Round ftw

i want to push him to eat for me. i want to feel like the devil in his ear, conditioning him to give in to pleasure. i want it to start with a cute, bulging little tummy, at first, as he moans helplessly from the struggle of digesting how much i made him eat. i want to spoil him with chocolates and sweets until his poor belly hurts, and hes still begging me for more with his eyes, wobbling his stuffed gut, showing off for me. quickly, it becomes more hands-off as his belly stretches, and all of a sudden hes eating enough for two, three people every meal. our friends look at him with shock when they see how much food he orders, when we're all going out after a concert, and i just laugh because they have no idea how much he can really pack away when i have him tied up and i wont let him cum until he finishes everything.

i want it to become obvious how much his stomach is growing as it sticks out in comparison to his flat chest. then i want him to widen, his stance shifting, legs further apart to support all that weight, or to allow his soft tummy to rest between his thighs. his belly aching and striped with stretch marks that i come up behind him to trace with my fingers. he moans at the delicate touch. hes oozing out of his jeans, his belly sticks out of all his t shirts. his sweaters all cling to his middle, making him look plush and perfect. i want his moobs to finally start coming in, still paling in comparison to his big, growing belly. i want to squeeze his fattened gut and tell him hes starting to look like a proper man, now. i want him obese, addicted to sugary sweets and rich home cooking and fatty junk food. i want him to insist hes still starving whenever he hasnt eaten himself to helpless, breathless pain. poor thing. doesnt know whats good for him. hes outgrown his wardrobe several times, now, and its more common to see him in too-small clothes tha not.

(A story dedicated to a special piglet. Ingredients: farmer feeder, hucow, intox, mind play. Enjoy x)

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Well hello there - you're the new farmhand, right? 

It's nice to meet you, but are they sure they sent the right person? No, it's just you're such a little twig, I'm surprised you're up for this kind of work. Don't worry though, we'll get some meat on those bones soon. 

Yep - specialty dairy. The richest, creamiest milk in the world right here. I know, our reputation precedes us. 

What's our secret? Well, if you show you can be trusted you'll get to see behind the scenes. But really, it comes down to really caring for my herd. A happy cow makes me happy, you know?

Well, head inside now - there's plenty of dinner on the table and dessert in the fridge. Help yourself to as much as you want, it's going to be a big day tomorrow. 

'It's amazing!' I tell you. 'They have waiter service right to the seats - and I got us a great deal. We're going to watch a marathon of classic stoner movies and we get dinner and unlimited snacks. Doesn't that sound perfect?'

Without thinking your hand goes to your growing pot belly. You kept saying you need to take it easy on indulging your appetite for greasy food - but your gut rumbles in response.

After a moment's hesitation, you agree that it sounds like fun. I smile, hungrily.

I thought I’d welcome you to the building, she says.

Oh no, thank you, but I need to stay in shape for track.

It’s just a few cookies, and I baked them myself, she pouts. You can smell how warm and fragrant they are. Well, one can’t hurt.

It turns out she’s a great baker. She visits you every day, her plump little figure turning you on as much as the treats she offers. After a couple of weeks, you start to worry. I really can’t, you say, running a hand over the newly sloping fat that you’ve put on your midsection. You know that coach is going to tell you to lose the belly.

Instead, you find out that the track team has been eliminated. You’re devastated and eat your feelings for a few weeks, downing whatever the cutie brings you, one cookie turning into a plate full, one slice of cake turning into you filling your belly with the entire cake.

Pretty soon, your belly is stretching out your shirts, poking out of the bottom. She giggles, saying that someone’s getting a tummy, and pats your rounding midsection as she offers you more fattening food. You try to pull down your shirt to hide the evidence, but it’s no use.

What the hell, you think, and decide to succumb to her. Each day brings more food, more encouragement. You go home for break and people are stunned, but also find your newly acquired fat hilarious, pointing out how obviously big you’re getting. You spend the break gorging yourself on junk food and filling yourself with beer.

When you get back to school, you’re even fatter and more bloated than you were just a few weeks ago. You’ve got an obvious gut full of beer, plates of nachos, and bags of chips. You’ve done such a good job, she says, playing with your belly, jiggling it. You deserve a treat.

And so it continues for the next few months. She brings you ever larger portions, boxes full of doughnuts, gallons of ice cream. You down all of it, noticing that she’s getting a little potbelly too, but nothing can compare to how big your gut is getting. Pretty soon, you’re lumbering around, your distinct waddle impossible to ignore. You start to have trouble fitting behind desks and squeezing yourself into lecture hall seats. You need to buy clothes in ever larger sizes.

Well, with the way you’ve been feeding me, it’s no wonder I’m getting fat you say, leaning into their hand as they move down your body to cup the soft bottom of your belly in their hand.

Oh, you know you love it, they say, playfully smacking your belly. We wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t. And it’s true, you do love it. You love how round and plump you’ve become, how lush and soft your body is. They’ve been feeding you ice cream and milkshakes daily and so much of that dairy has gone to your belly, it’s amazing.

Hmmm, they say, patting your belly, it looks like you could use a snack. They leave for a moment and come back to bed with a large box of decadent, artisanal chocolates. They get on top of you and start feeding you piece after piece, rubbing your belly to help you get it all in. You eat chocolate after chocolate until the whole box is gone, now in your stuffed belly. Your partner keeps massaging you, the belly rubs feeling so good on your even rounder belly. You know that those calories are going to stick around and make you fatter, and you love it.

- being fed at certain times like every hour without having to think about when ur gonna eat next and one less thing to thing about

- having a feeder who know all your taste preferences, ur go to orders and flavour profile so you know if there’s a place that sells Mac and cheese as a side they’ll know to get that, and the fries and the soda cup must be a large

- not worrying if ur belly can hold it all or your comfort because ur bae will take out your belly when the waist band is too tough around your belly button. Unbuttoning your pants so you can eat that extra meal, and unzipping them so you can comfortably digest. Rubbing ur belly in circles and grabbing your rolls kneading it like dough so all your burps aren’t trapped and having max space for more food

- lotioning your belly with oils and butters so it’s xtra stretchy and the stretch marks are u comfortable or you feel like ur gonna pop

- getting you a scooter when ur shopping or having a day out after lunch so you can eat and stroll and just relax when ur gut gets too big and heavy

- kissing you after you let out intense belches being proud of you that you trust them enough to feed you take care of and cherish you for both of your enjoyment

don’t notice the way you struggle a bit more to button up your jeans before work.

don’t notice the way your shirt feels a lot tighter, how it’s practically become a second skin for you.

don’t notice the way you breathe heavier just walking from your house to your car, sitting in the front seat for a moment just to catch your breath.

don’t notice the way you had to move your seat back this morning, too, because the steering wheel has started to press uncomfortably into your stomach and thighs.

don’t notice the way your first meal of the day has more calories than you should be eating for half the day.

don’t notice the way you stop and get donuts on the way to work more frequently now, so you have something to snack on during work.

don’t notice the way your co-workers are staring more and more often at you, the way your clothes cling to your body, every new pound on full display.

don’t notice the way your shirt has started to roll up while you eat, exposing that soft underbelly for the world to see.

don’t notice the way you eat three times as much as your friends do when you all go out, ordering more and more and finishing off their plates for them, too.

maybe you don’t notice how fat you’re getting, but you’re going to notice soon.

you’ll notice when you try to pull your old favorite jeans on, and they get stuck on your thighs. you’ll fight and pull and try to get them on, but even if you manage to slide them up your legs, they’ll never button across that belly.

you’ll notice when all of your shirts have suddenly become crop tops, sliding up to rest above the top of your belly.

you’ll notice when you get out of breath just walking from your bedroom to the kitchen to stuff your face even more. how a simple few steps make you have to pause.

you’ll notice when the seatbelt cuts into your belly and chest when you move too far in your seat, when it’s a struggle to fit yourself in behind the steering wheel.

you’ll notice when your breakfast order comes out and there’s enough plates to feed a family of 4, and the waitress asks if you’re sure you can finish all that.

(you know you can, you’ve done it before.)

you’ll notice when your two, three, four donuts a day becomes 7, 8, 9, a dozen a day, until the workers know your name and order by heart.

you’ll notice when your co-workers start to whisper when you walk by, asking what happened to you, how could you let yourself go like that?

you’ll notice when your clothes are tight before you even eat, but they become unbearable once you’ve shoved all that food into your face. when you have to unbutton your jeans mid meal, as to not risk losing a button.

you’ll notice when your friends start asking if you need that 3rd, 4th, 5th plate, if you really need dessert after all that food. when they say hey, we’re going to the gym after lunch, do you want to come?

“Looks like you’ve put on a few,” they observed, giving your padded ass a pat.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh really? Look at your belly.”

You do, and notice the little rounded swell beneath your shirt. “I didn’t realize…I’m sure I can lose this,” you stammer.

“Why would you do that?” they ask. “It’s sexy. Why not take the next class? I’d love it if you gained a few more pounds, if you’re ok with that.”

So you do, and you do, all that rich food filling out your curves. You have to admit that they look as good as your partner thinks they do. They can’t keep their hands off of you as they compliment your bigger belly, thighs, and ass. You love how they massage and slap your belly with admiration. You love clothes shopping together, finding sexy clothes in increasingly bigger sizes.

You eventually take the entire series of classes, become a gourmet cook. Along the way, you continue to gain, the extra weight slowing you down in the kitchen even as your skills progress. Your partner encourages you every step of the way, praising your cooking and your heavier body. Inevitably, they grow a potbelly as well from all the good food. You didn’t realize how sexy you would find this, the sight of their belly sticking out of their shirt. Holding each other feels so good, your soft bodies pressing against each other.

“Look,” you say, “They’re offering a series of Italian cooking classes next.”

You’re surprised, but decide to go with it, enjoying the luscious meals they cook for you, the delicious treats they bring you. Before you know it, your belly is stretching out your shirts and you’ve switched to sweatpants because you’ve outgrown your jeans. Your partner can’t keep their hands off you, constantly playing with your belly and telling you how great you look. You graduate from a belly to a potbelly to what looks like a beer gut.