cw/ manipulated weight gain, dubious consent, rapid weight gain, vague ed references, bdsm, dom feedism, size contrast
It starts off innocently.
"Babe I got this bag of cookies that expires today and I feel so full from my post workout protein shake. Do you mind sharing?"
It doesn't matter that I'm also full from my pasta and garlic bread dinner. I watch what I eat but don't mind indulging. I'm a little pudgy, not as fat as my appetite and sedentary (but social) lifestyle might suggest, but only because I so often forget to eat. It's always helpful when you make the choice for me, even if I'm already full, and I do like cookies. I know how hard you work for your body — it’s for your job as a personal trainer, and I know how difficult your relationship can be with food, not to mention how adorable and convincing you are, so I oblige.
So we watch a movie and "share" the bag, except you barely touch them. I'm forgetful so you keep telling me l've only had two, you've definitely eaten half, there wasn't that many in the packet, keep going. I end up full. Belly so bloated and packed that by the end of the movie, my breath is shallow and I'm surpressing moans of discomfort and ... something else.
When we get into bed that evening, you cuddle up to me, pretending not to notice how slow and heavy my movements are. You spoon me, lightly resting your fingers on my distended belly. I'm too tired and full to process what you're doing, more than anything just grateful for the soothing sensation distracting me from the aches, drifting off to sleep as you gently stroke the swell.
The pattern continues, and it takes me some time to notice how often you're bringing home "nearly expired" or "too expensive to waste" or "birthday cake leftovers". You'd come home from the gym or work or meeting with friends, slipping your slim body through our shrinking front door with bags laden with food. You're so sweet and convincing, and so often it's the first thing l've eaten since breakfast, so I'm happy for you to take the reins. I’m used to you bossing me around in the bedroom, being dominant while I’m submissive, so it feels a little erotic too.
You start testing it at breakfast, saying you made "too many" pancakes, or you don't have time to eat yours since you work shifts and I work from home. At lunch you "accidentally" send your company ubereats order to the house, but I'm so used to your evening and morning feedings by now that I don't notice just how much I'm eating.
I can feel I’m getting bigger, of course, but I rationalise it as temporary weight while I work from home. I’ll be getting back to the office soon and commuting every day so even though I’m not concerned with being thin or athletic, this round, protruding belly is beginning to get in the way and I feel like a swollen balloon most of the time. My t-shirts keep riding up and underwear falling down, and I haven’t worn jeans or work trousers in months but I can feel the elastic stretching a little on my joggers.
You haven’t given up the attention on me, either. In fact, you’re all over me more than before. You keep asking for sex just after you’ve convinced me to finish both of our pizzas, and I can’t resist, especially as you just let me lie there while I grunt and whine. I considered suggesting I eat a bit less or at least give some time before sex, but I secretly started to look forward to how stimulating a full belly was. It became erogenous, even when empty but especially when full — and the fuller the more sensitive. So I didn’t say anything. Besides, if you - a personal trainer with a slim athletic body - aren’t worried, then I can still relax.
It’s not until some friends come over for dinner that I really notice it’s more than some reversible bloating. You cook, of course. I’m getting into a smart-casual dress that only just manages to zip up the side of it if I suck my tummy in. It’s not empty but fairly soft and malleable so I don’t think much of it and join the dinner. Our friends notice immediately when they arrive, but don’t say anything. They also notice how much you’re piling onto my plate, and how many times you ask me to eat something for you. They notice when I let out little huffs and grunts that I used to suppress but forgot weren’t normal. They notice when you ask if I want more while leaning down and pushing gently on the side of my belly, provoking a quiet burp and whine. They notice when the dress zip finally bursts and splits, my soft fat filling the gap and bloated belly swelling the looser fabric.
They politely leave, but I get a text later while I’m undressing in our bedroom. You’re cleaning up.
“Do you know they’re trying to make you fat?”
I frown at the message. You’re not doing anything, I could always say no. Besides, I’m not even that fat, and you’d certainly say something if I was. Yeah the dress broke, but you told me it shrunk in the wash which sounded reasonable.
I stand and approach the mirror, turning to the side and tracing my fingers over the swell of my round belly. I notice how packed with fat it is, not just food or bloat, but fat. I notice how much bigger my ass and hips are, nearly touching the edges of the mirror in the reflection. I really look at my face and notice that my once cute, barely noticeably chubby double chin had fattened to cover my whole neck. My boobs were spilling out of the stretchy cloth bras I’d been wearing.
You come in behind me. I don’t notice, too focused on my reflection, until your hands find mine on my belly.
I meet your eyes in the mirror. We’re both blushing, neither of us daring to speak first.
“I should … cut down … before I go back to the office. I won’t fit in my work clothes.” I murmur.
“I could buy you new ones,” you suggest, shy, letting go of my hands to lightly heft the swell of my belly. I flush, embarrassment and pleasure rolling through me in warm waves.
“Why?” I whisper, watching you touch me, one of your hands finding my breasts and scooping them out of the bra, nipples hard. You touch them, I gasp.
You don’t answer straight away. You’re embarrassed, yes, but I know how dominant you can be in the bedroom, and in life. I know you don’t do things without purpose.
“It started out innocently,” you begin, leaving little kisses on my neck as you fondle my breast and belly. “I really did have too much food. It felt worse to throw it away and knowing you got to enjoy it, well — I just liked treating you, and it helped me feel better.”
“Yes,” you say. “They were too tempting for me, you helped me out. I couldn’t deny how nice it felt for you to help me out like that. I reasoned with myself that you liked it”
“I did.” I say, lids half closed but watching you intently in the mirror.
“So then I thought it would be fun to treat you as a rule. If I crave something, if I want something, I get it for you, enjoy it through you. And I couldn’t deny how good it felt to watch you enjoy it so much you became … basically incapacitated.”
I groan, blushing so hard. You rub both hands over the swell of my huge ball belly.
“You know I like to dominate you, and it was like watching you slowly get tied down, but by your own body. I could tell how much you enjoyed it too, which just made it better. I wanted both of us to enjoy it as much as possible. I wanted to find the limit, because it just kept getting better, the bigger you got.”
I groan again and take a deep breath.
“That’s … hot,” I pant, “but when my colleagues see me—“
“They’ll know how well I’ve taken care of you. I’m a fitness trainer, I know what I’m doing,” you smile, stroking my soft chins. “And it’s only a few weeks away.” You move to stand beside me in the mirror and turn me toward you so we’re front to front. We both look in the mirror and it’s suddenly so noticeable how much bigger I am than you. “Someone of your size and appetite … you’d be miserable losing weight again.”
I feel the swell of my belly push against your abs. I’m so big.
“Besides,” you wrap your arms around me again and murmur into my ear. “I impulse bought a party-sized chocolate cake earlier, and I’d feel so much better if you enjoyed it for me.”
When my new work clothes arrive, I notice they’re much bigger than my already bigger-than-usual size. It must have been a mistake, I remember you meticulously measuring me the other night to be sure you got to the right sizes, making sure to measure each part of me. You weighed me too. I’d gained 100lbs in the six months you’d been fattening me.
“Babe, I think they sent the wrong ones,” I say, showing you. “These’ll fall off.”
I swallowed, brushing a hand against my eternally stuffed belly through my “baggy” jumper that was now a tight fit over my heaving belly. The doorbell rang.
“Oh!” you smiled in mock surprise. “I forgot I ordered Chinese for both of us, but I’m really not in the mood for it now. Do you mind?”
Two hours and five pounds of Chinese food later, you have me tied down to the bed, ropes wrapped around my chubby wrists, arms, chest and thighs so my plush fat bulges out, breasts swelling from their constraints. My globular, bloated and stuffed belly emphasised by the ropes tightly framing your masterpiece, your pride, your belly that you’ve grown on my body, especially as you’ve taken to hand — and even funnel — feeding me these days.
Your skinny, tight body leans against mine as you feel my biggest and fullest spots. I don’t think I could muster the word “no” or “stop” if I tried.
Fuck. You’re going to make me so big.
