just me

You just have to keep eating for me. Keep opening that mouth of yours. Look at how perfect that double chin of yours is. Another bite sweetheart, just close your eyes and think about how good it tastes, how good it feels to eat.

There's no need to worry about how tight your clothes are feeling. I'll make sure to get you some more. You just have to think about what food you want me to pick up on my way home.

what if I knew how much you weighed but kept it a secret from you

I knew how many calories I was pushing down your throat, but you were oblivious to the number

what if I cut out the size tags so you had no idea how much bigger you've gotten

what if I just let you be my docile little pet and you just let me fatten you up as big and soft as I want you

She stood in front of the mirror, twisting sideways, tugging at the hem of her T-shirt.

“It’s sitting weird today,” she muttered. “This shirt never used to bunch like this.”

From the bed, her partner barely looked up from their phone. “Looks the same to me. Maybe you’ve just… filled it out a little.”

Her head snapped around. “Excuse me?”

They smirked — that maddening, deliberate little curl of the lips — and gestured vaguely toward her midsection. “Not in a bad way. Just saying it looks… snugger. Cute.”

“It’s not snugger.” She tugged at the fabric again, flattening it against herself. “It’s just the dryer. Or I’m slouching. Or—” She straightened so abruptly her shoulders clicked. “See? Totally fine.”

“Mmhm.” They rolled onto their side, still watching her in the mirror. “Definitely not because you had that entire plate of pancakes yesterday morning.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she shot back, but her voice had gone too quick, too defensive. “One breakfast doesn’t do anything. I’m exactly the same as last week. Or last month. Or last—” She hesitated, tugging the shirt down again.

Her partner hummed like they’d already won. “Of course you are.”

She turned back to the mirror, inspecting herself with a sharp, suspicious squint.

It was exactly the same as last week. Obviously.

She was halfway into her jacket, keys in one hand, when her partner appeared in the doorway with the laundry basket balanced on their hip.

“Found your belt in the closet,” they said, holding it up like a relic.

“Oh, thanks,” she replied, distracted. She reached for it without looking, but they didn’t hand it over. Instead, they twirled it lazily by the buckle, leather gleaming faintly.

“Wait,” they said, voice light but deliberate. “Before you take it… humor me.”

Her brows pinched. “Humor you how?”

They stepped closer, the laundry basket now on the floor, the belt dangling from their fingers. “Just—stand still for a second.”

“I’m trying to leave,” she protested, laughing in that half-defensive way people do when they’re not sure if they’re the butt of the joke.

They didn’t answer. Instead, they looped the belt around her waist over her T-shirt, the leather whispering as it slid through the buckle. “Just checking something,” they murmured.

“Checking what?” she asked, suspicious now.

They tugged the belt snug, not uncomfortably tight, but firm enough to feel. The soft click of the buckle sounded sharper than it should have. They fastened it, then leaned back to look. “Huh.”

The sound was casual, but it landed on her like a verdict. “Huh what?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” they said, way too quickly. Then, with a faux-thoughtful frown: “Just… I could’ve sworn this went in another notch last time you wore it.”

Her ears went hot, and she forced a scoff. “That’s absurd. I haven’t changed. The belt probably… shrank. Leather does that.”

“Mm.” They tilted their head, the tiniest smirk forming. “Sure.”

“Don’t ‘sure’ me,” she shot back. “I would know if anything was different.”

“Oh, I’m not saying it’s bad,” they added, and somehow that made it worse. “Just an observation.”

She took the belt from them, slid it free, and buckled it herself — deliberately one hole tighter — looking them right in the eye. “There. See? Same as always.”

They held her gaze for a beat longer than was polite, that infuriating smirk lingering, before stepping back. “Thrilled,” they murmured.

She left the apartment wearing it like that all day, even though by the afternoon she’d quietly loosened it when no one was looking. And when she hung it up that night, she told herself she’d only done it because the leather felt stiff from the dryer.

Not because it had actually felt snug.

*

She had been putting off wearing the jeans for weeks.

Not for any particular reason — at least, that’s what she told herself. They were just shoved toward the back of the drawer, under a stack of leggings and soft lounge pants that were easier to reach. But now, with the weather finally cool enough, she dug them out.

The denim felt heavier than she remembered. Stiffer, maybe from not being worn. She stepped in and pulled them up, the cool fabric rasping against her thighs. They reached her hips… and then stopped.

She tugged again, harder this time, doing that little hop in place she’d seen other people do in movies. The waistband inched upward, catching against the soft give of her stomach. By the time the button was aligned with the hole, she was already holding her breath.

And still — there was resistance.

“Come on,” she muttered under her breath, giving one last sharp yank. The button slid into place with a strained pop, and she exhaled through gritted teeth. She could feel the waistband pressing into her midsection, firm enough that it left no question about how it would feel sitting down.

She stared at her reflection. The jeans didn’t look… bad. Not exactly. But they sat differently. She told herself they’d probably just shrunk in the wash — even though she couldn’t remember the last time they’d been washed.

“Wow,” came a voice from the doorway.

Her partner was leaning there, one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. She hadn’t even heard them come in.

“What?” she asked, too quickly.

“They look… snug,” they said, in that maddeningly casual way, like they’d just noticed the weather was nice.

“They’re not snug.”

“They look snug.”

“They’re not. They’re just… stiff. From the drawer.” She smoothed her hands over the waistband, tugged the hem of her shirt down an extra inch. “It’s the fabric. Or maybe I… I don’t know. I haven’t worn them in a while.”

Her partner’s smile curved slow, like they were savoring each second. “When’s the last time you did?”

“I don’t keep a log of my outfits.”

“Mm. I bet I could check your Instagram.”

She glared. “Don’t you dare.”

They stepped into the room, circling just enough to glance at her from the side. “Huh. You know, I’m not sure it’s the jeans.”

Her pulse spiked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” they said, voice dripping with false innocence. “It’s just… you’ve been really comfortable lately. Cozy. I’m not surprised your clothes want to hug you back.”

She made a face and turned toward the mirror again, pretending to check her hair. “You’re ridiculous. They fit exactly the same. It’s all in your head.”

“Of course,” they murmured, heading for the door. But she could feel their eyes on her even as they left.

She kept the jeans on all afternoon, ignoring how they pressed when she sat, or how she found herself unbuttoning them the moment she was alone. And later, folding them to put back in the drawer, she hesitated just a second too long before tucking them under the leggings again.

Not because they were snug.

Because she just… didn’t feel like wearing them.

*

She’d told herself the hoodie was purely for comfort. It was the kind of soft, oversized sweatshirt you could lose an afternoon in, sleeves swallowing your hands. Perfect for running errands on a chilly Saturday. Nothing to do with the fact that lately, her favorite tops felt… less forgiving.

They were in line at the café, her partner behind her, scanning the menu. The place was busy, voices and coffee grinders mixing into a cozy din. She was just starting to relax when she heard a voice nearby.

“Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

She turned to find Mia — a friend-of-a-friend she only bumped into a few times a year. They exchanged the usual greetings, and then Mia’s eyes flicked down briefly before returning to her face with a smile. “That hoodie looks comfy. Hiding a food baby under there?”

It was a harmless little joke, the kind people toss out without thinking, but it felt like the air left the room.

She laughed — too loud, too quick. “What? No. I’m just— it’s freezing outside. This is my winter armor.” She tugged at the hem for emphasis. “If I’m hiding anything, it’s from the wind.”

Behind her, she heard her partner chuckle.

She turned her head just enough to catch their expression — that infuriating, knowing smirk. “What?” she mouthed.

They leaned in, close enough for her to feel the warmth of their breath. “She’s not wrong,” they murmured, just for her.

Her stomach tightened. “Shut up,” she hissed, cheeks warming.

“Relax,” they said, still smirking. “I like it. Little extra softness suits you.”

She shot them a glare that was more panic than anger, then turned back to Mia. “Honestly, people are so dramatic,” she said, still laughing like it was all a joke. “I’ve been the exact same for years. Haven’t changed a bit.”

“Mmhm,” Mia said politely, sipping her coffee, and the conversation moved on.

*

She picked the top carefully — fitted but not tight, just enough to “remind” her partner (and maybe herself) that nothing had changed. Black, so it would be flattering. Paired with her favorite mid-rise jeans, the ones that had always been reliable.

She stepped into the living room, pretending it was a casual choice. “Ready to go?”

Her partner looked up from the couch — and their eyebrows lifted.

“Well, look at you.”

She forced a smile. “What?”

“Nothing,” they said, but there was a weight to it. Their gaze lingered longer than she wanted it to. “Just… you don’t usually wear that one.”

“I do,” she countered, a little too quickly. “You just don’t pay attention.”

They stood, coming closer, scanning her in that slow, deliberate way that felt like being appraised. “Mm. Guess I’ve been missing things.”

Before she could respond, they stepped right into her space and rested a hand casually at her side — except it didn’t feel casual. The fingers pressed lightly into her waist, thumb grazing the slight curve that had formed there. Then, without warning, they gave a small squeeze.

Her breath caught.

Their eyebrows went up higher. “Oh.”

It wasn’t mocking — it was genuine surprise. Like they’d expected the usual firmness under their palm and found something softer instead. They looked at her again, really looked, and she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks.

“What?” she demanded, the word sharp.

They tilted their head, still keeping that hand there as if testing whether the change was real. “Nothing, I just… didn’t realize it had gotten so—”

“It hasn’t,” she cut in, stepping back just far enough to break their touch. “You’re imagining things. You’ve been making these comments for weeks, so now you think you feel something that isn’t there.”

They smiled slowly, like they were turning the moment over in their mind. “Sure. Must be that.”

She crossed her arms, trying to keep her face neutral, even as she was hyper-aware of the way the jeans pressed at her hips when she moved. “Exactly.”

They didn’t press the point — which was somehow worse. The rest of the afternoon, they were just… quiet. Watching. Occasionally letting their eyes drift to her midsection as if replaying that squeeze in their head.

And she told herself it didn’t matter.

That they’d only imagined it.

That if they’d really felt something different… well, she would have noticed too.

*

They were out for dinner at a small, cozy bistro, one of her partner’s favorite places. The kind of place where the tables were close, the lighting soft, and the chairs unforgivingly firm. She’d chosen a dress she loved — a favorite black dress that once hugged her curves perfectly.

The evening started easy enough. Wine, soft music, laughter. But as the plates came and went, she felt the familiar tightness creeping back—around her waist, across her hips, the fabric pulling more than it should.

She shifted in her seat, trying to ignore it.

Then, halfway through the main course, it happened.

A sharp rip, a quick, unmistakable tear along the side seam of her dress.

Her heart lurched.

She froze. The sound echoed just enough for the nearby diners to glance over, curiosity flickering in their eyes.

Her partner’s gaze flicked down to the sudden gap revealing a flash of skin, then back up with an amused, slow smile. “Well.”

She bit her lip, cheeks burning. “It’s… just the dress.”

They leaned in slightly, voice low and teasing. “Just the dress, huh? Or maybe the dress was just too small.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but the sight in the mirror across the room stopped her. The dress pulled tighter now, the fabric strained, outlining every inch of her curves that had quietly grown in recent weeks.

She pressed a hand to her side, feeling the slight softness there — undeniable now.

Her partner’s eyes gleamed with that secret indulgence, the kind that said I’ve been watching this unfold, and it’s more delicious than I expected.

“You know,” they said, reaching out and brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, “there’s something incredibly sexy about a little unexpected growth.”

She swallowed hard, torn between embarrassment and a strange flutter of something else — curiosity, maybe.

“Maybe it’s time to accept that some things have… changed,” they whispered, voice warm but firm.

She glanced down at the ripped seam, then back at their eyes — playful, patient, knowing.

“Maybe,” she said, just barely.

*

The apartment was warm and cozy, the table set for two with an array of rich, decadent dishes—creamy pastas, buttery garlic bread, thick-cut steaks dripping with sauce, and a generous bowl of whipped, cinnamon-spiced mashed potatoes. The kind of meal designed to satisfy every craving and then some.

Her partner watched her with a slow, satisfied smile as she picked up her fork, already knowing how this night would unfold.

“Are you sure you want all this?” they teased, voice soft but edged with mischief.

She hesitated, glancing at the heaping plate, then nodded, determination flashing in her eyes. “I can handle it.”

The first bite was heaven—rich and comforting, filling in a way that made her close her eyes for a moment. Bite after bite, she ate, the meal sliding down easily at first, but soon the fullness began to press on her belly, a warm, growing weight that was impossible to ignore.

Her partner reached across the table, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Looking good,” they said with a wink.

She laughed, but it was getting harder to focus. The pressure inside her belly grew quickly—tight, taut—and she shifted in her seat, the buttons of her blouse suddenly feeling far too snug.

“Are you okay?” her partner asked, eyes gleaming with playful concern.

“Fine,” she said quickly, though her voice was tight. She tried to stand—and nearly faltered. The sudden heaviness, the bloated roundness of her belly, made her movements slow and clumsy.

Her partner stood behind her, steadying her with an arm around her waist. “Maybe just a moment?”

She sank back into her chair with a soft groan, one hand pressed against her swollen belly, which felt like it had doubled in size in minutes. The fullness was almost overwhelming, a tight balloon stretching every muscle.

Her partner laughed softly, low and warm. “See? I told you, this night would be special.”

She looked up, flushed, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and a hint of helplessness. “I… I don’t think I can move.”

“No wonder,” her partner murmured, sliding a hand gently over her belly. “After letting yourself go like this. Swelling out of proportions…”

She let out a shaky breath, surrendering to the warmth, the fullness, the undeniable proof that things were changing—right here, right now. She felt huge. Bloated like never before.

Her hand started slowly rubbing up and down her belly. Almost hesitantly. God, there was just so much of her now…

“Do you feel that? You did that to yourself. Steadily. Over the weeks. And this is the result. I can’t believe how round and big you have grown.” They stopped their little speech, dreamy like expression on their face.

If you enjoy this much to overstuff your belly with food, then let me enable those desires, so we can both enjoy it.

For one, you’d get to eat a lot more of whatever treat you’ve been craving lately. No need to limit yourself, you’d be free to have two of it, three of it, 10 of it, a whole bowl of it, three whole bowls of it, who knows. Maybe that treat for you is maple bar donuts or maybe it’s cookies or maybe it’s ice cream. The point is.. wouldn’t it feel sooo nice to be able to fill up your tummy with as much of it as you wanted without a care in the world? Or maybe you could care a little bit, like about how good it feels to have a stomach full of your favorite treats. How satisfying it feels to not have to control yourself, to be able to eat to your hearts content.. How it makes you wet, knowing that full, stuffed feeling is gonna make you a little bit softer tomorrow.

You’d also have changes like outgrowing your clothes. Probably more than a single size. If you don’t have much of a tummy to start, you’re bound to gain a good bit of perfect plumpness around your midsection, along with everywhere else of course. Your thighs will press together, your tummy will rest in your lap, your tits will swell up more than you thought possible. You’ll have small little things happen to you, almost like life is teasing you for your gain — your growing belly or ass will knock things over, you’ll suddenly find tying your shoes is harder than you remember, or maybe it’s more difficult to reach around your your expanding waistline when you’re trying to get yourself off.

Chapter 1: “Let’s Try It Together”

It started with a laugh.

You were curled up together on the couch—Dina in your lap, a bag of popcorn between you, feet tangled under a throw blanket. Aaric’s fingers slid absently over your stomach, kneading the softest parts without thought. You didn’t even flinch anymore. After three years, your body was just as much his as yours.

“You know…” he said, voice casual, “you’ve gotten a little softer.”

You snorted, stuffing more popcorn into your mouth. “So have you.”

It was true. You’d both filled out a little since moving in together. Late-night takeout. Lazy weekends. No judgment. No shame. That was part of what made it work.

He kissed your temple. “What if we just… leaned into it?”

You looked up.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if we stopped pretending to care about getting back in shape. Just… let go for a while. Ate what we wanted. Fed each other. Got a little indulgent.” He smiled. “See where it goes.”

Your heart thudded. You should’ve laughed it off. Instead, your pulse betrayed you.

“That sounds… dangerous.”

“But fun,” he said, brushing popcorn dust off your cheek. “We’d do it together. Mutual destruction.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth twitched.

“What, like a feeding pact?”

He grinned. “Exactly like that.”

You studied him. Aaric wasn’t the kind of guy to suggest something out of nowhere. He must’ve been thinking about this. Imagining it. And that thought sent a strange thrill through you.

“Fine,” you said, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “We’ll see who cracks first.”

He caught it, chewed, and swallowed slow.

“I hope it’s you,” he murmured.

You didn’t realize then how serious he was.

The first week was silly. Innocent, even.

You made pancake towers and tried to out-eat each other. Bought cookies “for sharing” and ended up feeding them one by one, giggling like teenagers. Nights were spent with your belly full and his hands warm over it, praising you for every extra bite you took.

He gained too—at first. A slight swell in his belly, thicker arms, softer jawline. You teased him about it, poked his stomach while brushing crumbs from your shirt.

But he never seemed to mind. If anything, he looked proud.

You caught your reflection one night, shirt riding up from the day’s binge. Your belly looked different. Rounder. Heavier. Not just bloated—settled. A line formed where the waistband of your leggings dug into it, leaving a red imprint even after you peeled them off.

You turned to him, frowning.

“We’re seriously doing this?”

He walked over, took your face in his hands, and kissed you like he hadn’t all day.

“Yeah,” he said. “We are.”

You didn’t know it yet, but something had shifted. A seed had taken root.

And Aaric? He was already planning the next stage.

Chapter 2: “Just a Bit More”

It didn’t feel like anything changed.

Not at first.

Your routines were still familiar: lazy brunches, indulgent nights, Aaric beside you, encouraging every extra helping. But there was something quieter now. Something you couldn’t name.

He didn’t just feed you anymore.

He watched.

When you reached for seconds, his eyes followed your fingers. When you licked your lips after dessert, he bit his own. When your belly swelled tight and you shifted to ease the pressure, he adjusted beside you, almost like he couldn’t help himself.

And then came the phrases.

“You’ve earned it.”

“Don’t hold back.”

“Come on, Dina. One more bite for me.”

Soft at first, whispered while you chewed, almost playful. But over time, they grew firmer. Confident. Like he was guiding you now. Like the balance between you was no longer equal.

You noticed the difference in photos.

The first ones—early in the “mutual” experiment—you both looked a little puffier. You even had a favorite: the two of you squished together on the couch, matching chip bags in hand, bloated bellies pressing side by side.

But then came the newer ones. Subtle at first. Aaric in fitted clothes, his face leaner than yours, his belly looking less like a gain and more like strength. You hadn’t noticed how often he hit the gym in the mornings—quietly, never announcing it. Never commenting when you stayed in bed.

You, on the other hand… were changing.

Your face was fuller, rounder around the edges. Your clothes started shrinking—tight in the arms, cutting into your waist. You brushed it off, calling it laundry shrinkage, but Aaric never corrected you.

He just smiled.

“You’ve been working out,” you said one night, poking his chest as he laid beside you in bed.

He looked smug. “A little.”

“Not fair. I thought we were in this together.”

“We are,” he said, dragging a finger along the swell of your stomach. “I just figured one of us should stay in shape, in case the other gets… too far gone.”

Your breath hitched.

“Too far gone?”

He leaned down, lips brushing your soft jawline.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “You’re not there yet.”

Yet.

You didn’t sleep well that night. But in the morning, when he presented you with a tray of breakfast—thick slices of French toast, syrup dripping, butter melting—you ate it all.

Without question.

The scales kept tipping.

He started plating your food for you. Always more than his own. He praised your appetite in public. Ordered extra sides for you at restaurants. Took photos when you were too full to move. You wanted to push back, to say something—but every time he touched you, every time he whispered good girl in your ear, you forgot why you cared.

Aaric still kissed you like before. Touched you like before.

But now, it felt like permission.

You gained five more kilos.

He noticed every one.

And you knew.

Because he made sure you felt them, every single day.

Chapter 3: “You’re Doing So Well”

You couldn’t button your favorite jeans.

They were stretched taut just under your belly, the zipper giving up halfway. You stood in front of the mirror, frowning at the way the waistband pinched your softest fold, how your shirt bunched above it like it didn’t want to stretch any further.

You tried again—sucked in, twisted, fought the fabric—but it was useless. The jeans weren’t just tight.

They were impossible.

And yet, when you called for Aaric, when he stepped into the room and saw you struggling, he didn’t offer to help.

He just leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes trailing slowly from your flushed face down to your stomach, which pushed over the undone waistband like rising dough.

“Cute,” he said.

You scowled. “They used to fit.”

“They did,” he agreed, stepping closer. His voice was low. Measured. “But that was before you decided to outgrow everything you owned.”

You felt your cheeks flush. “We decided.”

Aaric tilted his head, a small, maddening smirk tugging at his lips.

“Sure. We started together.”

That word. Started. It echoed in the space between you.

Before you could respond, he stepped behind you and slid his hands over your sides—palms gliding over the curve of your love handles, now thick and yielding. You flinched as his fingers found the new depth of your waistline, how easily he could grip it now.

“You’ve been doing so well,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “You don’t even realize how far you’ve come.”

You did. You just didn’t want to admit it.

Not when your bras pinched. Not when you had to sit down after dinner because your belly ached from fullness. Not when your thighs rubbed together harder than ever, raw beneath dresses. Not when Aaric’s touch made you ache with humiliation and something else you weren’t ready to name.

He’d started prepping meals for you now. High-calorie, always plated just right, beautifully arranged—and always more than you asked for. He never said, eat it all. But he didn’t have to. His silence when you left food behind was louder than words.

And when you finished everything?

He praised you.

“Good girl.”

“You needed that.”

“Look at you.”

You wanted to say something, to tell him this wasn’t mutual anymore. But then you’d catch his eyes when you were stuffed—dark, satisfied, like this was exactly how it was supposed to be—and the words would melt away.

You liked the way he looked at you now.

Even if it scared you.

That weekend, he brought home a gift.

You opened the box with a laugh—until you saw what was inside.

A tight, stretchy dress, clearly a few sizes too small. The kind of thing you used to wear, back when your curves were firmer, tamer. You looked up, confused.

“You know this won’t fit.”

He shrugged. “Try it anyway.”

You hesitated, heart hammering.

He was watching.

So you peeled off your clothes, shimmying into the dress with effort. The fabric clung everywhere—across your belly, your ass, your hips—digging in like it was fighting to hold you. The hem rode up dangerously high. Your rolls were outlined like a topographic map.

You turned, ashamed.

But Aaric stepped forward, eyes locked on your body like you were a masterpiece.

“You’re incredible,” he said, low and firm.

You swallowed.

“You don’t think I’ve gone too far?”

He smiled. But it wasn’t playful anymore.

“Not yet.”

And you knew, in that moment, that he would decide when “too far” came.

Not you.

Chapter 4: “Let’s Not Pretend”

You were out of breath just walking up the stairs.

You paused at the landing, one hand on the rail, the other gripping a takeaway bag heavier than it should’ve been. Your thighs ached. Your lower back twinged. Your shirt had rolled up again, exposing the soft slope of your underbelly. You tugged it down with a grunt, but the fabric didn’t listen anymore.

Inside, Aaric was waiting.

He opened the door before you could knock, eyes immediately landing on the bulging bag, then drifting down—slow, deliberate—to your midsection, rising and falling with shallow, flustered breaths.

“Someone’s hungry,” he said.

You gave a weak smile, brushing past him into the apartment.

He didn’t help with the food. He just watched as you waddled in, lower belly swaying slightly under your stretched leggings, your thighs struggling not to chafe with each step. You could feel him assessing you—taking stock of your weight, your effort, your surrender.

He was so calm about it now.

So in control.

He let you finish dessert before he leaned back and said it.

“No more pretending, Dina.”

Your spoon froze halfway to your lips.

“What?”

He nodded toward your belly—rounded, swollen, straining visibly against your waistband.

“Let’s stop acting like this is mutual.”

You set the spoon down, heart thudding.

“We—”

“We started together,” he said, voice low but clear. “But now you eat what I give you. You dress how I want. You gain because I like it.”

You tried to speak. But the words caught in your throat.

“Stand up.”

Your eyes widened.

“Aaric—”

“Now.”

You rose slowly, wobbling a little as the food settled heavily in your gut. He circled behind you, then reached out, hooking a finger under the tight hem of your shirt and pulling it up, exposing your belly fully.

It hung low now, soft and obvious, resting against the band of your leggings like it belonged there. He let the silence hang as he stepped closer, both hands settling around your waist—fingers unable to meet across your widening middle.

“You used to fight me,” he murmured, lips brushing your neck. “Now look at you. I say ‘eat,’ and you devour. I say ‘grow,’ and you thank me.”

Your breath caught. His hands gripped tighter, sinking into your softness like he owned it.

“And the best part?” he whispered. “You love it.”

You did.

And that was the worst part.

Later that night, he fed you again. Not because you were hungry—you weren’t. You were already bloated, belly round and sore—but he sat you on his lap anyway, guiding bites past your lips, praising you with every swallow.

You couldn’t look him in the eyes.

Not when he said, “That’s my girl.”

Not when he said, “Bigger.”

Not when he said, “Soon, you won’t remember what it felt like to be in control.”

You didn’t know it yet, but the shift was almost complete.

Chapter 5: “Last Stand”

It happened in the middle of a warm Sunday morning.

You’d been alone for hours—Aaric had gone out early, said he had errands. You stood in front of your closet, breath shallow, clothes everywhere. Nothing fit. Not well, not anymore. Even your stretchiest pieces cut into your belly now, and the sight of yourself in the mirror—thick arms, overstuffed hips, your swollen middle cresting into soft, helpless roundness—sparked something sharp.

It wasn’t shame.

It was panic.

Because for the first time in weeks, you saw it clearly.

You were losing yourself.

You threw on the biggest sweater you owned, one of Aaric’s, and waited for him to return—heart pounding with resolve, even as it clung to something fragile and desperate.

When he came in, bags in hand, he raised an eyebrow at your expression.

You didn’t give him a chance.

“This isn’t working,” you blurted. “I need to cut back. Take control. We need to stop.”

He blinked. Slowly set the bags on the counter.

“Stop what?”

“You know what,” you snapped, stepping forward, the sweater barely covering the curve of your belly now. “This. All of this. You’re in shape, you’ve been working out behind my back—while I just… spiral. And you let me.”

His expression didn’t change.

You kept going.

“I’m tired of always being the one who’s out of breath, who can’t bend over without groaning, who—who gets stared at when we go out. You said this was mutual, Aaric. But look at us now.”

You were breathless, flushed. You expected him to argue, maybe to soothe you. To deny it.

But he just looked at you with something cold and final.

“Are you done?”

You froze.

His voice was different. Lower. Steady. Like he’d been waiting for this.

He crossed the room slowly and stopped just in front of you, reaching out to tug the hem of the oversized sweater upward. You flinched, but let him pull it up—exposing the pale swell of your belly, thick and heavy, drooping softly over the waistband of your leggings.

“You say this isn’t working,” he said, voice almost clinical. “But I see a girl who finishes everything she’s given. Who moans when I touch her. Who can’t resist dessert even when she’s already stuffed. Who’s exactly where she was always meant to be.”

You opened your mouth.

He shut it with a single finger against your lips.

“You don’t get to talk like you’re in charge anymore, Dina.”

A chill ran through you.

“This body—this big, soft, overfed body—belongs to me now.”

He took your hand and pressed it into the deepest crease of your belly.

“You gave it to me. Inch by inch. Bite by bite.”

You felt lightheaded. Powerless.

“I tried to be subtle,” he continued. “To let you feel like it was your idea. But I’ve watched you surrender for months now. And I think it’s time we stopped pretending otherwise.”

He stepped back and nodded toward the kitchen.

“You’ll go in there, and you’ll eat what I’ve made. You’ll finish all of it. And you’ll thank me after.”

I watch her waddle into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes and yawning, oblivious to the way her belly jiggles with each step. She’s wearing my old college hoodie, stretched tight over her curves, riding up just enough to reveal the soft underbelly that wasn’t there a year ago. She’s bigger—much bigger—but she still acts like she’s the same size she’s always been.

And I love it.

“Morning,” she mumbles, shuffling to the fridge. I follow her with my eyes, biting back a grin. The fridge door opens, and she immediately starts pulling out leftovers from last night’s dinner. I made too much on purpose—again.

She heaps pasta onto a plate and tosses it in the microwave. “Ugh, I’m starving. I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.”

I lean on the counter, chin in hand. “That’s probably because you skipped your midnight snack.”

She shrugs, arms jiggling as she leans in to get the food. “I’m trying not to overdo it.”

I almost laugh. Trying not to overdo it? The scale in the bathroom groaned last time she stepped on it. She’s passed the point where her clothes don’t fit—now she’s just cycling through mine. But the best part? She has no idea.

“Babe,” she says, between mouthfuls, “do you think I’ve gained weight?”

The question catches me off guard, but I’ve been here before.

I tilt my head, giving her the same practiced, innocent look. “Not really. Maybe a few pounds? Honestly, you look the same to me.”

She sighs in relief and takes another massive bite, completely trusting me. She wants so badly to believe she hasn’t changed. That the way her thighs spread across the chair, the extra time it takes her to catch her breath after climbing stairs, the way her belly now rests in her lap—it’s all just… temporary. Nothing serious.

“I thought maybe I was imagining things,” she continues. “Like, my jeans are tight, but they were probably in the dryer too long.”

I nod. “That must be it.”

And just like that, she relaxes again, letting herself enjoy every creamy, cheesy bite of pasta like it’s her reward for staying “the same.” Her metabolism, she claims, has always been fast. That’s what she tells herself. What she tells me.

But I know the truth.

And I’m not stopping.

She’s finishing the pasta like she hasn’t eaten in days, completely unaware—or unwilling to admit—how much she’s changed. I can see it from every angle: the way her upper arms fill the sleeves of my hoodie to their limits, how the fabric strains around her shoulders. She’s outgrown all of her own clothes, but she still hasn’t made peace with that.

She sets the empty plate down with a satisfied sigh, stretching slightly. The hoodie rises even higher, exposing the full curve of her belly resting in her lap. I watch her tug it back down, annoyed.

“This stupid thing keeps riding up,” she mutters, tugging harder.

I play innocent. “Dryer must’ve shrunk it too.”

She pouts, running a hand over her stomach, as if the tightness is the fault of the fabric and not the pounds she’s steadily packed on. “Maybe. But I swear everything’s been feeling tighter lately.”

She stands up—and that’s when it happens.

A loud, sharp rip slices through the silence.

She freezes. I try not to smirk.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, twisting around. There it is: a fresh tear right along the seam of the hoodie under her arm, where the fabric just couldn’t take the strain anymore.

She looks horrified.

I, on the other hand, am quietly thrilled.

“I loved this hoodie,” she whines, poking a finger through the hole. “Why is everything falling apart lately?”

I step closer, brushing a hand over the tear like I’m checking the damage. “It’s old,” I say softly. “You’ve worn it so much. Don’t worry—I’ve got plenty more you can borrow.”

She sighs, and I can practically see her trying to convince herself. “Yeah… it’s just the clothes. Not me.”

I nod reassuringly. “Of course. You haven’t gained that much.”

And she smiles—relieved—like she really believes it.

But I know what the scale said last week, the one she avoided looking at. I know how many buttons she’s popped, how many pairs of jeans she’s left folded on the floor, abandoned mid-struggle. I see the little expressions she makes when she sits down too fast and her belly sloshes forward, or when she has to shift awkwardly to get off the couch. But she won’t say it out loud. She won’t even ask the real question.

Not yet.

And I’ll keep feeding her. I’ll keep pretending. I’ll keep telling her it’s just the clothes. Just the dryer. Just bad luck.

Because she wants to believe.

And I want her to keep growing.

It’s a few days later when I find her in the bedroom, surrounded by clothes. Piles of them. Jeans, leggings, stretched-out tees, a few bras she hasn’t worn in months. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, red-faced and frustrated, struggling to tug a pair of jeans over her hips.

I pause in the doorway, watching. She hasn’t noticed me yet.

She grunts and wiggles, rocking side to side as she pulls with all her strength. Her belly bounces with each movement, soft and uncooperative. The denim catches just below her navel, refusing to budge any further. I see the button straining like it’s in a hostage situation. Her thighs are stuffed into the legs like sausages, seams visibly tugging for mercy.

Finally, with one last heave, she yanks the waistband together and manages to fasten the button.

But the zipper’s another story.

It won’t go up. Not even halfway.

She slumps back on the bed with an exasperated huff. “Ugh, what the hell.”

That’s my cue. I step into the room casually. “Everything okay?”

She jumps, startled. “God, don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Didn’t mean to.” I glance around at the mess. “Looks like a fashion show exploded in here.”

“I’m just… trying to figure out what still fits,” she mutters, sitting up straighter, the jeans cutting into her middle now that she’s no longer standing. A thick roll of belly spills over the waistband, plush and pink from the pressure.

I walk over and sit beside her. “Those jeans look tight.”

“They used to be loose,” she groans, pulling at the zipper again in vain. “I don’t get it. I haven’t gained that much.”

She says it like a prayer. Desperate. Hollow.

I nod slowly, like I’m thinking it through. “Maybe they shrunk.”

“They’re stretch denim.”

“Maybe you’ve just… filled out a little?” I offer it carefully, planting just enough truth to keep her spinning.

She gives me a skeptical look. “You said the other day I looked the same.”

I smile. “You do. Just… a curvier version.”

She makes a face, tugging at the waistband again. “I don’t want to buy all new clothes.”

“You don’t have to,” I say. “Just keep borrowing mine.”

She sighs, defeated. “But yours are starting to feel tight too.”

Bingo.

“I could go shopping with you,” I offer casually. “If you want to find some comfy stuff that fits right. You’ll feel better.”

“I guess,” she says. Then, as if remembering her reflection, she groans and tries to stand up—but the jeans make it difficult. Her movements are sluggish, heavy. The waistband digs in deeper as she leans forward and braces herself on the nightstand.

“Jesus,” she mutters under her breath.

She manages to stand, but the second she straightens up, the button gives up.

POP.

The sharp little noise rings through the room as the button flies off and hits the floor with a faint clatter. Her belly surges forward with nothing holding it back, and she stares down at the open jeans in stunned silence.

I don’t move. I just watch, slowly licking my lips.

“Did that just—?”

“Yup,” I say, voice low. “That just happened.”

She stares down at herself, hands resting on the sides of her exposed stomach like she’s not sure whether to laugh or cry.

“I guess… maybe I’ve gained a little.”

I hum thoughtfully, walking over and brushing my fingers along her sides. “Just enough to grow out of your old life,” I whisper. “Nothing wrong with that.”

She closes her eyes, chewing her lip. Still trying to believe the lie. Still trying to pretend this is a phase. That it’s just the jeans, just bad sizing, just a bloated day.

I reach down and gently tug the ruined denim down her thighs, letting them pool at her feet. “You don’t have to fight it,” I say softly. “Just let go.”

She looks at me for a long time. Not denying it anymore—but not fully accepting it either.

Somewhere in between.

And that’s the sweet spot. That’s where I want her.

I guide her toward the mirror. She hesitates but follows, half-dressed and vulnerable, belly soft and heavy in the reflection. She stares at herself like she’s seeing someone else.

But I’m right behind her, arms wrapping around that growing middle, resting my chin on her shoulder.

“You look amazing,” I whisper. “Don’t change a thing.”

Her eyes flick to mine in the mirror. Searching. Wanting to believe.

And for now, she does.

She stands there in front of the mirror, wide-eyed and quiet, wrapped up in my arms with her jeans around her ankles and her belly spilling out in soft, pale rolls. She hasn’t moved in a full minute, just staring at her reflection like she’s trying to understand where the girl she used to be went.

I feel her shifting in my hold, uncomfortable. Embarrassed.

And now? That’s when I push.

“You know,” I murmur against her neck, “it’s kind of impressive.”

She frowns. “What is?”

“How far you’ve let yourself go.”

Her whole body stiffens. I feel her breath hitch, her arms twitch like she’s about to cover herself—but she doesn’t. Maybe because my grip tightens a little. Or maybe because she’s too shocked to move.

“I mean,” I continue, voice calm and low, “when we met, I could fit both hands around your waist. Now look at you.”

She flushes, red creeping up her cheeks as her eyes drop to her middle. I glide my hands down her sides, fingers sinking into the doughy softness that didn’t used to be there.

“This wasn’t here before,” I say, giving her love handles a little squeeze. “Or this.” I drag my hand over the lower curve of her belly, where it’s started to hang—just slightly—past her hips.

She exhales, a mix of embarrassment and arousal. She doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t deny it.

“You outgrew three bras in six months,” I go on, my voice just a touch colder now. “I watched you struggle with every clasp, every time pretending they were shrinking.”

“I didn’t—” she starts, weakly.

“You did,” I cut in, softly but firmly. “And you broke two chairs. You think I didn’t notice?”

Her silence is answer enough. She presses her thighs together instinctively. I can see her mind racing—humiliated, but clinging to some thread of denial, some excuse to explain it all away.

“You can’t even see your feet unless you lean over,” I say, almost conversationally. “And even then, your belly gets in the way.”

She flinches, a soft gasp leaving her lips. She knows I’m right. I see her eyes flick to the mirror again—then away. It’s too much.

“You really haven’t noticed how fat you’re getting?” I whisper, one hand gliding back up to cup the underside of her belly. It fills my palm and then some.

She makes a choked sound—half protest, half moan.

“Or do you just like pretending?” I murmur. “Like playing dumb so you can keep stuffing your face without the guilt?”

She doesn’t answer.

“You’re bursting out of every stitch of clothing you own, waddling around the house like you don’t feel how heavy you’ve gotten… And you believed me when I said it was just the dryer.”

I chuckle, low and cruel.

She bites her lip so hard I think she might cry. Or kiss me. Or both.

“You said you didn’t want to buy new clothes,” I go on, brushing a hand over her shelf of a belly. “But sweetie… you don’t have clothes anymore. You have fabric clinging to the fantasy that you’re still small.”

Her thighs tremble. She’s shaking now.

“You have gained that much. And more. And you’re still pretending you haven’t. That’s the hottest part.”

I pause, letting the silence settle.

She looks back at me in the mirror. Her cheeks are flushed, her chest rising and falling fast. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.

Because the way she leans into me—lets me hold all that extra weight she’s carrying—tells me everything I need to know.

She’s embarrassed.

She’s humiliated.