“What did we agree?” your boyfriend demands.
You look down at your soft bulging belly and at the impossible gap between button and loop.
“What did we agree?” he demands again.
Tears well. You rub your hand along the flabby curve of your waist, “ That you would tease and humiliate me as much as you wanted if I didn’t lose weight by March.”
“That’s right, fatty, and what day is it today?”
“March first.”
“And how’s your diet going?”
“I’ve gained ten more pounds,”
“That’s right Krispy Kreme, you’ve gained TEN more pounds − on top of the 60 you’ve put on since we moved in together a year ago.”
You blush. Shame burns your ears, dries your throat. All you want to do is stuff your greedy belly and get yourself off. You love it when he humiliates you: God, if he only knew.
“I’m in charge now,” he continues, “you do as I say or we’re through, do you understand?”
“Yes,” you reply shakily. He walks to the dresser and rummages in the bottom drawer, “Here, put this on.”
“I c-can’t fit into that, that’s from when we first met.” He holds out the t-shirt to you, “I KNOW it’s from when we first met, tubby, and you CAN fit into it − it just won’t cover the extra 70 pounds of blubber you’ve put on.” You feel your dick get harder and harder.
“Please, I’ll start exercising, I promise.”
“Nope. Too late, porky, those days are gone. From now on you’ll be humiliated and tempted with your favorite foods nonstop. It’s totally up to you whether you lose weight or not. If you don’t develop some will power, you’ll be absolutely huge by this time next year. I’m tired of hearing about diet, diet, diet. I’m not going to offer you a bit of help − other than to remind you how ***ing fat you’re getting. You need to learn restraint.”
“But…but, you know what a sweet tooth I have,”
“Of course I do,” he says grabbing a roll of fat and giving it a shake, “some weaknesses get harder and harder to hide. But I don’t care, I’m going to load the house with all your favorites. The cupboards and fridge will be groaning with food. The size of your ass is now totally dependent on you . Any new bulge I see, any jiggle, will be grabbed, pinched, poked, slapped, and commented on. Any roll that sticks out further than it should will get the same treatment. Now wedge yourself into that t-shirt, fatty, we’re going to In and Out.”
You stare out the car window trying to ignore how turned on you are. 207 pounds. Wow. I have gained a lot. Excitement creeps into your solar plexus.
“Good thing this truck has bench seats, eh fat boy? I don’t think we’ll be able to get that wide back porch of yours into anything else.” You blush. He whips the truck into the lot and continues to tease,
“Ok piggy, get out and jiggle your *** around to my side.”
You do as your told. Your fat wobbles, wobbles wobbles as you walk around to his side. Each step jiggles your inner thighs, ripples your soft tummy. You’re getting so turned on it’s hard to think. The too-small t-shirt rides up, the fabric of your shorts strains, your thighs rub.
“Turn around with your back to me,” he says. He takes a wide-tipped black marker and spells out loud what he writes on the small of your back, “2−0−7−L−B−S. There,” he laughs, accentuating the period after “lbs.” with a sharp tap. “Now everyone will know. Waddle in there, you fat chubby hog, and order four double burgers.”
Tiny sweat beads tickle your skin. Your boxer briefs are soaked. Trembling lightly, you turn and jiggle-walk your way to the entrance. You give a short sigh of relief: There’s no one in line and only a few customers seated. As you approach the counter, the cashier’s eyes widen slightly. He stifles a laugh. “Uh, may I help you?” Your soft, jutting belly pushes against the counter.
“Yes,uh, uhm, four double-doubles please.”
You hear a man on a cell phone get in line behind you.
“I know, so then he, he, he… - oh. my. god. Can I call you back?”
Your throat tightens. Then comes the weighted silence. He stares at the writing across your chunky love handles then clicks his camera phone and gleefully taps out a text − to god-knows-who − with a photo of the fat pig at In and Out attached. You redden with embarrassment. You finally get your order. Sweating, rock hard, flushed, you waddle back to the truck trying desperately to suck in your flabby belly.
Your boyfriend smiles as you settle into your seat, “Wow, you look really fat in that outfit, you should have seen the looks you were getting.” The food warms your lap, the cardboard box tickles the edge of your belly. And your boyfriend slides closer.
“Let’s go home,” you beg.
He begins kissing your neck and playing with your soft pig rolls, “not until you have a couple bites, come on, just a few bites,” he nips lightly at your ear, “you can always start losing weight tomorrow. Why not celebrate a little?”
For a split second you actually believe to you can resist the smell of seared meat, melted cheese, grilled onions. Your desire gives way. The first burger vanishes in two bites, another follows. Your boyfriend laughs and fondles a bloated love handle as you cram your face full: Burger, grunt; burger, moan; burger, BELCH. Grease drips onto your swelling gut. He gives your bloating pot a firm slap, “That’s it you greedy pig,” he whispers, “ stuff those burgers in there.”
“Oh god, this is so good,” you gasp, “I’m such a ***ing pig, I can’t help it.”
Ten minutes later you lay back and belch again loudly. Wadded wrappers lay at your feet, the empty, greasy box still on your lap. Your greedy hog belly swells before you in a straining arc. Your boyfriend kisses your mayo-smeared cheek and smiles, “I really admire your discipline, I can’t wait to watch those pounds just melt away.”
He laughs, pulls the truck out of the lot and noses into traffic. Each road bump reminds you of what a greedy cow you are. You spread your thighs to make room for your packed gut; the truck hits a pot-hole; the seat of your shorts gives way. You’re too stuffed to care. Another loud belch.
After a quick stop at the store, you’re home. You struggle out of the truck and waddle toward the house looking 11 months pregnant. Your boyfriend tickles your dimpled ass through the split in your shorts.
“Goodness, piggy, look at the size of that ass you’re growing.”
All you can do is moan. You want him to leave; you need to come so badly and his teasing is only making it worse. You plump your wide bottom down on the couch and roll lazily to your side. He hums as he puts away the groceries - just like he said, it’s all your favorite junk. You hear the crinkle of cellophane tearing and plastic sliding on the counter. You moan and rub your tight belly.
“Here, have one, it’ll settle your tummy,” he says, handing you a white-chocolate covered Oreo.
“Oh god,” you say with labored breath, “You’re evil.”
He laughs again, “ I’m going to Jeremy’s to have a few beers, the rest of that package is open on the counter, make sure to put it away if you don’t want any.”
You roll your eyes at him; he kisses the tip of your nose and leaves. As soon as you hear the sound of his truck fade, you’re on your feet, then at the counter. You yank your shorts down, lift up your belly, and grab your dick that’s already dripping with precum. You stuff oreos three at a time.Your cheeks bulge, your gut tightens: sugar, mmmm; humiliation, ohhhh; the heavy tug of your bloating belly − you cum and cum and cum.Months pass and the humiliation continues. The pounds pile on in a feverish cycle: eat, gain, humiliation. Each one causing an increase in the next. Your belly now sticks out well past your man boobs, your love handles bulge obscenely, packed with fat (only making them prone to more pinching.) When you sit, your ballooning ass presses up, only half covered now by your pants, pushing your back fat into obvious rolls.
On some Thursday morning, you wake slowly, stirred by the smell of cinnamon rolls warming and bacon frying. You struggle into your tight robe and tie the cloth belt − the robe doesn’t close. Your exposed belly jiggles like soft pudding as you waddle towards the breakfast table. Your boyfriend smiles at the gapped robe, reaches out and waggles a thumb and finger’s worth of the exposed fat. You sit to eat and your boyfriend wraps his arms around you from behind. He kisses your ear and grabs handfuls of your fat stomach, “Goodness sweetie, you’re getting so fat, look at all this pork.” He lifts and bunches your fattened hog belly with both hands and shakes it. He slowly tightens the cloth belt, squeezing your huge belly out even further. He nuzzles your neck and slowly slides a strong finger into your deep belly button.
“Mmmmm, baby, stop,” you say, not wanting him to stop at all.
“Guess who I talked to this morning,” he asks and doesn’t wait for your reply, “Logan. He’s agreed to help you lose some of this extra chub you’ve put on.” He grabs a huge handful of the belted, pressed-out fat and tugs it for emphasis. You redden.
“Your ex-boyfriend, the fitness model, that Logan?”
“Yes. He’s also a trainer, porky. I told him you were turning into a big, lazy HOG and he wants to help, no charge.”
The next morning, Logan arrives, tall, toned, blonde, gorgeous. You’re wearing too-tight track shorts that expose the top of your omnipresent plumber’s crack, sneakers and a muscle tank that fit 60 pounds ago. You’re already rock hard - you know how fat you must look. He barely acknowledges you other than to give a raised-eyebrow glance at your much-fatter figure.
“Where are we going to work this fat porker out?” he asks your boyfriend.
“I thought the office, I’ve got a stationary bike in there.”
“That sounds fine, let me get my bag from the car.”
“What did we agree?” your boyfriend demands. You look down at your soft bulging belly and at the impossible gap between button and loop. “What did we agree?” he demands again. Tears well. You rub your hand along the flabby curve of your waist, “ That you would tease and humiliate me as much as you wanted if I didn’t lose weight by March.” “That’s right, fatty, and what day is it today?” “March first.” “And how’s your diet going?” “I’ve gained ten more pounds,” “That’s right Krispy Kreme, you’ve gained TEN more pounds − on top of the 60 you’ve put on since we moved in together a year ago.” You blush. Shame burns your ears, dries your throat. All you want to do is stuff your greedy belly and get yourself off. You love it when he humiliates you: God, if he only knew. “I’m in charge now,” he continues, “you do as I say or we’re through, do you understand?” “Yes,” you reply shakily. He walks to the dresser and rummages in the bottom drawer, “Here, put this on.” “I c-can’t fit into that, that’s from when we first met.” He holds out the t-shirt to you, “I KNOW it’s from when we first met, tubby, and you CAN fit into it − it just won’t cover the extra 70 pounds of blubber you’ve put on.” You feel your dick get harder and harder. “Please, I’ll start exercising, I promise.” “Nope. Too late, porky, those days are gone. From now on you’ll be humiliated and tempted with your favorite foods nonstop. It’s totally up to you whether you lose weight or not. If you don’t develop some will power, you’ll be absolutely huge by this time next year. I’m tired of hearing about diet, diet, diet. I’m not going to offer you a bit of help − other than to remind you how ***ing fat you’re getting. You need to learn restraint.” “But…but, you know what a sweet tooth I have,” “Of course I do,” he says grabbing a roll of fat and giving it a shake, “some weaknesses get harder and harder to hide. But I don’t care, I’m going to load the house with all your favorites. The cupboards and fridge will be groaning with food. The size of your ass is now totally dependent on you . Any new bulge I see, any jiggle, will be grabbed, pinched, poked, slapped, and commented on. Any roll that sticks out further than it should will get the same treatment. Now wedge yourself into that t-shirt, fatty, we’re going to In and Out.” You stare out the car window trying to ignore how turned on you are. 207 pounds. Wow. I have gained a lot. Excitement creeps into your solar plexus. “Good thing this truck has bench seats, eh fat boy? I don’t think we’ll be able to get that wide back porch of yours into anything else.” You blush. He whips the truck into the lot and continues to tease, “Ok piggy, get out and jiggle your *** around to my side.” You do as your told. Your fat wobbles, wobbles wobbles as you walk around to his side. Each step jiggles your inner thighs, ripples your soft tummy. You’re getting so turned on it’s hard to think. The too-small t-shirt rides up, the fabric of your shorts strains, your thighs rub. “Turn around with your back to me,” he says. He takes a wide-tipped black marker and spells out loud what he writes on the small of your back, “2−0−7−L−B−S. There,” he laughs, accentuating the period after “lbs.” with a sharp tap. “Now everyone will know. Waddle in there, you fat chubby hog, and order four double burgers.” Tiny sweat beads tickle your skin. Your boxer briefs are soaked. Trembling lightly, you turn and jiggle-walk your way to the entrance. You give a short sigh of relief: There’s no one in line and only a few customers seated. As you approach the counter, the cashier’s eyes widen slightly. He stifles a laugh. “Uh, may I help you?” Your soft, jutting belly pushes against the counter.
“Yes,uh, uhm, four double-doubles please.”
You hear a man on a cell phone get in line behind you.
“I know, so then he, he, he… - oh. my. god. Can I call you back?”
Your throat tightens. Then comes the weighted silence. He stares at the writing across your chunky love handles then clicks his camera phone and gleefully taps out a text − to god-knows-who − with a photo of the fat pig at In and Out attached. You redden with embarrassment. You finally get your order. Sweating, rock hard, flushed, you waddle back to the truck trying desperately to suck in your flabby belly. Your boyfriend smiles as you settle into your seat, “Wow, you look really fat in that outfit, you should have seen the looks you were getting.” The food warms your lap, the cardboard box tickles the edge of your belly. And your boyfriend slides closer. “Let’s go home,” you beg. He begins kissing your neck and playing with your soft pig rolls, “not until you have a couple bites, come on, just a few bites,” he nips lightly at your ear, “you can always start losing weight tomorrow. Why not celebrate a little?” For a split second you actually believe to you can resist the smell of seared meat, melted cheese, grilled onions. Your desire gives way. The first burger vanishes in two bites, another follows. Your boyfriend laughs and fondles a bloated love handle as you cram your face full: Burger, grunt; burger, moan; burger, BELCH. Grease drips onto your swelling gut. He gives your bloating pot a firm slap, “That’s it you greedy pig,” he whispers, “ stuff those burgers in there.” “Oh god, this is so good,” you gasp, “I’m such a ***ing pig, I can’t help it.” Ten minutes later you lay back and belch again loudly. Wadded wrappers lay at your feet, the empty, greasy box still on your lap. Your greedy hog belly swells before you in a straining arc. Your boyfriend kisses your mayo-smeared cheek and smiles, “I really admire your discipline, I can’t wait to watch those pounds just melt away.” He laughs, pulls the truck out of the lot and noses into traffic. Each road bump reminds you of what a greedy cow you are. You spread your thighs to make room for your packed gut; the truck hits a pot-hole; the seat of your shorts gives way. You’re too stuffed to care. Another loud belch. After a quick stop at the store, you’re home. You struggle out of the truck and waddle toward the house looking 11 months pregnant. Your boyfriend tickles your dimpled ass through the split in your shorts. “Goodness, piggy, look at the size of that ass you’re growing.” All you can do is moan. You want him to leave; you need to come so badly and his teasing is only making it worse. You plump your wide bottom down on the couch and roll lazily to your side. He hums as he puts away the groceries - just like he said, it’s all your favorite junk. You hear the crinkle of cellophane tearing and plastic sliding on the counter. You moan and rub your tight belly. “Here, have one, it’ll settle your tummy,” he says, handing you a white-chocolate covered Oreo. “Oh god,” you say with labored breath, “You’re evil.” He laughs again, “ I’m going to Jeremy’s to have a few beers, the rest of that package is open on the counter, make sure to put it away if you don’t want any.” You roll your eyes at him; he kisses the tip of your nose and leaves. As soon as you hear the sound of his truck fade, you’re on your feet, then at the counter. You yank your shorts down, lift up your belly, and grab your dick that’s already dripping with precum. You stuff oreos three at a time.Your cheeks bulge, your gut tightens: sugar, mmmm; humiliation, ohhhh; the heavy tug of your bloating belly − you cum and cum and cum.Months pass and the humiliation continues. The pounds pile on in a feverish cycle: eat, gain, humiliation. Each one causing an increase in the next. Your belly now sticks out well past your man boobs, your love handles bulge obscenely, packed with fat (only making them prone to more pinching.) When you sit, your ballooning ass presses up, only half covered now by your pants, pushing your back fat into obvious rolls.
On some Thursday morning, you wake slowly, stirred by the smell of cinnamon rolls warming and bacon frying. You struggle into your tight robe and tie the cloth belt − the robe doesn’t close. Your exposed belly jiggles like soft pudding as you waddle towards the breakfast table. Your boyfriend smiles at the gapped robe, reaches out and waggles a thumb and finger’s worth of the exposed fat. You sit to eat and your boyfriend wraps his arms around you from behind. He kisses your ear and grabs handfuls of your fat stomach, “Goodness sweetie, you’re getting so fat, look at all this pork.” He lifts and bunches your fattened hog belly with both hands and shakes it. He slowly tightens the cloth belt, squeezing your huge belly out even further. He nuzzles your neck and slowly slides a strong finger into your deep belly button. “Mmmmm, baby, stop,” you say, not wanting him to stop at all. “Guess who I talked to this morning,” he asks and doesn’t wait for your reply, “Logan. He’s agreed to help you lose some of this extra chub you’ve put on.” He grabs a huge handful of the belted, pressed-out fat and tugs it for emphasis. You redden.
“Your ex-boyfriend, the fitness model, that Logan?”
“Yes. He’s also a trainer, porky. I told him you were turning into a big, lazy HOG and he wants to help, no charge.”
The next morning, Logan arrives, tall, toned, blonde, gorgeous. You’re wearing too-tight track shorts that expose the top of your omnipresent plumber’s crack, sneakers and a muscle tank that fit 60 pounds ago. You’re already rock hard - you know how fat you must look. He barely acknowledges you other than to give a raised-eyebrow glance at your much-fatter figure.
“Where are we going to work this fat porker out?” he asks your boyfriend.
“I thought the office, I’ve got a stationary bike in there.”
“That sounds fine, let me get my bag from the car.”
Logan rejoins you and your boyfriend in the office and sets his black equiptment bag on the floor. Methodically, he opens the bag and sets a ball gag, a scale and a large pair of body-fat calipers on the desk. He turns and levels his eyes at you. “Your boyfriend told me you’ve eaten yourself into a huge fat pig. He’s right.” He grabs a huge roll of belly fat and squeezes, “I can’t believe how you’ve let yourself go,” He kneads your thick lower belly then works his way to your fat piggy love handles. “Look at these huge, flabby, blubber rolls. You were barely 130 pounds when I saw you last. Now look at you,” He grabs the ball-gag, “ time to open your mouth , you greedy fat pig. Don’t be shy, you obviously can’t keep it closed.” He stuffs the ball-gag in your mouth and fixes it in place. “This is so you won’t be able to stuff your fat face while I work you out, chunky.” You moan, you look helplessly at your boyfriend through wide eyes, you’re so horny; you hope to god he hasn’t noticed how turned on you are. He smiles. Logan places the scale on the floor in front of you. “Step onto it, lard ass, let’s see just how fat you’ve gotten in just under two years.” You step on, the scale creaks, the springs strain, you utter a quiet prayer: please don’t break. You try to look down but your belly blocks the view. “Jesus,” Logan says, “285 pounds. My god, you’re an absolute PIG. I can’t believe he left me for you.” He turns to your boyfriend and laughs, “That’s what you get for leaving me. You found yourself a little undercover fatty, I see. As soon as he got you, he started doing what he really loves, eating.” He meets Logan’s angry gaze confidently, “What can I say, I adore him. Sure, he’s put on a pound or two−” “A pound or two,” shouts Logan, “ a ***ing pound or two?!!” He grabs your fattened belly and kneads and slaps the rolls. “ Look at all this ***ing fat, he’s more than twice the size he was when you met him!!” He moves around behind you and begins kneading your heavy belly and shaking it from behind so your boyfriend can see how big you’ve gotten. You turn bright red. You attempt a muffled protest through the ball-gag. “Turn around!” he barks at you, then to your boyfriend, “Look at the size of his ass, he’s like three of me,” He slaps your wide, bulging ass then gathers as much of one fat cheek in his hand as he can hold, “ Look at this all that ***ing lard,” He grabs the other cheek with her free hand, “ you could feed ten people for a year with all this meat, you’d seriously rather sleep next to him every night?” Your boyfriend smiles calmly, “Yes I would, and I thought we were here to exercise my fat, out-of-control pig of a boyfriend, not rehash old times.” Logan blows a strand of white blonde hair from his face, “You’re right, and he CLEARLY needs the exercise,” he laughs a slightly defeated laugh then says to you, “ok lard ass, up on the bike.” You struggle onto the narrow seat and wriggle your *** to get comfortable. The seat disappears from view. Your belly extends halfway to your knees and rests heavily on your fat piggy thighs. It wobbles slightly as you work your feet into the pedal loops. “That’s it, fatty, now let’s see how out of shape you are,” Logan pushes a finger into your soft, yielding jelly pot, “We’re trying for five minutes, but by the look of this gut, I doubt you’ll make two.” He laughs. He runs her hand over his flat, toned abs and smirks, “I can go for 45 minutes full out and barely break a sweat.” He starts the timer. You begin to pedal and within seconds you begin to sweat and pant. The up and down pumping of your fat thighs cause your fattened hog belly to bounce and wobble violently. Your love handles jounce and jiggle and rebound, your back and arm fat quivers and shakes. Your thighs begin to burn, your face gets hot, it seems like you’ve been pedaling uphill for an hour. Gasping for air, you stop pedaling, “Oh god, how long was that?” you ask Jack. “Are you serious!? That’s it?” Between rapid breaths you huff and puff your answer, “ Yes…I…can’t…my legs…tired,” You remove the ball-gag to get more air. “That was only one minute forty seconds you bloated cow. Jesus, you’re hopeless.” Logan says, looking at the timer and shaking his head. You step off the bike, panting heavily and collapse on the floor. Your round belly rises and falls as you lay exhausted on the floor. That had to be more than a minute-forty, you think. Your thoughts continue: God, I’m such an overfed HOG. I hate exercise. I wonder if we have any cupcakes left. As Logan packs his bag he talks to your boyfriend, “He’s way too fat and out of shape for me to do him any good, I was going to measure his body fat,” he says holding up the calipers on their way to his bag, “but what’s the point. He’s been fattened like a prize heifer. He needs to start walking to get up his stamina, then we can move on to more strenuous stuff.” Bag in hand, he turns to leave, and to your boyfriend says “good luck, I hope you can afford the food bills.” To you,“ lay off the sweets tubby, you look like you’re about to pop.” He shakes his head and leaves. You lay on the floor panting softly, feeling very fat. You feel your boyfriend’s lips on the inside of your knees, soft kisses. His strong hands tug at your tight shorts. You moan and spread your legs. He props one of your legs on the exercise bike and removes your shorts. You gasp excitedly. He grabs your soft, ballooning belly with both hands and jiggles it playfully as he nuzzles your pubic hair with his nose. You bite your lip , he sucks gently and then more forcefully. You feel the eager tension: mmmmmm, more; more; more. As you clap you soft thighs to your boyfriends ears - oh that delicious tightening - you begin to giggle: a foot rest is about the only thing you’ll be using an exercise bike for in the future.
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dailybridgerton
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