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True to the claim, when he stepped onto the scale the next day, he was exactly 361 pounds. This one pound felt more exciting than any of the previous sixty; it felt like it came with a near-certain promise of more. The compound made the shake sit heavier in his belly than normal, like his belly was somehow needing to stretch a little more into discomfort to accommodate that one single drop, but the next day brought another pound. And another the day after.

For the first week, he had fun searching for the extra pound on his body with his feeder.

"I think it was a tits pound yesterday, I can feel it," he laughs, waking up bloated on the seventh day and taking the blender into his hands to chug down the new day's shake, giggling through his greedy gulps as his feeder gropes at his swollen chest.

The first month brought thirty pounds as expected, bringing him to a heavy 390. His belly was rounder, his sides were thicker, his rolls and thighs visibly puffier with the as his body tried to allocate the weight around somewhat evenly. He was laying on the couch, his hands jostling his extra fat around, feeling for himself how much more of his belly rested against his widening thighs when his feeder brought the shake in.

"Are you sure we can't try more than a drop? It feels so good being able to tell I'm getting fatter like this…" he asks.

"If we pour the whole thing in, you'll still just gain a pound today, and then we'll be out," his feeder assures him, taking his belly in their hands and coaxing his mouth open to chug down his shake, watching as the creases on his neck bulge with his every swallow. His arms rested more against the swollen bulges of fat at his sides than against his torso. New, pink stretch marks were dappling his skin everywhere from his lower belly to his arms.

"What if I ate more?" he pleads, kneading his doughy fat with such intensity that it seemed he was expecting it to rise.

"I could spoonfeed you the most fattening thing you have in the kitchen, but you'd still gain a pound a day."

Grumbling a little, his plump face in a cute, eager pout, he goes back to tipping the blender against his mouth, making sure every drop slides down his throat.

By the end of the second month, things weren't fitting him well. His underwear waistbands had gotten tight, shirts clung to the roundness of his middle belly and let the bottom hang free. The warmth of the summer demanded shorts, but his thighs could barely squeeze into his biggest pair. His feeder shifted his wardrobe, everything elastic and forgiving and oversized as they continued dropping a pound per day into his swelling form. The 400 milestone had come and gone, the next day's pound always spurring him on.

"You could just not wear anything, you know," his feeder teasees, folding all of the once-oversized shirts that were now frayed and torn at the seams where his fattest parts strained them.

"I'd bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" he grins, lifting handfuls of his belly fat to show that there wasn't much exposed at all beneath it, given how much his thighs pressed together and his underbelly sat heavy against them. His feeder's hands admired and soothed every inch of his swelling body.

"At this rate, you'll be too big for anything in your closet next month," his feeder smirks, always wanting more of him.

Halfway through the fourth month, he was starting to feel the extra weight adding up. He was breathless, panting and red in the face from carrying groceries from the car. The exertion needed to move his body these short distances was proving enticing to both of them; it didn't take long for him to be breathless and panting on the couch for entirely different reasons.

His feeder was straddling his lap, pressing against the mass of his belly, with their thumb on his chin to guide it open for his daily shake.

"It's not getting to be too much? A hundred extra pounds isn't enough for my big guy yet?" his feeder asks, dangling the first drops of shake at the blender's edge.

"More. I can take it. I want it. Please," he says, that same eagerness from when he was a meager 360 pounds holding steady in his voice and on his face, "please make me even fatter."

As he gained, every day felt like another opportunity to feel the excessive weight affecting his body in new ways. He felt huge, and knew he'd get even bigger the next day. The next week. The next month.

His feeder started to take care of some of the little things: tying his shoes; holding the blender up so his heavy arms wouldn't get tired during his daily shake; lifting his deliciously-inconvenient rolls out of the way when their mutual affection for his body demanded reaching and spreading to reward his indulgence with even more pleasure. The almost-anxious need he'd felt to push himself to grow and grow at any cost was softened into a blissful relishing of how much of his day was filled with thoughts and sensations of food and his own fat.

Five-hundred pounds seemed like a good point to reevaluate. The number seemed so far off, until it wasn't. His weight climbed by a pound a day, but the sheer size of his body was reaching the point where even a couple weeks' worth of pounds seemed to be lost in the swollen, blob-like mass of his belly or the spreading rolls of soft fat on his sides and thighs. Spaces around his body were closing rapidly: his chin brushed his chest; his side rolls folded onto his butt; his thighs pushed each other apart until his belly was resting on the couch, demanding more and more space.

The shake with the compound would earn him his pound, but he was finding more and more that his love for the immense amounts of food he could eat was retuning. Why, after all, if he was going to gain a pound anyways, wouldn't he want to cram himself full of as many sweet, greasy calories as his growing stomach could accommodate? His feeder delighted in feeding him as much as he could handle.

"You know, five-hundred pounds was last week," his feeder says, tracing small circles on his immense belly as they dipped a spoon to scoop another mouthful of ice cream-soaked cookies into his mouth.

"Really?" he says, shifting a little, his weight making the couch groan, the distance imposed by his belly between him and his feeder making his mind tingle. "How do you know? I haven't made it onto the scale recently…"

"Because I can count," his feeder says. "The number is practically tattooed on my brain, then I add one to it first thing in the morning. Plus, these are unmistakably the tits of a five-hundred pound guy," they add, lifting and letting his swollen roll of a moob flop onto his belly. "You're 506 pounds, in case you were wondering."

"Mmmm say the number again?" he says, breathing heavily as he struggled to lean forward against his own bulk for his mouth to meet the next bite.

"Five-hundred," his feeder says, tipping the shake into his mouth, listening to his growing moans as the shake filled him and his feeder's hands pressed against the bloat. "Six pounds."

Six-hundred, he admits to his feeder, was really the number he wanted to experience. Big enough that he could retain some shreds of independence and mobility, but enormous enough to struggle a little. The colder winter months were designed for him to lounge on the couch, his body swelling to take up the tiniest bit more of it each day. The warmth of blankets, baked goods, his feeder's touch, and his own soft fat keeping him happy and growing.

He didn't need the scale anymore. His feeder would write the new number on a small dry erase board on the other side of the room so he could see it ticking up. 525. 526. 527. He wondered when he would feel it again. When he would have one of those oh shit moments about how much bigger he'd gotten. But the couch's support and his feeder's care kept him growing with ease. 541. 542. 543. The holidays arrived, with many extra treats for the big guy.

Tracking his weight wasn't enough. His feeder documented the spread of his hips, the size of his arms, the weight of his moobs. He became obsessed with finding new ways to quantify his fatness, eating his way through more and more of his day, most pleased with himself when his jowls were wobbling against his chest fold mid-chew.

The food was the work and the food was the reward.

The compound upheld its part and he continued his growth into spring as the impossibly-big 600 pound milestone loomed.

The weather warmed and with his feeder's help he emerged into the blooming yard at 598 pounds, not daring to sit on any furniture that couldn't handle his weight, feeling the warm rays of sun hitting all of the new fat that had accumulated on him since hunkering down for such a cozy, caloric winter.

"There's not that much left," his feeder warns. He looks up, face smeared with frosting as he eats his "happy 600 pounds" cake by the handful. The vial had a little less than a quarter left. "I should've known you weren't going to spread this out."

He grins. "I am spreading out," he says, leaning back on the couch and letting his fat splay outwards towards the arms, hardly any room for his dedicated feeder to join him to sit without being on or tucking under his bulk.

"What if… we just used it up," he suggests. He was heavy, very heavy, but he could still manage to move. He'd get some more movement in. The depth of his belly threatened to spill past his knees when he sat, the fat folding into thick, biteable rolls for his feeder to admire and attend to.

"You know I can't say no to you," his feeder says, their mouth locking onto their favorite roll on his neck as their hands interlaced with his and they made a meal of feeding him his shake.

The days passed more quickly now, though he moved less and less. He would accept some help heaving himself up from the couch to take few wobbling, breathless steps to the other side of the room. He spent hours with his hands running across the vastness of his own fat, knowing each day and each shake meant one more pound and one fewer day remaining that he could unwaveringly count on growth.

His hips and thighs reached the sides of the couch at 640. For fun, he showed his feeder how he'd outgrown the entryway to their kitchen by 650. "I guess it's really up to you if I get fatter now, I literally can't get to the blender" he says. His feeder only grins in return and lifts the shake to his lips again, utterly devoted.

Soon he shifted to counting down the pounds he had left to gain before the vial ran out. He estimated 30 left. Then 20. Ten, probably. Was it the 697 that mattered more or the ten?

Everything about his body drove him wild. Every dimple. Every fold. Every spot his feeder touch felt electrically charged by the swelling fat expanding his area of perception. His feeder spared no teasing detail about how utterly cumbersome his body had become to navigate and the intensity of their shared pleasure at those inconveniences grew together, too.

The last drop made its way into his shake one morning, topping him out at 714 pounds. His body was enormously fat, every part of him overflowing with soft, heavy flab that cocooned him and his feeder in their embraces together.

"I'm so, so huge…" he hasps, like an exhalation from the unrelenting journey he'd taken over the last year. His soft arms rested against his front, chubby fingers kneading constantly on his belly as though he needed to physically verify the weight was still there.

"Does it feel like you'd hoped?" his feeder asks.

"Better," he admits, taking the time to feel how the weight encumbered his limbs and begged him to stay as sedentary as he and his feeder would allow. "I can't believe we used it all."

"I can," his feeder says, warmly, their hand patting the middle of his belly to ripple out across the few hundred extra pounds caked onto his increasingly-shapeless body.

"I guess this is it then…" he says, with a sigh. His eyes and hands moving along every inch of his body they could reach, trying to soak in the feeling of being this big, knowing the compound-assisted gravy train had come to an end. His feeder's hands wrapped around him, sinking into the mass of his body.

"What if you… maintained," his feeder suggests.

"You mean… stay this big?" he asks, turning over his hands to survey his arms, thinking about the potential of carrying around this weight for more time.

"Yeah," his feeder says. "It'll take a lot of eating, but I think you might just be ready for that," they said, playfully squeezing the bulk of his cheeks. "You might need to really pile on the sweets and stuff to keep the weight on, but what's a few extra desserts a day when you're seven-hundred gorgeous pounds?"

"Feed me as much as you want, being this big I don't ever need to gain another pound," he says, moving his hips to entice his feeder to return quickly with his vanilla shake, grateful for everything the compound had given him and determined with his feeder's help to sustain all the weight he'd grown during the year.

Every single pound felt like the most important one he'd gained.

~

They're stoner comedies, so of course I get you stoned beforehand. Plenty of bong hits before we head out, encouraging you to hit my vape on the -thankfully- short walk to the movie theatre.

When we get there, the staff are so delighted to see you. They explain that you'll be served one course of dinner between each of the four movies and there'll be a midnight feast at the end. In the meantime, help yourself to the snack table.

Snack table hardly does it justice - there's a huge buffet set up with every kind of appetiser you can think of. I encourage you to go through to the theatre and get comfy in your seat while I fix you a plate.

The seats are really two person couches, with soft looking pillows to prop ourselves up on. They're pretty well sized, but with your thicker thighs you realise we'll be pressed close together.

You get settled, and I show up with your pre-dinner snack. If you weren't so stoned you'd say it seemed like a lot. Your plate is stacked with mozzarella sticks, garlic bread and mac and cheese, all of them geneorusly portioned out for you by me.

As it is though your munchies are kicking in hard, so you accept the plate and start eating. Before the film starts one of the attendents comes by and smiles as they place a bucket sized soda cup and extra large popcorn next to our seat, on your side naturally. I already let them know your favourite candies, and they're mixed through the popcorn, the chocolate gently melting in the still warm kernels.

The film starts, and soon you're snorting with laughter like a dumbass at the cheesy jokes and slap stick. Your mouth is dry from the smoking and all the salty food, so you end up chugging your soda hard, but whenever it starts running low one of the attentive staff is there with a replacement.

The same happens with your popcorn, you're only halfway through before your carton is replaced with a fresh batch. It makes it hard to keep track of what you're eating, but between the snack plate and the endlessly refilling bag you're pretty sure you've already had what most people would consider a meal.

It's hard to concentrate on that though, because the first movie is over and it's time for appetisers to be served. You almost don't believe me when I say you haven't even had the first course yet.

Before you put up too much of a fuss though I hand you my vape - no, the staff won't mind I promise - and you relax again, especially when I offer you a pair of gummy edibles to kick in during the movie.

I took the liberty of ordering for you, and you're already faded by the time your heaping pile of nachos arrive, loaded with cheese, guacamole, sour cream, hot salsa, jalapenos and brisket. The spiciness hits your sensitised pallet hard, but there's always more soda to soothe it.

The second movie has started now, and as it plays you polish off your nachos, and most of my order of onion rings once I pass it over.

At some point, your soda cup is replaced with an extra-large cold beer, but you chug that down just as happily, your mind getting floatier with every gulp.

At the end of the second movie the main courses arrive, and you try and tap out. The greasy, double-patty burger is huge, even ignoring the massive side of fries and slaw. The attendents have bought you mug sized tubs of spicy mayo, creamy burger sauce and barbecue to help everything slip down easily, but even so.

You turn to me, your eyes big as the third film starts to roll. I pretend to be sympathetic, but my words are the last thing you want to hear. 'Oh, poor thing! Are you too out of it to eat your dinner even though you're so hungry?'

You try to put together a protest but forming a whole sentence is beyond you at this point, so you flop backwards and let me slowly feed you the burger and sides, holding the dripping handfuls to your mouth until you take a bite and then pushing salty fries in afterwards. When you slow too much I push my vape into your mouth again and the new rush of haziness gives you another burst of energy.

You don't remember anything that happens in the third film, just the growing heat between your legs as your waistband presses harder and harder into your stomach.

The final break - dessert. I get up from our seat, and even if you'd been able to speak you didn't think to ask where I was going, your mind completely preoccupied with the pressure in your belly.

When I come back though, you've realised there's a sundae bar in the lobby that I've visited on your behalf. A huge bowl of softserve, another bucket really, smothered in caramel and chocolate sauce, peanuts, cookie crumb and whipped cream.

Your stoamch audibly groans when you see it, but you're so docile you let me push more than a few spoonfuls between your lips before you start turning your face away, struggling even to move that much.

You're expecting me to grow more forecful, but instead I set the icecream aside and pay attention to your straining gut, undoing your pants (you sigh in relief, they were moments away from bursting) and rubbing slow circles on your belly. My hand dips lower as I make lazy circles and you moan appreciatively, way too far gone to care about embarassing yourself in public.

The film is drawing to a close, the lovable losers have completed their stoner quest, and you're getting close to finishing too. Once you're frantically grinding against my fingers, though, I pull away, and suddenly the icecream bucket is back at your lips.

No spoon now, the softserve has melted into a thick and creamy shake mined with sweetness. I part your lips and tilt the bucket so it pours into your mouth. Youf flabby mind can think of only one defence against choking on it so you swallow, slowly, painfully, your overstretched stomach straining at the additional pressure.

The credits of the movie are rolling and you're almost finished with your shake - and my hand is back between your legs, rougher than before.

I've been training you to come when your stomach is straining, so I up the speed as you take your last mouthful and you finish over my fingers.

I ruffle your hair and wipe a little icecream off your cheek as I coo at what a good job you did for me.

The staff are in no rush for us to leave, which is good because you can't stand right now.

Instead they leave the lights low as I gently rub your eager belly, enjoying the deep rumbles as you start digesting your enormous meal.