Honey

Do you like how low my belly hangs?

I don’t go out much, so when Coachella rolls around every year, I usually end up watching it from home. It’s kind of become my thing. Get set up and comfy on the couch, then watch the stream on my TV, just vibing without dealing with crowds or heat. My favorite artist was performing so I decided to make a fun night out of it. Nothing crazy, just a few drinks, and a healthy spread of snacks.

I wanted to pace myself, so I started with a couple of mixed drinks. I had a bunch of snacks laid out, things I wouldn’t normally eat all at once, but rather over the course of the whole event. But the music had other plans for me. The vibes were so good, I started singing my heart out, losing track of time and a few other things as well. Whether I was reaching for another drink or mindlessly grabbing something else to eat. It all kinda blended together after a while. Get up, drink, snack, sit down. Get up, refill, grab something else. Repeat.

After a while, I fell into a drunk ecstasy (I pour with a heavy hand), and a trance listening to my favorite music. Being well passed buzzed and recklessly gluttonous, I pulled out my phone. Despite having a more than generous spread of snacks and drinks, and putting very little thought behind my choices, I began ordering way more food than that was necessary, even for a chunky girl like me.

I was greedily staring at the delivery information in anticipation, as if it was going to be the last food in existence. The delivery arrived, I grabbed it, then swiftly retreated to the couch. I turned the TV volume up, and flew off the handle. Gulping, guzzling, shoveling food down my throat with my bare hands while barely watching performances. I can hardly remember the performances or what I was doing during them after the delivery arrived. Container after container. Eventually my food driven narcolepsy kicked in and wiped me out.

Waking up was such a confusing experience. My eyes opened slowly with an achy squint. I immediately felt painfully full, I was so heavy and packed full of food. By this point the booze had worn off to the point where I felt hazy, but aware. I began to shift my weight and move my arms slowly. Feeling a crinkle under my arms and then under my legs. I sat up and realized I was basically surrounded by empty containers, wrappers, cups, everything just scattered around me like some fraternity rampaged through my room. That’s when it all hit at once. The drinking, the snacking, ordering food like it was nothing, and then passing out under the opulence of the moment. I went so without ever noticing, I completely embraced how good it felt. What started as “just watching at home” turned into me completely losing track, falling into an indulgent hedonistic fantasy. I sat there for a minute, looking at the mess, trying to piece together how the night escalated that much without it ever feeling like a big decision.

Can’t stop watching this jiggle, can you 🤭

I was talking to him online for months before I finally decided I was ready to meet. It wasn’t just a random decision; I had grown to feel comfortable with him. I knew he wasn’t going to rush me or make me feel weird. By the time we set a date, I was more excited than nervous.

We met at Wendy’s. There was something about getting a party-sized box of chicken nuggets together, knowing it would be all for me, that felt kind of thrilling. I kept thinking about how long I’d been imagining this moment, how I’d pictured sitting there with him, being so full I couldn’t move, complete indulgence and unapologeticness.

Back at the hotel, I felt my stomach flip a little as he carried the bag filled with the dipping sauces and nuggets to the bedroom. The moment the lid opened, and that warm and fried smell hit me, I was overcome with a combination of excitement and comfort. 

We both sat on the bed. He picked up a nugget and offered it to me. I smiled softly, feeling a little shy but mostly thrilled. I let him feed me. There was something so intoxicating about it. The way he watches, the gentle touch on my belly as he rubs little circles while I chew, the way I can just let go. I didn’t feel embarrassed. I didn’t feel ashamed. I felt…taken care of, admired, like every bite was something to be celebrated. My stomach was soft under his hand, full and warm, and I realized I liked how that made me feel alive.

The more he fed me, the more comfortable I got. I leaned back against the pillows, letting him guide the pace. Each nugget felt like a tiny act of surrender, of trust, of letting someone enjoy me exactly as I am. I had to take my apron belly out of my leggings, and when I did, he let out a gasp before leaning down to kiss it. 

By the time I finished, my belly was pleasantly heavy and tight, my body warm and tingling, and I realized that I hadn’t just been eating. I’d been reveling in the sensation of being cared for, being appreciated, being adored for the exact way I am.

I knew those jeans were risky the second I picked them up.

They used to be my “default” pair. The reliable ones. The ones that made me feel put together, even if I rolled out of bed ten minutes before class. I didn’t even think about them when I grabbed them that morning.

Until I tried to button them.

Pulling them up was already a process. I had to wiggle more than usual, little side-to-side shifts, tugging the waistband higher over my hips. The denim felt… less forgiving. Like it remembered a smaller version of me.

When I went to button them, I paused.

The sides weren’t lining up automatically anymore. There was a gap. Not huge. Just enough to make me notice. I sucked in, because of course I did, and pulled the button toward the hole. It took actual effort. My fingers were straining, my stomach pulled tight, my lungs basically on airplane mode.

Click.

It went through. But it felt tense. Like it was barely hanging on.

I stood there in my room staring at myself like, “Okay. We’re fine. It’s just morning bloating.” Fully lying to myself. The waistband was already pressing into me before I’d even left for campus.

Walking to class? Aware.

Sitting in a lecture? Hyper-aware.

Every time I leaned forward, the button dug in. Every time I slouched, I felt the denim stretching. I kept subtly adjusting them like that would somehow reduce the physics happening at my waist.

By the time lunch rolled around, I’d kind of dissociated from it.

I grabbed my food and sat down, already feeling the waistband pressing into me. First few bites? Tight. Noticeably tight. I shifted in my seat. Uncrossed and recrossed my legs. Loosened my posture.

And then I just… kept eating.

Every few bites, the pressure built a little more. The denim felt less like fabric and more like a boundary. I could feel the button straining when I leaned forward. I was fully aware of it, the tightness, the slow, steady increase in tension and I still kept going.

Not even in a chaotic way. Just stubborn. Like, “I’m hungry. These jeans can deal with it.”

Halfway through my meal, I sat back and felt that post-lunch fullness settling in. The waistband that was already on edge was now in active combat. I considered unbuttoning them under the table for half a second.

I didn’t.

I took another bite.

By the time I finished eating, the pressure had built up enough that standing felt risky. But I grabbed my tray anyway, weaving through tables, very aware of how tight everything felt.

I sat down a little too fast, leaning forward to put my drink down.

Ping.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just sharp and metallic and very real.

For half a second, my brain lagged. Then I felt it. The sudden release at my waist. The pressure disappeared instantly. I looked down and watched my button literally bounce once on the floor before rolling away like it had somewhere better to be.

I froze.

My heart started racing so fast it was almost funny. The zipper strained forward without the button holding it. I slapped a hand over my lap like that would undo what just happened. I don’t even know if anyone noticed, but it felt like the whole dining hall heard it in surround sound.

The jeans that barely closed that morning had officially clocked out. And honestly? I’d kind of pushed them there.

I sat there trying to act normal, heat creeping up my neck, fingers brushing the empty spot where the button used to be. Loose threads. I wasn’t shocked.

I knew how hard I had to fight that button that morning. I knew I felt the pressure building with every bite. The pop after lunch wasn’t random.

It was predictable.

Later, back in my room, I unzipped them carefully. Without the button, they slid off way easier than they’d gone on. I held them for a second, staring at the little torn threads where the metal had ripped free.

It didn’t happen all at once. That’s the part that still gets me.

When I first walked in, everything felt normal. Buffets always have that low electric buzz to them, plates clinking, people talking over each other, the thick smell of fried food and sugar hanging in the air. It’s overwhelming in the best way. Too much choice, too much abundance. I remember feeling almost giddy, telling myself to pace it, to savor it.

I started slow. One plate. Then another, later. I wasn’t rushing. I never rush at a buffet. I enjoy settling in and letting myself relax into it. Adjusting in the chair, getting comfortable. Feeling the edge of the table pressing lightly into my stomach. Becoming aware of how much space I was taking up and pretending, at least at first, that it didn’t matter.

I’ve always been hyperaware of my body in public. The way chairs fit—or don’t. The way I have to angle myself into booths. The way the fabric stretches when I sit. At the buffet, that awareness was there, but it wasn’t ruining anything yet. If anything, it made it feel more intense. More real.

I ate steadily. Quietly. Focused on the food instead of the room. Each bite grounding me. Each plate a small private indulgence in a very public space.

But then the little things started.

​A glance that lingered a beat too long. A server circling my table more often than seemed necessary. Someone clearing a plate I wasn’t quite done with. Tiny disruptions that shouldn’t have meant anything, but they stacked up. I told myself I was being paranoid. That no one actually cared how long I’d been there. That buffets are literally designed for this.

Still, I felt the shift before it was spoken out loud.

When the manager came over, they were polite. Almost overly polite. Asking if everything was alright. If I was enjoying myself. Their smile didn’t quite reach their eyes. And I knew, in that slow sinking way, that this wasn’t just a check-in.

They mentioned how long I’d been seated. They mentioned other customers. They suggested, gently, that it might be time to “wrap things up.”

I remember nodding automatically, because my brain hadn’t caught up yet. My face went hot so fast it felt like I was burning from the inside out. Suddenly I could feel everything—how full I was, how my thighs pressed against the sides of the chair, how the table seemed closer than it had earlier. My body felt enormous. Obvious. Impossible to ignore.

I hadn’t broken any posted rules. I paid like everyone else. I wasn’t loud. I wasn’t messy. I was just… there. Taking up time. Taking up space. Eating.

Standing up felt like stepping onto a stage. I could feel my weight shift as I pushed myself upright, painfully aware of the plates on the table, of how many there had been. My stomach heavy and tight, my chest fluttering with humiliation. I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I just gathered my things and walked toward the exit.

That walk was the worst part.

Every step felt amplified. Like the entire room could hear the soft shuffle of my shoes. The doors seemed to open in slow motion. When the cool air outside hit my flushed skin, it shocked me back into my body in a way I couldn’t avoid. I sat in my car for a long time afterward, hands resting on my stomach, replaying it over and over.

The comfort. The indulgence. The way it twisted into exposure.

What messes with me the most is that part of me had been so content before it happened. Settled. Full. Almost blissful in that heavy, satisfied way. And then, in a few carefully chosen words, I was reminded that my comfort has limits in public. That there’s an invisible line somewhere, and apparently I’d crossed it.

It wasn’t just about the food. It was about being seen.

Seen eating. Seen staying. Seen existing in a body that doesn’t shrink itself to make others comfortable.

I think that’s why it stayed with me longer than the meal ever could have. Not because I was asked to leave, but because of how quickly pleasure turned into shame. How fast abundance turned into scrutiny.

It was a moment where my body, my appetite, and the outside world collided—and the world blinked first.

I noticed it before the plane even left the gate—before the safety video, before the engines fully settled into that low, constant hum. The moment I lowered myself into the seat, my body sank in with a softness and finality that felt almost ceremonial. Like the chair was meeting me where I was now, not pretending otherwise.

The armrests pressed in immediately, framing me. My hips spread without hesitation, thighs spilling comfortably against the sides, my weight settling deep into the cushion. I adjusted once, out of habit, then stopped. There was no version of this where I was going to be small.

I reached for the seatbelt automatically, barely thinking about it at first. The strap slid through my fingers, familiar, routine. I pulled it across my lap, feeling it brush over the curve of my belly, then angled the metal tab toward the buckle.

It didn’t reach.

Not even close enough to fake it.

I paused—not startled, not embarrassed. Just... aware. I pulled the belt back out and tried again, this time slower, watching as the strap disappeared into my side, how my body claimed it without resistance. The gap between the tab and the buckle remained unapologetic.

I leaned back slightly, letting my weight settle even more fully into the seat. The pressure of my body against the vinyl was grounding, comforting. I could feel myself everywhere—soft, heavy, present. My breath was steady. My pulse wasn’t racing. If anything, there was a low warmth building in my chest, spreading outward.

So this is where I’m at now.

Waiting for the flight attendant wasn’t tense—it was anticipatory. I sat still, hands resting on my lap, feeling the gentle vibration of the plane beneath me. Every sensation felt heightened: the snugness of the space, the warmth between my thighs, the way my belly rose and fell slowly with each breath.

When she came by, I met her eyes and asked quietly for an extender. My voice didn’t waver. She nodded immediately, smooth and professional, like this was just another part of the process. Like my body belonged here just as much as anyone else’s.

She handed it to me discreetly, but I didn’t rush. The extender had weight to it—solid, unmistakable. I let it rest in my hands for a second longer than necessary, feeling the extra length of the strap, the implication of it.

Click.

The sound was sharp and final, and it sent a shiver straight through me.

Once fastened, the belt rested snugly across my lap, holding me in place. Not tight. Not uncomfortable. Just enough pressure to remind me I was contained—secured by something that finally fit. I leaned back into the seat, letting my body relax completely, letting my weight sink even deeper.

I felt... deliciously aware.

The extender lay there in plain sight, impossible to ignore. Every small shift made me feel it. The gentle pull when I adjusted my hips. The way my belly pressed against it when I breathed in deeply. I didn’t avoid looking down this time. I let myself see it, let myself feel it.

The rest of the flight passed slowly, sensually. Not in minutes or miles, but in sensations. The warmth of my body. The fullness of my presence in that small space. The quiet thrill of knowing I had crossed a line—one I’d been approaching for a long time.

When we landed, I unclipped the extender carefully, fingers lingering on the metal, on the strap that had held me. Handing it back felt oddly intimate, like returning something that had known me a little too well.

Walking off the plane, my steps were unhurried. My body moved the way it does now— heavy, confident, undeniable. The moment stayed with me, not as something to process or overcome, but as something to savor.

Not shame.

Not surprise.

White piled against the windows, the street gone silent, the world narrowed down to my apartment and the soft hum of the heater. I had planned ahead—or so I thought. Bags of chips, soda stacked in the fridge, ramen lined up as I’d prepared for the end of days. I told myself it would be enough.

It never is.

By the third day, the evidence was everywhere. Crumpled chip bags. Empty cans rolled when I nudged them with my foot. The ice cream tub was scraped clean, the spoon abandoned on the counter, as if it had given up. I hadn’t been hungry so much as compelled, driven by that familiar itch to keep going, to keep filling the quiet with chewing and swallowing.

I leaned back on the couch, hand resting on my belly, feeling its weight settle heavy and warm in my lap. Still not satisfied.

That’s when I decided tomorrow would be different. Not restraint—indulgence. If I was going to cave, I was going to really cave. I placed the order with intent, adding item after item until it felt absurd, until the total made me pause and then smile.

Stuffed cheesy breads. Two kinds. Two massive pizzas, slick with grease and meat. Two desserts meant to be shared. Sauces I didn’t need but wanted anyway. And four litres of soda— diet, like that detail still mattered.

I was waiting in agony when it finally arrived; the smell hit me first: hot bread, garlic, and cheese. I carried the boxes inside as if they were something precious, stacking them on the table and admiring the spread. Too much food for one person. Exactly right.

On a whim, I pulled out my bikini. It used to fit effortlessly. Now it took patience, tugging fabric down over my belly, adjusting straps that bit into softened skin. When I caught my reflection, I laughed quietly. There was something thrilling about how tight it looked, how little it left to the imagination.

I started slow, telling myself I would pace it. That promise dissolved with the first bite—cheese stretching, crumbs falling, fingers already slick. I ate standing at first, then sitting, then half-reclined as the weight inside me grew undeniable. My belly pushed forward, round and full, pressing against the strained fabric.

Partway through, the bottoms dug in enough that I stopped pretending. I pulled my apron belly free, letting it spill comfortably over the edge, rubbing slow circles as I kept eating. Each bite landed heavy, stacking on the last, heat blooming deep in my gut. I felt massive. Overfull. Perfect.

By the time the last box was empty, I could barely move. My body felt dense, anchored to the couch, breath slow and deep. I didn’t bother cleaning up. I just closed my eyes, hand still resting on my swollen middle, and let the exhaustion take me.

When I woke hours later, the room was dim and quiet again. My stomach was still full—but underneath it, unmistakably, was that familiar spark of hunger returning. The promise of more.

A lot of people have been messaging me lately asking how I’ve gotten to be this big, and I’ve been sitting with that question more than I expected to. I keep starting replies and then deleting them, because the answer doesn’t really fit into a sentence or two. So this is me trying to explain it all at once, in my own words, without simplifying it too much.

I’ve been on the thicker side for most of my life. I was your average chubby girl, but with every passing year I would put on a bit of weight, just enough to make that favorite shirt a little more snug, but not enough to be shocking. By the time I graduated high school I was a big girlie, thick all over.

College is when I started to really fall in love with food. Campus food, secret shopping, too good to go, and happy hour on door dash became my little haven. I justified the extra eating by telling myself that it was free/cheap food, and that it was a waste to let it go. As you could imagine this really accelerated my weight gain. Every year I would go up a size. Halfway through college, I started to notice that I was getting out of breath walking between classes. That’s when it started to hit me how big I was getting. This scared me a little, so I started to cut back on my portions and I began to exercise regularly. 

It was genuine torture, I was so hungry all the time. I slowly started to crack. Extra snacks here, another portion there. Eventually I snapped one day, and started binging on copious amounts of food. I was relentlessly shoving sweets, pizza, and wings down my throat. It felt so good, in a scandalous sort of way. The fuller I became, the more and more turned on I was. Afterwards, despite being stuffed beyond reason, I still wanted more and swung by McDonalds to get a sundae and fries. I felt so guilty and sick afterwards. From then on I gave up on dieting, but I never quite binged like that for a long while. 

Near the end of college I was definitely the biggest person on campus or in any room for that matter. I was that girl that would sweat and get out of breath despite not having to walk all that far. Over time I had stopped giving a damn about my size and what other people thought of it. Then one weekend while visiting my mother, we were doing our usual thing—watching reality TV. I remember it so vividly, to the point where I can still recall where I was sitting, what I was wearing, and what I was snacking on. We were watching catfish (S9 E4 I think??). The topic of feederism was lightly brought up—being the reason behind how they met. I was extremely intrigued and did some digging and found several online communities.

From there I started to really dig my heels into feederism. I started experimenting with stuff in private, such as eating while pleasuring myself—which was absolutely out of body the first few times (and still kind of is). Then I started noticing a bunch of small things. The feeling of my weight pinning me down to my bed when I first wake up, forcing me to roll off the side of the mattress. My heavy soft belly dominating the space in front of me, unapologetically knocking things over. My fat thighs ripping leggings and fishnets to threads. My heavy ass was filling every seat I sat in, generously spilling out both sides. I noticed how most booths in restaurants don’t properly fit me. All of it was starting to catch up to me, and to say that it had me hot and bothered is criminally understated.

I was beginning to romantically fall in love with my excess, all this plump juicy thickness was dominating my body and my lifestyle. And don’t get me started on eating, from enjoying the flavors to being stuffed to debilitation. It is all so erotic and hot that I can cum from just eating and lightly feeling my body. Although I haven’t been a part of this community for super long, I can start to feel its effects quite literally weighing me down more and more—and I love it so much. I am so addicted to every pound gained and every crumb eaten. It all feels so amazing and turns me on so much.

I was alone when it happened.

I set my food down carefully: three double cheeseburgers wrapped in paper already translucent with grease, a large fry spilling out of the carton, and a cold soda sweating onto the table. It was an overly indulgent night, the kind of moment where you would feel guilty eating this mountain of food in public, but feel lavished in private.

I sat back in the chair without thinking about it. I’d sat there a hundred times before.

The first bite was hot and messy. Cheese stretching, grease on my fingers. I chewed greedily, choking down food with voracity, my weight settling in, my breath deepening, the chair groaning under my heavy plump ass. I adore eating, the feeling of stretching my stomach way past its comfort—of taking up space without apology. God, I love feeling so fucking fat.

I missed all the warning signs, my chair begging in protest, pleading for me to stop. I ignored it, I was too busy feeding myself beyond recognition. Then, in the midst of my gluttonous euphoria, it happened.

There was no long creak, no dramatic countdown. Just a sharp crack, wood splitting, metal bending and then suddenly the world dropping out from under me. My body fell hard. The seat collapsing inward, legs splaying uselessly as I hit the floor.

I just laid there, stunned. Heart racing. Heat flooded my face even though no one was watching. The burger had landed beside me, the soda tipped over, ice skittering across the floor like it was trying to escape from my gluttonousness rampage.

I became acutely aware of myself. Aware of my body pressed against the broken frame, aware of how much space I took up, aware of my skin's warmth and overexposure. There was a strange vulnerability to it, lying there alone, surrounded by the evidence of what had just happened. No audience, no laughter, no comfort. Just me, my heavy breathing, and my massive body.

I sat up slowly, struggling under my weight. Heart still pounding, fingers brushing over the snapped wood. That’s when I noticed the small sticker underneath the seat, half-scraped off but still legible.

Capacity: 275 lbs.

Seeing that number made my stomach pulse with a deep warmth and my heart flutter. Am I really that fat? This chair has been with me for over five years. A chair doesn’t break overnight, it takes time and proper wear. I have been so busy gorging myself over these years that I neglected my poor chair. Over time my body has grown; my belly swelling, my thighs thickening, my frame expanding every day. My chair has never once changed, always remaining the same as the day I bought it.