Show me the size of your appetite and I will worship the bulging belly you’ve built with it and sweetly coax you to keep going.

Eat like every meal is your last, as if the food will disappear if you don’t stuff yourself fast enough. Eat like a bear fattening up for winter. Eat up. Eat more. Eat it all.

I can barely even see your waistline anymore. Every time you beg for more food, you just get bigger, and it turns me on. You’ve pushed past your limit, but I’m not going to stop. You’re going to eat until you’re too full to even move.

My date offered to take me out to a buffet dinner earlier in the week.

A buffet dinner, to me, felt like a next step in their interest and connection through feedism. A night of excess, conversation, and a plate full of potstickers, yes, but bubbling under the surface, a devious excitement.

I couldn't wait.

Throughout the night, we coyly avoided the carefully laid plans and roles for the evening. As I filled my first plate, I noticed the edible kicking in, increasing my hunger cues and desire to try every morsel.

As I was eating, their perception and desire for me increased.

With each downward glance, I'd notice a different aspect of their perception of my gluttony.

A quick glance to my shirt, and they'd notice the crumbs forming on my chest, which recently began to catch more food on my growing breasts. Another, and they'd catch the quick flick of my tongue licking my lips as I hungrily inspect the plates around me, scheming out how I'll design my inevitable trip to the dozens of meats, fish, noodles, and desserts.

The focus and determination on the gluttony>capacity ratio being so studied and focused on throughout the night was inspiring. I teetered so close to the deep end, of diving into my carnal desire to use both hands, stuff my mouth, and make a mess as I increased the speed of my consumption.

After my fourth plate I was absolutely dripping wet with anticipation. Heading to the car was a struggle, realizing how tight my stomach was, and how my waistband was pinching into my sides.

They noticed too, sneakily grabbing my spilling love handles as we paid.

Before getting in the car, they finally said it.

A voicemail. Unexpected in this day and age, but not for him. Not for his situation. A situation entirely of his own creation, however unwilling that creation may have been. A situation he’d begun to create as early as he was aware of the curve of a woman, as soon as beauty began to catch his eye. 

His desires for more, for heft, for softness, had been ingrained in him for as long as he was aware of his capacity for attraction, and he’d lived his earlier life constantly lusting after women who couldn’t put down the fork, women the rest of society would consider beyond thick, beyond chubby, and solidly into the realms of fat. He’s found that no matter how he tried to balance his attractions, he still found himself enraptured by gluttony, by growth. By the level of greed it would require for a woman to get as big as the ones he preferred. 

He knew that his little fat fetish was beginning to become a problem, but he never thought that his less-than-common proclivities would land him in the mess he was in. Although the direct cause was a proclivity far more common: gambling. 

Just like his love of porky women fat enough to spill out of their clothes, he simply couldn’t step away from the tables, and the criminal organization that ran the casino he most often visited had decided that if he wouldn’t step, he’d be dragged. After two particularly bad weekends in a row, he promised the casino's steely-eyed head of security that he would have their money the following month. When the new month rolled around and he’d once again gambled away his paychecks, they took matters into their own hands. 

The group was well known for blackmail, even rumored to have extorted a semi-powerful local politician, and they were said to have top-notch private eyes do their dirty work, dig up secrets to hold against you until you performed their bidding. He’d felt safe, felt there was no secret they could extort, but he’d forgotten entirely about his search history, his saved videos, the folders with names like “fatties stuffing” and ‘piggy can’t stop gaining’ ‘POV: your girlfriend gets fat’, and, worst of all, ‘your girlfriend is fattened into an unrecognizable ball’. They’d discovered his sick desires and apparently decided that the perfect punishment included their exposure. 

His wife of 6 years, a beautiful, slim, soft-spoken blonde named Emily whom he’d met in college and fallen for hard despite her distinct lack of curves, had become a victim of his little problem. They snatched her in a white van on her walk home from work, and since then they’d been sending him pictures and videos of the only woman he’d ever loved being tortured. Tortured with a method he found so overwhelmingly arousing it was almost painful. They were feeding her. 

Fattening her up. Stuffing her constantly, far past her limits, and the pictures and videos were showing the toll it was taking on her. She’d begun to put on weight surprisingly quickly, and a little over a month after his first failure to pay what he owed, she’d begun to chub out significantly. He was working as hard as he could, doing everything he could think of to make money all while taking extra shifts, but all his efforts were futile. He was paying off the money as quickly as he could, but the organization added the cost of each and every morsel of food that they shoved into Emily’s plumping face to his bill, and the meals were adding up. Each day he worked a 10-hour shift only to return home to more and more footage of grizzly, tattooed gang members shoving pastries into sweet Emily’s mouth while she cried and begged them not to make her fat, begged them to let her go and stop stuffing her into a rounded sphere of food. 

The worst part of it all? Emily had no idea. No idea who they were, no idea why she’d been taken. No idea that the reason her kidnappers were bloating her up with junk and grease and pinching her swelling sides was because her own husband had a twisted kink he’d never shared with her. He was horrified, of course, horrified to see her that way, horrified to know she was scared and in pain, but it didn’t mean his interests had changed. More than once he’d had to stop a video of Emily’s torture midway through, finding himself growing far too excited to continue in good conscious. 

The head of security also left him constant, taunting messages detailing Emily’s gain and how much worse everything would get if he didn’t pay his debts. Debts that were becoming impossible to pay as Emily’s stuffing capacity increased. She could put away so much food now. He watched her in the videos, cramming fast food into her now chubby cheeks, gulping milkshakes composed of heavy cream, sugar, and olive oil for extra calories, and inhaling a box of donuts like it was nothing, and it was becoming clear that she was growing hungrier, that she could put away more and more. 

It didn’t mean she accepted the situation any better however, and each video showed her panic reaching new heights, he hands rubbing her fattening stomach as she moaned in agony and burped nonstop, unable to get out a word between the loud, long, deep belches that she clearly couldn’t control. 

He sighed. He’d just received another message from the head of security. He winced and pressed play, bracing as if for impact.

“I’m unsurprised yet still disappointed that your disregard for proper repayment of your debts has extended to a disregard for the well-being of your wife. Pity. That said, there will be no bargaining. There will be no negotiation. You’ll pay what you owe, or Emily will continue to pay for it. And she’s certainly paying for it. Just wait until you see the most recent footage, she’s really blimping up nicely. I can’t believe she could put that much away. She couldn’t believe it either. 

She kept begging us to let her go, begging us to stop forcing feeding her. She couldn’t stop touching her body and talking about how fat she was getting, talking about how helpless she was and how big we were making her. She was whining and crying. She talked about you, actually. She said ‘Please tell my husband I love him.’ How sweet. What would she say if she knew you were the reason she’s being inflated like a bloated-up prized pig? What would she say if she knew you were a sick freak who liked it, who wanted to watch her grow and grow. She probably wouldn’t love you as much then, would she? 

I want my money. Now. You have two months before your growing girl finds out why all this is happening to her.”

The promised duration passed so much more quickly than he would’ve liked, and he found himself in the exact same position he’d been in a month ago; broke. All his money went towards the debt repayment, but with the amount Emily was eating, it barely made a dent. He had nothing, had sold nearly everything he owned, but it wasn’t even close to enough. And poor Emily was facing the consequences. 

She had absolutely exploded. She was bursting with fat from every possible angle, the swollen, fatty rolls she’d grown always bulging out of the ill-fitting clothes they gave her. Her little belly had ballooned into a perpetually bloated gut and protruded further and further forward, and her arms had transformed into wobbling fatty hams. Her thighs were dangerously thick, and she’d grown so fat and so lazy that she’d begun to struggle to get up on her own, begun to pant heavily just from the workout of stuffing her face. 

She ended each night eating herself stuck on her back like a beached whale, her bare gut mounding up into the air and wobbling lightly with each movement despite how packed it was. She still begged her captors for release, for a respite from the caloric onslaught, and while his heart was breaking for her, he found it difficult to ignore just how luscious she was becoming, how she was beginning to look like the gainers in the videos he used to watch. Now, with his time run out, all he could do was wait. He knew what was coming.

Finally, around 6pm, the text came, a video attachment, just as he’d expected. The clip began with moaning, as many of Emily’s stuffing clips did, but this one was special. As he watched, his now enormous wife heaved herself into a standing position, every roll of flab on her body jiggling incessantly as she fought desperately against the gravity that was weighing her mass down. 

“Here piggy piggy,” an off-camera voice called tauntingly.

She waddled slowly towards the voice, grunting from the effort as the blubber coating her body undulated and her fattened thighs rubbed past one another.

She finally stopped after a few feet that took her far longer than it should’ve, then sighed and held out a hand.

“What do you want?” asked the voice.

“I want my donut,” Emily admitted quietly, still panting lightly. “You promise if I walked over here I’d get a donut.”

The voice laughed, and a donut was handed to Emily which she devoured greedily. 

“Say hi to your husband,” the voice instructed once she was licking her fingers.

She looked up, confusion etched all over her unrecognizably swollen face.

“My husband?“ she repeated.

“In fact,” the voice went on. “Thank him. Thank your husband for turning you into an overfed pile of blubber so fat she can barely waddle.”

“What?“ she repeated breathlessly, clearly too shocked to properly respond. 

“This is all because of him,” the voice confirmed. Every pound you gained. This has always been his fantasy, his ultimate desire. And now he made it happen. With you.”

“This was his fault? He did this to me?” she whined, grabbing a handful of her blubbery belly in a tubby hand. “He turned me into a bloated, burping tub of lard?”

She was handed another donut, and despite her words, began to eat it right away. 

“I’m so fat,” she groaned through a mouthful of sugary dough. “I’m such a fat hog.”

“You sure are,” the voice confirmed cloyingly. “Just like he wanted.”

“I can’t believe he did this to me,” she repeated, shaking her flab more aggressively. “I can’t believe he turned me into a walking pile of fat. This is so humiliating. I’m disgusting.”

“He doesn’t think so,” the voice corrected. “A few more pounds and you’ll be his wet dream. Talk into the camera. Tell him you’re gonna get even fatter.”

“No!“ she protested, once again licking her fingers. 

“Do it, piggy, or no more donuts.”

She pouted. 

“Fine.”

She turned to look directly into the camera. 

“I can’t believe you’re the one that did this to me, I can’t believe that the only reason I got this fat is cause you like it. This is all so humiliating. I just can’t stop-“

She burped loudly, interrupting herself. 

“I just can’t stop eating,” she finished. 

The camera turned, and the image of his porked-up wife was replaced by the intimidating visage of the casino's head of security.

“We’re gonna fatten her into immobility,” he promised. “You had your chance to pay your debt. Now Emily will. She’ll pay with every bite.”

The org member laughed and the screen went dark, leaving him to consider his own reflection and the terrible, titillating fate he’d just resigned Emily to.  

*I hope you enjoyed this commission! This was a pretty different story for me but it was really fun to write, I may rework the first chapter for pacing and expand it into a full series depending on whether or not my Patreon readers are interested. For more weight gain fiction, weight gain series, weight gain audios, weight gain POVs, weight gain roleplay, and personalized weight gain commissions, you can check out my Patreon! I have a ton of tier options for whatever you may be looking for. Thanks so much for reading:)*