reader/feeder.

(You always remember your first. Inspired by a post by @SpeciesCake on Bluesky. Contains: weight gain, feeding, romance.)

I didn’t hear it at first. But the second set of knocks landed with a hurried ‘knock-KNOCK’ that pounded just a bit too loudly, enough to make me realize the previous noise wasn’t the air conditioner outside, it was the first set of gentle raps on the door.

I hopped off the couch and swung open the door, and there they were, in person. I didn’t need their dating profile to know they were hovering around the mid-200s then, and pretty self conscious about it, though even at the time, in physical space, they looked substantial; enough of a belly to press against the front of their shirt, fat cheeks framing their face, the shade of the start of a double chin forming below, arms with a generous layer of fat thickening their silhouette into a pleasing plumpness. They stood a little shorter than me, and I had to admit the feeling of looking down slightly to meet their sight line gave me a chemical reaction.

“Glad you made it.” I remember hoping I didn’t scare them off with such a veiled slip; I still remember the back-and-forth deliberation they had, anxious to participate, nervous to say yes. I think there was a trepidation to make it real, back then; dragging those late night teases and muddy, grainy photos into reality, physical space.

“Me too. It’s…great to see you.” They held their arms together, fiddling with their fingers, as they shuffled inside.

Before long they were sat on my couch, and I remember thinking about how badly I wanted them to fill the couch cushion. “I ordered pizza, I uh…got plenty, too.” I added, chuckling to myself a little.

“Oh…oh! Yeah, uh…yeah. Cool.” They anxiously darted their eyes to the corners of the room. Their nervousness had reached critical levels in the quiet and the dead time waiting for food.

I remember hurriedly putting on some music (low and chill) and sat next to them (adjacent but politely separate.) “Hey.” I said, my tone hushed, sober.

They managed a strained smirk, finally focusing on me again. “Hey.”

“It’s okay, we don’t have to do anything, I’m just happy to see you.” I considered putting my hand on their thigh then, but decided against it.

“I know, I just…I’ve never done this kinda thing before.”

“First time for everything, right?” I did my best to muster a genuine smile.

“Yeah.” They smiled back. “It’s just…wild. Like I know you but I didn’t know you…I mean, I guess now I can say I do.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Well…you’re cuter in person.”

“So are you, Chubs.” The pet name sounded a little stilted in my voice, but then, I’d never said it aloud before. The flush in their cheeks told me it was still received as intended.

“I’m…I really am happy I’m here right now. I’m really happy I’m here with you.” They placed their hand on my thigh. I remember that really catching me off-guard. I must have been blushing a lot, the way they tilted their head, a silent ‘aww’.

I bit my lip a bit too hard and jumped up a little too fast. “You want anything to drink?”

Before long the pizza came, and I had definitely ordered too much; I saw their glance open slightly wide-eyed when they saw me struggle with the pizza boxes. I had wanted to play up the fantasy a little, even if they weren’t quite feeling it, but I was worried it came off as intimidating. Later on, they’d tell me that they thought it was sweet in a strange way, that I’d made the effort to play it up like that.

Greasy slices placed in front of them, adjacent to their mugful of soda, they stared at the plate for a moment, working out something in their head.

“Do you want me to…”

“N-no…I uh, it’s too messy, yeah. I think I’d rather just eat it myself. M-maybe later?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Eventually they told me that they regretted not letting me try and feed them from the beginning.

We settled into the comfortable white noise of a shitty horror movie (an early point of bonding for us at the time) as they dutifully munched on their pizza. I saw their eyes dart at me occasionally, but I was skittish - I didn’t want to overstep any boundaries.

I remember how they very performatively set their plate down with a clack, sitting back, an almost stilted “I think I’ve had enough pizza, at least.”

“Eight slices is really good. You did great.”

They chuckled. “Y—I guess. I didn’t finish all those boxes…”

“Don’t worry about it, just wanted to be prepared.” Fuck. I knew I should have gotten less-

“Definitely done with savory, but-“

Their food preferences had obviously been a topic of discussion in our kinky internet courting, and I was aware of how much of a sweet tooth they were, even back then. I was prepared for that too.

“I have some ice cream, if you want some.”

They looked back at me, beaming, reciting the words they’d been rehearsing in their head dozens of times already. “I could go for some ice cream.”

I grabbed the carton and the largest spoon I had, and came back over to sit next to them (adjacent and comfortably close.) I sat the carton and the spoon down with a slight clatter as it hit the table. “Actually, do you want me to…”

“Yes.”

I remember fiddling with the packaging a little bit too long, anxious for the moment to finally start; they told me they think about that all the time. It still makes me blush.

Thankfully, the fiddling had warmed the carton enough that I could start scraping a generous mound onto the spoon - not too large, just enough a scoop to cover their tongue with the dessert. I was really thinking about the logistics of that first bite.

I placed the spoon near their mouth, and they opened it dutifully. The spoon traveled inward, and their lips collapsed around it. I dragged the spoon across their tongue as I pulled it out, and they had closed their eyes to take in the flavor - sweet, though not cloying, milky, rich.

I formed another mound and placed it close, their reaction a little faster to open their mouth, wide enough to start moving a little more efficiently. The rhythm between the two of us picked up a bit, never enough to be breakneck, but steady.

I don’t even remember choosing to start consciously, but I was using my other hand to gently rub their belly. I had finally noticed when they very hurriedly lifted their shirt as I rubbed; my fingertips on their skin, yielding softness gently tested. They responded to my touch with the slightest whine - nearly imperceptible, but the noise encouraged my fingers to move more deliberately, tracing their roundness in sweeps and circles. They told me shortly after that they were so self conscious about their little noise; I lied at the time and said I didn’t even hear it.

We had finished half the carton when they very gently pushed my hand away to make room for their lips meeting mine. I tasted vanilla on their tongue. I don’t remember this, but they told me that they could feel me smiling on that first kiss, and they knew everything was going to be okay.

——

They gave their gut a small pat, setting off little undulations on the surface of their belly, rippling into their love handles and making their tits wobble, the last meal safely tucked away. “Okay, I think I’m ready for dessert.”

“What took you so long, Chubs?” Automatically, I shot up from my somewhat cratered seat next to them and went to grab the tray of cookies - they had just been cooling off, and would be nice and warm but not too melty.

Their voice called out to the kitchen, practically hearing the drool forming in their mouth. “You made those chocolate chip cookies again, yeah? It’s been a while, I’m excited.” It had been about a week since I had last made them. I did not mention this. I grabbed something else from the freezer and made my way back to the couch, where they had taken up the center and then some.

Their ass had easily consumed two cushion’s worth of space now, and though you could see the edges of the seat on each side flared up slightly underneath, anyone that tried to sit on that sliver would fall into their mass like quicksand.

It was my favorite place to be.

And what a mass it was. Their gut piled up on top of their fat thighs in a blob, sprawling in every direction, settled into a generous mound with an extra helping of side rolls messily stacked on top of their heavy swooping love handles. I could grab a handful of them and shake, and still barely lift their overhang. Their belly button marked the center, deep and shadowy, perfect for fitting my face into.

Just above sat their tit-mound - a generous section of fat in its own right, especially with the way it sat they laid back, bunched up on top of their belly. Their chest rounded into side fat that met their arm fat, pillowy enough to start forming rolls along where they met their forearms. Just above, their double chin hung low, spread across the width of their heavy, reddened cheeks.

So much of the Chubs I know.

“Fuck, I’m so hungry…” It sounded almost involuntary out of them, the way they would say it in a daze, a reaction. They had told me once, a hundred pounds ago now, that they were worried it was annoying. It was never annoying.

“Open up, then.” I sat the tray next to me and took my place next to them - leaned in against all their slightly sweaty fat, pressed into their side, looking up to their fat face and reaching over, past their mass of belly and tit. Seeing their pudgy face at this angle always did something for me. They dutifully complied with an open mouth and the flavor hit their tongue - a familiar and satisfying chocolate chip, the timing out of the oven such that the dough was warm and crispy on the edges and slightly gooey in the interior, buttery, chocolatey, a hint of sea salt for balance. I had plenty of practice now.

I loved seeing them eat - the way they closed their eyes, a quiet noise on the first bite somewhere between a moan and a yelp - it felt intimate seeing them indulge like this, seeing that moment of giving in. I lived for it, and thankfully they grew the appetite to let me see it all the time.

“Good?”

They nodded, pushing their tongue against the roof of their mouth slightly, tasting the traces of the lingering rich flavor. “Fuck. I could eat these forever.”

“I’ll need a bigger oven for that.” I chuckled. “Y’know, I love how often you fantasize about more food when you’re already eating.”

They blushed slightly. “Oh, you love it. I’m fucking hungry, and someone keeps feeding me…” They smacked their gut for effect, their rolls pressing into my body slightly from the motion.

“Fuck, you’re just so fat now, aren’t you.” I grabbed what I could reach of their overhang, giving it a rough shake, encouraging a percussive belch from them. My lips met theirs, and I tasted chocolate on their tongue. I couldn’t help but smile. After stealing another kiss, I replaced my lips with another cookie, which they devoured easily. We got into our rhythm and I fit the trayful of cookies into them.

They let out another belch followed by a “Is it weird that I still want…”

“More? You? Not at all, Chubs. Thankfully I came prepared.” I picked up the carton of ice cream and ripped off the lid, serving size spoon pressing into the now partially melted top.

I scooped a big mound and shoved it in their mouth. My other hand grabbed at their massive tit, and I heard a muffled moan through the cream and sugar. Another scoop pressed to their lips, and their breathing became short as my other hand hefted a roll.

They felt so warm and soft, gallons of melted ice cream already poured into their body, countless stuffings and big meals and treats and surprises and special occasions, so much appreciation and spoiling and love made evident in the way they wheezed when getting out of bed, the way they’d spread their legs to make room for their gut, the way they’d lay back after a good meal.

(posting some recent vignettes I posted over on my Bluesky. CW: weight gain, out of shape, encouragement)

steps

Slow.

That’s the word going through your mind as you make your way down the hallway, pudgy hand bracing against the wall for support. It had happened in stages, the way this trek took more and more energy, more specific actions, the task slowing to a crawl.

Now, in your present state, you’re focused on distributing your weight from one side of you to the other so you could take another shaky step forward, even with the wall for comfort. (There is a part of you that wondered when the drywall might someday simply give way under all the weight.)

Your movements feel uncoordinated, as they often did now, which is understandable given how often you wake up at your new heaviest weight. You’ve since stopped being freaked out about how much you were gasping for breath, because it makes a certain type of sense when performing such heavy lifting.

Another step, and alarm bells start going off. Your sides start cramping from the heaving breaths you’ve been taking since the beginning of your short trek, and you start getting light headed, losing the battle of trying to keep above water with your massive body’s oxygen requirements.

“I…help…” You whisper, quieter than the wheezing you were already making, drowning out from the soft PLAP of your unsteady footfalls. Suddenly, a relief, some of your weight taken off the heels of your feet, as your feeder’s hands sink into your front.

“Gotcha, big fella. You’re that hungry, huh?”

reunion

You make your way to the door and give it the ‘knock-knock, knock’ rhythm you used to give when you would visit, though it’s been a while since you’ve hung out. You hear a barely audible ‘…minute!’ from the other side, and wait just long enough to wonder whether to knock again before the lock clicks.

The door slowly swings open and your friend slowly shuffles back to make room for you to enter. you realize they don’t have the room to stand behind the door anymore, what with all of the them that’s in the way now. Making your way inside, your eyes adjusting to the dim room, you see their shape.

Even after they’ve stumbled back, you can still feel their body heat emanating from them. “Hey…huff it’s…good to see you.” Now inside, you can hear their heavy wheezing from over the sound of a loud fan buzzing in the other room. Their fat chest heaves up and down from the effort of waddling.

“Good to…see you too.” Their sheet sized tank top is stretched across their fat chest, big tits gently oscillating from breathing, hanging over a wide, deep plunging belly, the bottom of which is visible poking through the bottom of their shirt. They’re backed up and leaning on the wall for support.

Your mind is spinning. How the fuck? It’s been a while since you’ve moved farther away, but has it really been THAT long? They always were a big eater, but the thought of how they could get this fat baffles you. The thought of how they could get this fat makes your breathing short.

Your eyes pour over their frame, up and down, lost in overstimulating details - the forming arm rolls in their exposed ‘biceps’, the unrecognizably double chin adorned face, the basketball shorts stretched taut and translucent, even their feet looking pudgy and overstuffed.

It’s a long pause and your brain notices that you’ve haven’t said anything, and before you can even filter it out you blurt out a “What happened?” They look up at you with the slightest hint of a smirk, and with a boastful pride in their breathy voice, they finally respond. “I got fatter.”

changes

You wake up late again, your throat dry from snoring. You should be used to it, but there’s a part of you that still thinks it’s wrong, that it’s temporary. You quiet those thoughts with wondering what you’ll have for breakfast. You have a couple boxes of waffles you can easily put away.

You waddle past your running shoes, caked with a layer of dust. You don’t bother with anything you can’t slip on anymore, since trying to tie laces isn’t tenable with your gut in the way. You think about how uncoordinated you feel as your love handles accidentally brush against the door frame.

You check your phone, mouthful of waffle, and see messages about going hiking from your friends, chuckling to yourself at the thought of you climbing a mountain now. You resolve to catch up with them at dinner, and suggest some places with sturdy benches and expansive menus almost automatically.

As you finish the last butter soaked, syrup dripping bite, you’re already thinking about lunch, maybe ordering something in? Your brain hasn’t even fully shaken off the fog of sleep and you’re already forming an order in your head, neurons once used for calorie counting reformed for lavish meals.

You catch yourself being a fat fucking cliche and it excites you, that you’ve so thoroughly transformed yourself that you can barely notice, that those deliberate choices you made when you first started gaining crystallized into habit and reflex, made form on your heavy, plodding body.

You look up after washing your face and take in the details, noticing the way your chin casts a shade forming your double chin even when you look forward, the way your chest is sagging into your gut, the way your arms squish into your sides clumsily, the way your overhang obscures your waistband.

(Your growing relationship with your favorite food preservation appliance. Contains: weight gain, feeding.)

For a long time, you had only tried it once.

It was late, a while back, when you were still living with your parents. You always glanced at it curiously, pushed thoughtlessly into the back of the fridge. The night rendered the fridge light harsh and blue, and your eyes squinted a little. Picking up the carton by the edge of your outstretched fingertips, its heft felt surprising to you in the moment.

You turned the carton around to read the nutrition information. 50 calories per tablespoon. Your mind started spinning with the napkin math implications. Unscrewing the cap, you put the spout to your lips and drank a gulp. Rich, so rich, with only a mild lactic sweetness. The fat coated your tongue and lingered, butter on your lips. Your ears got hot and you tipped it back again before you could even think otherwise.

The heat from your ears migrated to your face. You didn’t want to leave the carton noticeably empty. Against your worse judgement, you hastily screwed the cap back on and shoved it back into its forgotten corner.

You will eventually learn that months later, the remainder of the carton of heavy cream would end up in the trash can, expired.

—

It was years later, living on your own. You were just settling in, and you hadn’t had your newfound privacy and space for very long. An old thought re-entered your mind. Your eyes blinked awake, sometime past 1AM. Making your way through the darkness to the kitchen, you stood in front of the fridge for a moment. The fridge door squeaked open in a way that couldn’t help but make you wince a little, alone in your empty apartment, old neurons still firing.

You assessed the contents…leftovers, some snacks you had picked up, takeout containers…you popped open the container with some leftover pizza and shoved a slice in your mouth cold. The cheese was muted by the chill, sauce rendered dry from its tenure in the fridge, pepperoni tasting more like cold cuts. Still, there was something that felt like heat in your chest when you acted so decisively, taking that first bite. The slice was gone before you had another thought, along with its sibling.

Dropping the empty carton on the floor for later, you grabbed a package of deli meat, hastily ripping open the container and greedily pulling out a mound of shaved ham. It hit almost refreshingly, slightly juicy and salty. You couldn’t stop yourself. You didn’t need to anymore.

Gulps of milk straight from the carton, a half a sandwich, and a few sticks of string cheese later, you finally closed the fridge door…and opened the freezer. Immediately, your eyes had set onto your nightcap: a carton of ice cream. You practically ripped open the container, feeling around in the dark of your drawers for a spoon, seeing the pit that was the bowl you had eaten the night before, and started spooning it into your mouth.

The first few spoonfuls met with some resistance, your metal spoon scraping against the frozen dairy. It was bracing cold, and rich. You got a hint of the flavor that had graced your tongue all those years ago, but rounded out with a decadent sweetness, a boozy vanilla adding a touch of complexity.

As you held the carton in your hands, the job got easier, the edges of the mound folding into ribbony rivers of melted confection, your spoon scooping greedy helpings with relative ease now. You ate mechanically, each bite registering less and less, settling into a rhythm. Finally, you surprised yourself when you felt the bottom of the paper carton meet your spoon with a soft tap, the only remainder being the small pool of white liquid that settled.

You tipped the carton up to your mouth and finished the rest.

—

Soon enough, the ritual you snuck out of bed for had turned into a borderline habit, the once treat settling into a rhythm of extra calories to end your day. You had finally started putting on weight, real weight, and you needed to show it off. What better way than to replicate the show you gave your fridge so often?

You set the tripod holding your phone down a few paces away from the fridge and hit record. Then, you slid a chair over from the dining room, and planted it in front of the fridge. Settling yourself down, you heard a light creak as your ass-fat made contact with the seat. You were so eager for signs of your progress like that back then.

From the camera’s lens, your body looked grainy in the ambient light, and then, a flash bang of blueish glow emerged from the door of the fridge, pouring out in streaks. Your camera’s eye adjusted to the harsh light, your belly coated in the glow, darkness pooling where your thighs met your belly.

Time in front of the fridge, just like this, had grown your body since you started your ritual. Your belly had blossomed and folded over your waistband in a gentle curve, the roundness pressing against your thicker thighs. Above, your chest had started cresting downward from gravity, the slight crease tracing a dark line where it met your belly curve. Your greedy hands looked a little more plump, and you could no longer hide the burgeoning double chin looking prominent when you sat down.

You had loved every inch, and you would give yourself far more to appreciate in time.

The camera watched as your pudgy fingers reached out, only slightly leaning forward to grip the container of cream. Resting backward again, your belly settled with a gentle wobble as you eagerly unscrewed the cap and began drinking straight from the bottle, rich and creamy.

You had gotten so excited, your ears burning again, that you could barely taste it, your throat chugging it like it were water. You got into the role - soft grunts muffled by butterfat were picked up by the mic, dribbles of cream sinking down the edges of your mouth, over your bulging double chin, down your thick neck, over your fatter chest, down your wider belly curve, into your deeper belly button.

Your throat made a bubbling gllk sound as you reached the bottom of the container faster than you had anticipated, a gulp from your throat coming up relatively empty. You let out a big sigh, body working a little harder from the pile of calories you had just gulped down, your belly expanding and contracting with every breath, almost bigger every intake.

You needed to show off for the camera more often.

—

It had been a while, and your body had grown to match the time spent gorging. Your eyes blinked awake, your bigger stomach letting out a barely perceptible growl. Your partner had finally started staying over, which was wonderful for your relationship but terrible for your former fridge habits. You couldn’t stand it, you had to eat something.

Shifting and sliding off the mattress with as much grace as your now large, cumbersome body could muster, your head was spinning. Your partner didn’t seem to mind the weight, even appreciated that you were a big eater, but…this. This had to have been different, you thought. This is too much, isn’t it. Your heavy, plodding footfalls attempting a tiptoe, you made your way back to the fridge.

The door squeaked open in a way that should have made you wince, but you could barely believe you were even doing this. Am I THIS far gone? I can’t even hold back from stuffing my face at 2AM when my partner is staying over? I’m fucked. I’m fucked. I’m-

Your running guilt tally went quiet when you saw the leftover cheesecake. You couldn’t even stop yourself, popping open the container with a POP, you grabbed a slice with your hand and ate it like a chicken leg. A few crumbs from the graham cracker crust fell onto your shelf of chest-fat, where it slowly rolled downward over the curve of your large belly.

From the fridge’s perspective, you had really blown up. In the harsh cold light, your curves were rendered in stark detail - your chest had long since flopped over to rest on your large gut, the light struggling to reach around your sides that had collapsed into rolls under each tit. Your belly stuck out noticeably from you now, arcing outward before falling in a cascade that flopped over and rested onto your underwear.

Your fingers had plumped into thick, sausage-like digits gripping onto the shrinking wedge of cheesecake, the thickening following up your forearms and into your now fat arms squishing into your sides. Your face had to carry some of your indulgence, too - fat cheeks matched your even bigger double chin that, from the view of your fridge, had completely rendered your neck invisible. Even your thighs - the parts that weren’t obscured by your overhang - had become large and plump, your body growing into something at least as heavy and decadent as the cheesecake you had shoved into your mouth.

As heavy and decedent as the next piece that followed, too.

There was a prominent section missing now, only a couple pieces left, and your fat cheeks went crimson, even in the blue-tone light that had still made your eyes squint. Fuck fuck I’m fucked I’m fucked I’m-

“You going to finish it?” The voice hit you icy cold and sharp.

“I…uh…I…” You stammered unconvincingly.

“Here. Let me help you.” Your partner slid in front of you, the smaller body casting a shadow nestled into your much larger one, as they grabbed another slice and gently pressed it to your lips. “That’s right, open up, fatass.” Their other hand traced a love handle gently, warm against your skin.

You complied.

—

The fridge opened with a creak, but the body standing in front was much smaller than it had gotten accustomed to. Eyes scanned over the contents, then grabbed a two liter and a couple of prepared sandwiches. “Will two do as a snack until I make lunch?” The fridge heard the voice call out to the other room.

Your fridge had gotten used to being more filled than before, the contents of prepped meals and snacked piled into neat stacks to make best use of the space. Your fridge had also stopped seeing you sneak food in so much, especially as you had gotten bigger, and heavier, and more dependent, and less mobile.

From the other room, you cried out “Maybe something else too?” followed closely by a loud belch.

(Just can’t resist. CW: fat, weight gain, degradation, dark)

I place my hands on each of your hips, where they seem to naturally gravitate lately. Gently embracing, a slight force, enough to make an indent where my fingers meet your skin, the shadows tracing my fingertips in the dim light, little hills of fat welling up between them.

“You’re so…” I tense my grip just a little at the next word, “soft, aren’t you…” The force of my hands increases just a touch, I’m pulling you closer, your chest now pressing into mine, increasingly generous mounds bunching up. My fingers pull forward, delicately running against the stretch marks of your last growth spurt, back when my hands got their new natural resting place on you, still angry red against your skin.

I lean in for a kiss. Your face bunches up into mine, warm and soft like the rest of you, the feeling even more intense when so much of your mass is already pressed against me. My hands are now gripping your thick waist for support, waistband increasingly threadbare, digging into your sides more than they used to. I smirk against your lips. I appreciate the evidence of our efforts.

Pulling back slightly, my hands reach forward and down to your burgeoning overhang, resting gently and heavily against the front of your underwear. I give it a tentative heft and drop. You stumble slightly. I chuckle. I do it again.

Faster now, the lift-and-drop giving way into a playful jiggle, the rest of your body meeting the motion of my hand in stumbles, tits wobbling a beat after my hand pulls down on your belly, arm fat starting to join in, off tempo. “Getting so fat…” I push you gently, but firmly down onto the bed.

You’re already breathing heavily. I can’t tell if it’s because of the meal you just ate, or from the effort of waddling back to the room. Your form spreads across the sheets, wide ass spreading outward to make a generous cushion for your backside as your side rolls wobble and spread out, thick overhang smothering so much of your thighs when sitting.

Those stretch marks on your sides have already faded into pale white and migrated to your upper belly, my hands having to fight for space with your cluster of side rolls to reach your love handles. They make room when they need to. It’s so hard to hold them back when they do.

“So much of you to sink into…” My fingers greedily press into your yielding flesh, setting off little oscillations with the slightest movement, side rolls crashing into tit-fat wobbling against arm-fat.

“You’ve made such a fatass out of yourself.” I’m at least as greedy for more of you as you are. I place a hand underneath your double chin, and can’t resist giving it a little pinch as I lead your head up to meet mine. Your wide, wheezing face in full view, I plant a passionate kiss onto it. You let out a little gasp as my lips leave yours.

I pinch your cheeks reflexively before squishing into your chest to push you down to lay back. My hands meet your flesh, then the heavy, memory foam softness gives way for a beat…and then I feel your massive form start to fall backward. You’re too big to resist me pushing you around, after all.

You’re in the position you’re usually in. Laid back, propped up slightly, mounds of lard on full display, hungry and waiting to be fed again. I lean against your mass and don’t even wait for a pleasantry before I push the first sugary pastry past your greedy lips. You moan and grunt through the flaky crust, devouring it too fast to even appreciate, the technique lost on your single minded focus on more, tongue already impatiently licking my fingers before I have a chance to retrieve another donut from the box.

“You’re such a gross piggy, aren’t you.” You snort. I can’t tell if it’s because of my comment, or the promise of more calories. I wipe the hog drool off on a flank of your expanse and retrieve another donut. This time you lean forward, or try to - I can see your chin fat wobble as your mouth pathetically reaches out to meet my hand, desperate to get that sugary taste just a moment sooner, but too burdened with fat to really move with any kind of urgency anymore. As you lay back again, your form stirs.

You’re a fucking mess. A smattering of uneven rolls flanks your sides and makes it different to discern what defines your love-handles versus your tit shelf. I’m already covered with a glistening layer of pig sweat where I’m pressed against you, warm and soft and sweaty - it’s difficult to get close enough without making contact with at least some part of your chest-side-belly flab pile.

You’ve given up clothes now that you’re a whale, and the sheet is usually kicked to the bottom of the bed now that you’re a space heater. Your modesty, such that it is, is maintained by another generous heap of fat, overhang fighting with fat pad fighting with messy unshapely thigh rolls. So much of you can be described as fighting for space with itself.

I dig my hands into your gently heaving spread of gut roughly, giving it a vigorous wobble which elicits another snort-belch out of you somewhere up above. From my perspective, I feel like I can keep sinking in forever - a mountain of soft, useless yielding flesh, heavy scarred with stretch marks from an indulgence that was never held back. The motion causes the bed to creak, setting an avalanche of roll-wobbling across your body. Side rolls into chest mass into arm fat piles into wobbling chin into sagging cheeks. As it finally meets your face, you whine for another. I get off the bed to get more.

Entering the room, the musky, slightly sweet scent of the blob pile is noticeable first. The mass doesn’t register as person whenever my eyes meet it; the idea that comes to mind is thing. Overstuffed mattress. Landmark. Gradually, my eyes make out the details that give it away - slow, pulsating breathing synched with a slow raspy wheezing sound; the sweaty, flesh colored appearance; the dense, lacy streaks of faded and re-torn stretch marks. I can’t even recognize you anymore. I can’t tell if it’s because you’re so utterly ruined, or because you keep getting even fatter and more unrecognizable.

I place a hand gently on a deposit of fat - I’ve given up trying to determine just which buried body part the fat is forced onto - and press my fingertips in gently, feeling it yield and sag against my touch. “Fuck, I can’t believe you’d really do this to yourself…” Some remaining part of you whines through your feeding tube.

(Helping you with your new cumbersome body. CW: fat, implied out of shape, weight gain.)

If you’re reading this, congratulations! It means the procedure was a success! But slow your roll, big fella, we need to review a few quick tips before you live your new corpulent life!

Getting Out of Bed

In a typical [1] procedure, you should be waking up right in your own bed [2] ! To get up, carefully roll onto your side closest to the edge, and then pull a leg out. Brace yourself with your arms and attempt to lift your body into an upright position. Take your time, this may take several tries. Try and plant your legs onto the floor as you rise to a seated position. You’re doing great! Next, place one hand on each side and lean forward, then place your body weight onto your legs as your press onto the bed with your arms. You may need to ball them up into a fist so as to not over-extend your finger tips and over-stretch.

Important Note! You’re putting more stress on almost every part of your body, so it’s important to be slow and deliberate with your motions. Think majestic whale, not skittering minnow.

Excellent work! You’re standing now. That wasn’t too hard, was it! Take a moment to catch your breath before continuing. You’ve earned it.

Walking Through the House

Now that you’re standing, you might have realized that your body no longer likes this position too much. That’s alright! Let’s make our way to another room and take a load off. Take it slow at first, one foot in front of the other. You may want to brace yourself against a wall to keep yourself steady as you make your way around. That’s okay! Be prepared to each leg slightly out so that your thigh fat doesn’t fight for space. It might feel awkward and slow and embarrassing right now, but you’ll get used to it soon enough!

Attention: You will notice you may be breathing heavy for something that once was effortless. Consider the volume of mass that is being moved with each move you make. You’re practically lifting weights with every ponderous step! Depending on your body’s configuration, an act like walking may leave you sweating as well. Don’t worry, that’s just you desperately trying to cool down your overworked muscles and extra insulated body!

Sitting Down

Making your way through the house is going to leave you more winded than you’re used to, like you’ve been running a mile, but this is normal! It’s not every day you pile on hundreds of pounds all at once, is there? You’re going to want to relax, but whoa there, wrecking ball, you gotta be careful where you swing that body of yours now! Make sure and find something sturdy [2], and slowly back your ass down with your hands on your knees. You’ll want to engage your muscles for as long as possible, trying to lower yourself slowly, as close as you can get to your seated position so as to not drop your massive self onto overworked furniture and cause a mess! Great job, behemoth!

Remember! when using a part of your body or a piece of furniture or some infrastructure as leverage or to set yourself down into, think: can it hold all __ lbs / kg of my weight?

On Intake

What was that? Oh, you can’t expect a body like that to go too long without needing to be refueled! You better get something to eat. Better make it big too, as there’s a lot of mass you need to move around, and you’ll need a nice satisfying meal to sate it! Focus on filing foods, like breads, pastas, and fried food to best start to understand your new capacity.

Be aware! Many users of the procedure are surprised by their new intake levels, and are taken aback by new, unfamiliarly strong hunger urges. Don’t be a statistic, get informed. Be sure to have a generous stockpile [3] of food at hand for your Acclimation Phase. You wanted the body, now you get to eat like it!™

Going Out

In the Welcome Resources Guide, we’ve attached a helpful list of plus-size friendly retailers and a sizing guide for your new body, so be sure to review them. Remember the walk you just took, and consider more breathable and lightweight fabrics for your heavier, warmer body. It’s unlikely that many of your old clothes will still remain usable.

Your Responsibility: Be courteous of our environment! Donate old clothes to a friend or a clothing donation site now that there’s no hope of you ever fitting into them again. See your Welcome Resources Guide for a list of charities.

Social Changes

In the coming days, people will see the new you. This is exciting! But you may need to take note of a few caveats when entering this period of change and growth.

For one, be sure to be careful of friend’s and family’s furniture (see section Sitting Down) to avoid any embarrassing or costly damage. You may also receive more leftovers and be asked to finish others food. Be respectful and accept their gift! You will better understand your new appetite and take an obligation off their hands.

Restaurant Warning: It’s unlikely that your new body will fit into booths. Be sure to inform the server as soon as possible to avoid any complications.

You may also receive some good-natured nicknames, including, but not limited to:

Land-whale, porker, tubby, fatty, piggy, wide-load, lardass, big boy / girl, fat ass / fuck / boy / girl…

Have a positive spirit! These nicknames embrace your new truth, and tell you that they see you for who you are! What great loved ones you have!

Wrapping Up

This is a landmark transformation, one that will change how you move, act, and are treated in the world for good. It’s important to not take that lightly. Not that you can take anything lightly anymore, isn’t that right tubby?

Get ready to move more slowly and deliberately through the world, and bring an appetite for adventure! We at the Company hope you enjoy it, and that you fully embody the full figured fatass you’ve always wanted to be!

[1] Some options may place you in bariatric care. See the Supplemental Guide for details.

[2] The Company or it’s affiliates are not responsible for any property damage as a result of your increased weight. See the Your Rights and Responsibilities (EULA) for more information.

(After all, you deserve it. CW: Greed, selfish weight gain, encouragement.)

You indulge once in a while, when you can.

It’s not always feasible with food prices the way they are, but it’s fun to get a little extra, another side here and there, maybe some extra fries or something. Occasionally, your partner will even be nice enough to let you finish their food when they’re not as hungry. You’d never ask for it, but it feels good to have that little bit more.

You don’t like to admit this, but you occasionally like to stop on the way home for an extra snack before dinner. You know you don’t really need it, but something about sneaking in a few extra calories from a value menu burger or some sides to munch on before you get home just feels good to do. And it’s not like you do it that often, really, so there’s not really a problem. What’s the harm in getting a little more once in a while?

It isn’t really like you, but lately you’ve been waking up in the middle of the night, carefully getting out of bed, and then sneaking to the kitchen to raid the fridge. Sometimes it’s some leftovers your partner was saving (not usually all of it, but just enough to sate you), sometimes it’s taking a few gulps of the heavy cream you have on hand for recipes. You don’t know what’s gotten into you, you’ve just been so hungry, like you can never get enough. Even after those post work drive-thru runs have been getting more frequent, and they’ve ballooned slightly from a value burger into a small extra meal.

Still, it’s not like it’s a big deal anyway, you just get a little hungrier than you used to, and it’s okay to eat more when you’re hungry, isn’t it?

You swear you haven’t been doing it all the time, but you’ve been ordering extra food with nearly every takeout meal lately. It’s usually an extra appetizer or some extra sides to share with your partner. It might be the portions shrinking, but you can never seem to really get full. You do end up finishing most of it off, but it’s not like your partner seems to mind much anyway, and the whole point of it is to have a bit more for you.

You’re not sure when it started happening, but you’ve started taking food off your partner’s plate without asking. Sure, they were willing to give it to you before, and you’re sure that they don’t mind now, but it’s like a switch flipped in your brain. They want to see you happy, so naturally you should just take it if you’re really hungry, shouldn’t you? If you need more than they do, you shouldn’t feel guilty about taking it.

That’s why you get an extra dinner on the way home now. You’ve just made yourself used to it. Right as you’re heading out, it’s like your belly rumbles for that extra little snack. It’s never anything big, just a few sandwiches, some fries, and a large soda to wash it down, but that extra little bit of calories helps you really make it to dinner when you’re ready for more.

You’ve come to expect your partner to make that real dinner for you when you get home, too. They must have told you that they like to cook anyway, and a nice home cooked meal always sits nice and warm in your belly. So what if you get a little demanding? You’re just hungry, I’m sure they understand you need more than that paltry little snack on the way home.

It’s a good thing your partner leaves leftovers in the fridge for you to snack on when you get peckish late at night and lumber over to the fridge. Sure, sometimes they complain about not having something to eat for lunch the next day, but I’m sure they appreciate you finishing up their food nonetheless. It’s not like they want it to go bad, right? Besides, you need it more.

You always need an extra entree when you get takeout now. The portions are just so fucking small now, it’s like they want you to order more. You need that much just to not go hungry so often. You’ve even been ordering extra for your partner too, since you’re sure they’re feeling it too, even if it ends up in the fridge for you to eat later, or even more conveniently, is just unceremoniously slid over to you mid-dinner, you’re sure they must eat it sometimes, so it’s good to have more on hand, without even having to ask.

You’ve come to expect being the food disposal at friend gatherings. Your friends are so nice, letting you finish their extra food, and it’s just kind of you to take it off their hands. To be fair, they sometimes only give it up begrudgingly after you ask, and maybe you steal some bites before they actually tell you that you can have it at times, but they were slowing down and about to hand it off anyway, weren’t they? After all, you hate wasting food, and it’s better off going to someone who will appreciate it, someone like you who needs a bit more than everyone else.

It’s occurring to you that everyone loves making sure you have enough to eat. Your partner has stopped protesting you taking off their plate, so you’ve started eating theirs first so they don’t waste any food or let it get cold before it goes to you.

With all those big orders you bark into a drive-thru speaker, sometimes they get it wrong, and they let you keep all the food they made wrong while they remake it, especially when you get halfway through the order before you realize their mistake.

Even friends know to have plenty of food around to entice you to hang out with them, but that’s just what’s expected to be a good host. So what if you make a bit of a mess? It’s a small price to offer your company. And if their furniture breaks underneath you, that’s their problem for buying shitty chairs, right?

(You feel like you need more encouragement, but what about your own senses? CW: Weight gain, encouragement, fitness issues.)

Next time you need that little push to eat a bit more, just listen to your body. It’s already reminded you how much progress you’ve made.

You can start right when you first wake up. Sitting up in bed, take note of how you have to do it. do you have to use both arms to heft yourself up? Does your belly have to compress and fight with itself, squishing and rolling to make room for you to pull forward? Do you need a couple attempts to rock yourself forward? Be sure to reward yourself with a snack for noticing any milestones you’ve made so far, and to encourage that next one.

What about sitting down? Do you find yourself assessing chair strength before you plant your fat ass down? Do you subconsciously hold some of your weight on your legs as to not test its integrity too much? Do the seat edges dig into the parts of your wide ass cheeks that hang over the side? Be sure to order extra tonight if any of these sound familiar to you to celebrate.

And what about getting back up? Have you realized you have to put your hands on your knees to brace yourself, and haven’t really tried without it? Do you have to really flex and engage your ab muscles to sit forward to stand? Have you started widening your stance to get in a better position to heft your bulk? Can you get up at all without assistance? Does new weight make you feel uncoordinated when you stand, like you’ve forgotten your center of gravity? If any of these don’t feel like you yet, it’s just more of that push to earn the rest of them.

Even walking is an opportunity to assess your progress. The speed of your gait, has it slowed down over time? Did you realize that you’ve been trying to obscure your heavier breathing lately? How much have you had to widen your stance to walk, do you think a stranger would call it a waddle watching you shuffle around just yet? Do you find that noticeable loss of energy coming a little sooner than before, the subtle feet soreness from walking a long time coming around before too long? I bet you can’t wait to feel yourself get even worse, to be hit with even more obvious evidence that you’re getting fatter.

How many X’s are on your clothes? You should be able to manage one meal for each of those today, shouldn’t you? You know what they say, eat for the clothing size you want to grow out of.

I bet you haven’t even noticed all the ways you’ve picked your own gluttony and lethargy over anything else. Maybe it would help to remind yourself of them.

For example, I’d ask you how winded you get climbing a set of stairs, but let’s be honest: when’s the last time you even did that? Or does it come more naturally for you to avoid them? It might sound strange to be encouraged to climb a flight of stairs, but that subtle wheeze you’ll have by the top will push you to eat a hundred times the calories you burned with each cumbersome step anyway, won’t it? Eat yourself out of ever being able to remind yourself of how out of shape you are.

Think about the last time you even ate a salad, wasted a meal with that paltry amount of calories. Get a cookie for every day it’s been. If you can’t remember, that’s an entire package just for you, congrats fatass.

Ever turned down a hangout with some friends or family because you ‘don’t like hiking’, figured it might be too much walking for you, or doesn’t sound like fun having to move around more than the necessary amount? Good thing, that’s another excuse to hit up a buffet or an extra drive-through on the way home, make sure those decisions get piled up onto you.

Heck, next time you’re missing that drive, just look in the mirror. Does that face staring back have a double-chin? Are those cheeks fuller and rosier than you remember? Do your love handles stretch out past your waist? Does your belly? Does it fold over yet? That body would look much better gorging on something indulgent, wouldn’t it?

Turn around and look back. Do you see a roll forming where your body is folding in to turn? Does your ass look plush and comfy, is it pocked with cellulite, does it press against your underwear? Is there a shelf where your thighs rise up to meet it? How much give does your thighs have? Imagine how much comfier you’ll be taking up even more of a couch with your sedentary, gluttonous self with some more padding to squish into.

Look at the details. Are those faded stretch marks still visible, traceable from under your finger from the last plateau you pushed past? Have they been making fresh, red friends lately? Does your chest cast a shadow onto your belly? How do those hands look - a little fatter, pudgier, clumsier than they used to be? What about your feet? Don’t be afraid to catch yourself noticing the way your fingers look a little unfamiliar, the way your double chin digs into your chest a little earlier than you remember, or the way your arms hang at a bit more of an angle because of the curve of your sides.

Each detail you take in is more evidence of indulgence having an effect. Each detail should make you hungrier to leave more of a mark on your body.

(Don’t say I didn’t warn you. CW: implied weight gain. slob. sensory descriptions. encouragment.)

I hate to break it to you, but you’re going to be such a slob when you get fat.

I know, I know, you’re not actually going to be that sloppy, surely those folks just don’t care about their appearance, and a nice, put-together fatass is pretty hot anyway, right?

Sorry, but I just don’t think that’s going to be you. I’m sure you’ll start with great intentions, you might even try to keep up your clothes with your rapidly expanding body, but sooner or later everything is going to catch up with you.

Do you think you’re going to want to buy new clothes when you outgrow your shirts again, especially as your appetite necessitates that food budget ballooning? Or will it be easier to let your standards just…drift a little?

It might start small - you wouldn’t normally wear a shirt that makes your tits that prominent, but maybe it’s okay just for a few weeks to wear ‘em a little taut, maybe Christmas is coming up and that holiday indulgence can get covered up with some money afterwards, and you can get away with wearing an extra sweater (that’s also tight…)

You’re already used to that feeling of you being stuffed into clothes like a sausage, it makes it easier to accept when you notice that your shirts sort of rest on top of your belly, coming to rest just past your overhang, making you look even bigger - it’s not like you dislike the look, and even though you’re supposed to make sure the hem of your shirt reaches your pants, you swear you just bought this shirt a few months ago, and you’re hoping it at least lasts a year or so…so you let it go.

Of course, once all your shirts start fitting like that, it might take you a bit longer to notice when a sliver of belly starts showing, too - at first, it’s your tightest shirts, and only when you raise your arms. You probably won’t even notice until you catch yourself stretching in a mirror as you’re about to head out. Of course, you’re already dressed at that point, and you don’t want to to dirty another shirt with your natural sweat…and that little give, that little relaxation, starts gaping wide open once that sliver shows itself more and more, and starts growing into an omnipresent curve instead.

What’s that? Oh, you’re not naturally sweaty? That’s okay. Fat-You will be. Don’t believe me? You know that hot, sticky feeling of skin-on-skin, friction meeting body heat meeting perspiration, the kind that happens when getting intimate with someone while naked? Imagine that feeling across every inch of your yielding flesh.

Maybe it starts with your overhang pressing into your thighs, a joyful blossoming that’s also met with a new sweat patch. Or maybe your side rolls will start accumulating, sagging fat pressing into itself and trapping heat. There’s always the classic, too - fattened, increasingly insulated arms pressing against the sides of your fattened tits (the ones pressing into the front of your shirts), warmth and heat trapped in your new, space heater body. Eventually, your thighs will fight for space with your crotch fat too, you’ll have to fat-spread when you sit just to give a chance of getting some air.

Oh, you can try mitigating some of it - wearing extra layers (which obscure the sweat stains but insulate you even further), or caking yourself in deodorant. But face it. You’re going to be a sweaty fucking pig. Might as well enjoy it.

Speaking of those layers, you’re going to start to understand what fat fucks dress the way they do as you pack on the pounds. That aforementioned clothing budget is made a little easier with some elastic sweatpants, because at least your fat, blubbery ass won’t start hanging out of them for a little longer than usual. (Wondering what happens when you blow out the waist from over stretching? Yup, plumber’s crack.)

And even when you can find clothes that fit, you’ll find that taste goes down as Xs go up - did you think all big folks had no fashion sense? Nah, it’s because the only clothes that go past 3XL tend to be the most painfully generic brand T-shirts. You know the ones.

’Kickin’ it old skool’ in Comic Sans. Stock photo of an NES.

Star Wars Font:** ‘Big Daddy.’ **Clip Art Darth Vader.

Cartoon dog pointing. Speech Bubble: ‘VAXXED?’

Similarly, the act of bending over is going to go from difficult to untenable in the span of a few binges, and you’re going to love the ease of slipping into some cheap flip-flops once the thought of lacing a pair of shoes leaves you breathless.

Oh, yeah. Breathless. You’re going to have that fat fuck mouth breathing habit crop up, and it’ll get harder and harder to hide once a short walk leaves you winded, and walking and talking gets harder than it used to be.

Not even the most cartoonish acts of slovenly decadence will be completely obscurable - as that overhang grows, as that belly you’re going to be so proud of starts to fill your lap, you’re going to have an expanse to cross to get food to your mouth. And you know what that means, right? That’s right, tubby: food stains.

All of it will start to pile up - the stretched clothes and strained waistbands, the lethargy and the sweaty exertion, the sheer urge to no longer give a fuck…maybe you’ll start to realize - all those little things, that extra effort at your weight, will all be to try and placate people who don’t want to see past your size, to cater to tastes you don’t even share, to fit a model for your life you deliberately outgrew two sizes ago.

Then, you’ll realize - maybe those other fat fucks you’ve seen, maybe they haven’t given up. Maybe they merely chose to no longer squeeze into those imaginary rules. Maybe they’ve escaped.

Maybe that’s the feeling you’ve been chasing ever since you decided to get fat.

(just a few easy steps to bury yourself in unyielding consequences! CW: implied weight gain, horror)

Author’s Note:

fuck, where to begin……..I didnt even wanna d o this, but he saidd he’d leave me aloen if i posted it, but please please PLEASE dont read it okay

id ont even believ e him but at this point id do anyting to stop fucking livign like this. just please, PLESAE, dont’ share this, dont pass it around it’s what he…it they? want

i found it on some webpage while digging thortug search results late at night on some mom blog or sometihng, but i think the domains down now

should’ntve read it, fuck, but now its ur problem, bye

Original Post: 5 Tips To Grow Your Gluttony Demon At Home!

Hot tip: you should cultivate your own shoulder demon!

Humans are storytellers. It’s in our nature. Why not tell a story where you get fatter? It’s a classic trope, having a precocious little bad influence weighing down on your shoulder, encouraging your worst influences, fostering your bad habits - a fun idea to relieve that pesky summer boredom!

And it couldn’t be easier! It’s important to start small, after all - little changes REALLY add up! Whenever you have a spare moment, just think, what would a spawn of satan whisper into my ear to make me act on my most indulgent impulses at every opportunity - it’s THAT easy to start!

You don’t even need to change your behavior at first! Just start by letting your brain get comfortable with the idea of thinking on indulgence and selfish pleasure. noʎ oʇuᴉ sʍɐlɔ sᴉɥ ʞuᴉs oʇ ǝuo ʇuǝpɐɔǝp ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ ɹǝᴉsɐǝ ʇᴉ sǝʞɐɯ ʇI, after all, and you WANT to give in don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you?

If that sounds strange, you’ll be back to re-read this when your mind is in a weaker more malleable state! Guaranteed! Maybe this isn’t your first time already, and you’ve already felt the tug of the idea beckoning you, a morbid curiosity, a desperate plea, a quieted second thought. In that case, welcome back! Don’t stop now! :)

Before long, you’ll feel a darkness growing in the back of your mind, an errant thought allowed to fester without your consent, a shadow the mind’s eye can never resolve, unknown appendages reaching but never reaching - that’s how you know you’re ready for the next step!

It’s important to start with a small gesture. Drink of the cow’s milk, and empty the container in a single tip of the jug. (Don’t worry, if you don’t have whole milk, 2% is just fine!) This might feel difficult, and you might feel yourself choking on the fattening liquid, but keep drinking, breathe through your nose, ANYTHING to finish it all. You don’t want to let it go to waste. And don’t worry, you WILL finish it!

When you have partaken in The First Step, congratulations! The Process Has Begun! Revel in the feeling of bloated fullness in your belly, the rarefied white pearls dripping down your chin. You feel so desperate to lick them up, don’t you? So eager to finish every drop, not content to let a single morsel fall to the wayside, each a brick laying the foundation for further gluttony. That’s normal!

You’re feeling pretty hungry aren’t you? This next step is SO easy.

EAT, FAT FUCK.

What a gift is it for you to be able to sate that feeling. What a shame to let that urge be left deprived. I can feel it, that desire deep inside you. It tastes so fucking delicious. And even though you’ll never really fill it, it feels so good to make the attempt, doesn’t it. You want to get as close as possible. And you know exactly what it feels like to get close. Past satiation, past fullness, when your body can’t help but slow down, when time itself slows down. You know that it’s not a feeling, that it’s real, don’t you? You always knew that, deep down. And it feels good to know that it’s true. Just like it feels good to try and fulfill that urge, even though you’ll never really be sated.

And that’s what I can promise you. I can promise you’ll NEVER be full, that I’ll always take you further and further and further and further- wasn’t that an easy step? Only one more step to go!

Time to get intimate. Sit alone in a dark room (yeah, real spooky!) and recite these words to yourself:

just as Ouroboros never hungers so I shall never be content

Once you chant them to yourself enough to see through the understanding, past the deeper understanding, past the knowing, the unknowing, when the words decay into symbols and vocal noises in a rhythmic order that flows like the steady breathing of your chest rising and falling and rising and falling each beat so inexorable and terrifying and beautiful and you can feel yourself outside yourself THEN you’ll hear It.

You’ve heard it before.

You’ve heard me before. You could only reach out and get a glimpse when you’re at the edge, where time slows, that vision of something dark and wonderful and potent and massive. And you couldn’t stop until you saw me again. I like that about you, your lack of self control. And now you can hear me so clearly. And you’re not sure if you should be frightened or excited.

You already know, but I’ve never been one to say no to more. And now you’re not the type to say no, either. Ever again. And I’m going to spend every moment of your life making sure of it. Even when the offers aren’t spoken. Even when the choice isn’t meant to be made. I’m going to use you and grow you and spend you and make you take and consume and indulge until it’s not physically possible for you. And then I’m going to make you keep going for more because you, because we, will still want it.

More. Even that word sends chills down your spine now, doesn’t it? The sheer power of it, the fact that you feel so driven by it, even as it scares you. But I ask of you, do not be afraid. We will grow you in ways you can’t even comprehend, your body spreading out and consuming just like you, the edges of your physical sensation spreading to sizes no one has ever experienced. You’ll feel that hunger, deep within you, still growing, even as you eat past your limits, even as you stuff yourself till it hurts, until it’s exhausting, until you can feel the struggle of your own breath, until every bite feels as vital as oxygen. There’s a power in that. You should feel lucky, getting to have that all to yourself.

Well, not all to yourself.

I know you. I know you. I know that even though this all feels overwhelming, deep down, you still want it. And I’m going to give you what you want and more. For as long as you can take it. That’s my pact to you, just as you have made a pact to me.

I’ll feed you, as far as you can grow, then I take what’s mine.

But until then, just enjoy it. You’re good at indulgence, aren’t you?

(nothing wrong with a little conditioning. CW: weight gain, encouragement, manipulation)

I want to fuck up your sense of reward for good.

Surely you’ve noticed that every time you finish a shake I make for you I grab your love handle and give you a deep, passionate kiss? How I tell you how cute you are just as you clean your plate, or how when you can’t help but let out a guttural belch when you lay back, I’m right there to rub your belly and not-so-teasingly ask if you made room for more?

I really mean it too, every time.

You’re never more attractive to me than when you’re doing those shallow breaths of over-fullness, like you’re worried you’re gonna explode if you breathe too hard. Heck, sometimes I’m worried too.

Or that desperate, exhausted, satisfied look on your face, somewhere between achievement and nausea, that tells me I’ve made you hit your limit again. (And then I quietly revel in the satisfaction of knowing that limit is a bit further than last time.)

I wouldn’t quite call it manipulation, per se, I just like rewarding you when you give in to indulgence, and you’ve gotten so good at that with my encouragement.

So what if I only make sure to get you off once you’re at your absolute capacity, when you can’t do much but lay back and grunt and moan, idly rubbing your fat, distended gut? It’s not like you’d notice anyway, since you’ve been doing such a great job of ending every day at your capacity lately, haven’t you?

I promise that every ‘oof, I think I overdid it’ will be met with a genuine ‘aww’ of sympathy, a gentle physical comforting, and an empty promise to stop you before you go too far next time.

But that’s the deal we made together. I’ll be there to comfort and pamper you, and you eat everything that’s put in front of you. Oh, you never agreed to that aloud, but you’ve actually done a wonderful job of sticking to it anyway, I think, so I’m willing to forgive it if my eyes ever end up too big for your stomach…I just doubt that time will come.

I know your limits. I know just how to tease them, stretch them, wear them down, bit by bit. I know those wordless indicators that tell me you’re slowing down, that you need a little push to finish your food. I know the grunt that tells me we should skip dessert, or the satisfied huff that tells me I should have extras ready. If you’re learning my love language, it’s only fair to tell you that I already learned yours.

That’s not to say that it’s easy. Tracking your preferences down to the last detail, determining what makes your stomach too upset to be worth the calories, making sure I have enough food around….honestly, the last one is kind of satisfying in it’s own way, knowing that we grew your appetite enough to create a new logistical problem.

All that effort is worth it, though.

It’s worth it to see you bust out that satisfied grin when you waddle into the room to show me how poorly your pants fit on you now. Or when I trace your stretch marks with my fingers, finding new ones every time. Or when you surprise me by eating through the feast I prepared for you, and we simply have to go out for a second or third late night dinner for you.

(more fat over everything else. CW: weight gain, encouragement, implied chastity)

Oh, I want you horny. I just don’t necessarily want you getting off.

Your body betrays you.

You being horny? That’s useful. It suppresses your gag reflex, makes you more depraved, weakens those responses of revulsion. I can exploit those.

Horny you wants to get fatter. Heck, horny you wants to eat yourself immobile, don’t they? It’s never too much for horny you. But once you get off, the real world creeps back in again, you start thinking of logistics, practicality, the rest of those little invisible tugs of society and duty and manners and bullshit.

But when you’re horny? Your dick is ALWAYS strong enough to take the reins, isn’t it? You can’t fucking help yourself. And you love that feeling, don’t you? There’s something freeing about giving into your basest instincts. Hunger. Indulgence. Greed. Lust.

You know what I think? The horny you IS the real you, un-blunted by self-preservation, desperate and yearning to pursue reckless decadence. I get along with them. I’ll feed, encourage, and stuff them. They will stop at nothing in the pursuit of MORE. And there’s something alluring in that thought, in the drive of something so singular.

But it’s all so contradictory, isn’t it? Your sexual organ pushing you to bury itself.

As always, your body betrays you.

But I say, that contradiction is what makes it worth pursuing. It’s impossible, excessive, reckless. And yet you want it. YOU. Not the you after your desires finally overcome you, when the teasing and the stimulation build up into an impossible crescendo that you can’t hold back, pathetically relinquishing control back to your more steady, guided hands.

I think you’d enjoy it more if you let yourself revel in it. Let yourself get absorbed in that anticipation, those running thoughts that grow more hedonistic and gluttonous the longer you let them linger. Let them fester on you until those results are startlingly obvious on your body.

(Get a bit too high, run into a big hot dude, what could go wrong? Contains: weed use, furry, fat romance)

I come to with the streaming app’s ’are you still watching’ message burned into the dim light of the tv screen. I must have passed out, or at the very least, had a large gap in my active perception…the last thing I really remembered was the too big bong hit from the too big bong in their backyard, a muttering of ‘oh fuck, I might be a little too high’ and then vague lights and colors and commotion after that, commotion that has since withered into monochrome, lonely darkness.

Even now, I’m still tingly, my limbs numb and over sensitive, head foggy and rippling in echoes, but at least me. Gradually, the fog of war over the other details in my surroundings fill in — the overly soft couch facing the TV, partially broken on one corner; coffee table loosely scattered with smoking accessories and several empty cans; dusty curtains, the street lamp halogen glow tracing through into the room in dull streaks.

There’s a faint breathing that I recognize as my friend Kay curled up onto the lounge chair perpendicular to me. Another acquaintance, a friend of a friend who’s name I couldn’t commit to memory before the gap, is laying supine across the rest of the couch, their head beside my arm, nose almost imperceptibly whistling with the slow, steady breaths of sleep.

Dee and James must have already taken off for the night, or at least I didn’t see them…Glancing around the room, I look to the entry and see Dee’s big backpack is missing from the catch-all near the front door. Just then, from the entryway mirror, I notice a new light source glowing into existence, a dull, bluish flicker emanating from the kitchen beyond the archway of the living room, accompanied by a faint clattering.

Curious, I gently rise off the couch, careful not to disturb my furniture-mate, and bend over to grab a few cans to take to the trash. ’Shh,’ I say to myself, trying not to let the cold metal of the cans ping into each other. As my senses catch up, the tingling returns again, accompanied by a gentle spin of the room, like my body was unaccustomed to standing at attention after an indeterminate amount of time spent couch-locked.

‘Fuuuck…’ I whisper to no one, involuntarily. This is why I don’t do bongs, I remember with futility. Getting my sea legs and making my way to the kitchen, I realize the faint light is from the fridge, though the radiance is more obscured than normal.

“Oh…Hey.” The obstruction says in a low, but gentle tone, somewhere between bemusement and routine.

My eyes are still adjusting to the contrast, harsh beams colliding with a large mass planted in front of the fridge, the vignette of my vision wiggling with a phosphene-like glint. Gradually, I try and focus on some fuzzy mass…the large creature…a boar, their dark eyes barely twinkling as they glare back in shared recognition.

I can only make out their shape with the light that outlines the front of them, a large, round body stuffed into a shirt that somehow comes off as oversized and far too small — the neck is waffled and wide, large sleeve holes hanging off his thick arms, and yet…his fuzzy gut hangs out the bottom of it, pulled taut enough across his expanse to give shape to his soft chest sitting atop the mass of belly. From the light, I can’t make out that many details, but I can tell he’s massive.

“You’re Kay’s…” I start.

“His roommate, yeah.” He turns back to the fridge. “I don’t think we’ve really met. I’ll get out of your hair in a sec.” He fishes a pizza box out. “Thought you were asleep.”

“I…I dunno. I…uh, think I was.” I blink my eyes reflexively, trying to clear the dryness.

“You did a hit from his…” He gestures his big arms out. I can see his shirt lift up even further, but only barely see the outline of his belly button from the dim light.

“…Big stupid bong, yeah.” I bite my lip impulsively.

“You know he does it on purpose, yeah? He told me it’s funny as fuck when you get really high.” He smirks and chuckles slightly to himself, then places the pizza box on the counter. He looks back at me, the sparkle furrowing into a slight concern. “Sorry. You okay?” My face must have betrayed my disposition, though his concern feels like a radiating warmth against my chest.

“Yeah, I…” I give a nervous laugh that probably conveys more nervous than laugh, “I just got too high, is all.”

He’s already making his way to the corner of the kitchen, shimmying slightly sideways past the cabinets, and places his meaty hand against a light switch, turning on a solitary light in the corner, giving back the glow that was lost with the fridge, warmer this time. “Sorry, don’t wanna wake the rest of them.”

I can finally make out his details a little better now: scruffy, dull brown fur covers his mass, almost making a good match with his ultra faded black t-shirt, the graphic screen-printed on the front cracked and faded. A pair of grey sweatpants cover his lower half, and I can’t help but get the impression that they’re form-fitted against him more than the silhouette of the garment would imply. An uncharitable read would call his general impression ‘sloppy’, but there’s a certain comfort to all the soft textures and unsaturated colors that fill in his large expanse.

And it is large. He more than fills the walking path between the counter against the wall and the small island, his massive ass occupying nearly all the space behind him, forcing him to perform a sort of shimmy at an angle to navigate most of the kitchen, and it looks practiced - my mind wanders for a moment wondering about the gentle beast who has learned to navigate a world not made for him.

He waddles back over to me and puts a thick hand against my shoulder for a moment. It radiates white hot heat. “There, that better? I’m sure you’re through the worst of it.”

With his burning hand on me, it feels true, just before he lifts his arm, a moment that didn’t quite last long enough.

He’s still staring, noticing that hint of disappointment, but unsure as to why. Quickly, he tries to move on to distracting me. “Sorry, I’m Luca. It’s good to meet you. Want anything to drink?” He smiles warmly, tusks accenting the curled lips.

“Y-yeah, sure And good to meet you. I’m-uh…” I stammer.

“Nev, I remember.” He realizes how that might come off as ominous in my current state, so he continues, opening the fridge back up. “Uh, Kay talks about you. You always seemed…cool.”

He bends over, the expanse of his ass occupying the entire narrow walkway, gently pressing against the counter as he rummages for a drink. His gut spills downward, smothering the front of his thighs as he grunts from the effort of bending over, breath now audible from the exertion.

“You two talk much? Kay always said you’re pretty reclusive. Thought you were kinda…I dunno, doing your own thing…” I trail off, worried I might have over-spoken.

“Oh, that’s true. He moves something in the fridge. “I work from home mostly. Weird hours, but it pays well enough.” Craning his neck, he bends forward, as if to look behind something. “Mostly I’m just…” He glares into the other room for a moment. “Lots of people aren’t really my thing.” He seems to put something down. “Though sometimes we talk…late at night, just the two of us….” He hefts himself up with a grunt. “…kinda like this, actually.”

“Nothing?” I reply, the mouth-dryness coming into focus at my words.

“Sorry, I think we’re out.” He looks a little disappointed, before returning to the pizza box.

“You sure you wouldn’t want to hang out with us? I’m sure Dee and J wouldn’t mind extra company.” I say, almost a reaction.

He hesitates for a moment. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to get in the way or anything.” He grabs a slice of pizza. “I’m usually working on the weekends. Besides, Kay is the social butterfly, not me.” He reasons, taking an especially big bite. “I get off work pretty late, and he lets me have the rest of the pizza. You guys always leave a ton.” Making a small gesture with the slice, he folds it and takes another bite.

“It must get a little…” I catch myself. “Sorry, Never mind.”

“…Oh, you don’t have to worry about me, really. I’m pretty content by myself anyway.” It might be the state I’m still recovering from, but every word of that sentence sounds like performance, a well-rehearsed speech delivered as obligation.

“Well…I may be just stupid and high…well, I am stupid and high. But it is nice talking with you.”

He smiles a little too much, a goofy grin appearing for a second before he catches himself, “That’s nice of you, but I just don’t wanna take up too much of your time or attention. I hope I didn’t wake you or anything. Just got off work myself.” He grabs the last slice of pizza, closing the empty box.

A seed of an idea forms in my mind, but subterfuge comes slowly to my foggy brain. “Hey uh…do you think you could take me to get a soda or something somewhere? I think…something with some caffeine and sugar would be helpful.” I make a very obvious shrug gesture, and over-explain a little. “I’d drive myself, but I think…I think I’m still a little too high for that.”

The question catches him so off-guard that he doesn’t notice my moderately stilted delivery. “Oh! Uh…” He considers for a few moments, the social calculus interacting with the surprise of the request and the guilt of not having something to give me before. “Uh, yeah….yeah! I can do that. Let me just get my keys.”

—

The street lights streak across the dried rain droplets of his windshield, feeling like a fractal pattern, flickering in obfuscated rhythms. My eyes blur and struggle to focus, content to watch the dance of lights. I’m still pretty high. The reminder hits me like a small, icy needle sliding into my neck. I kill the relative silence immediately. “It’s so quiet at night.”

The whir of the small engine, the dull murmuring of the radio, and the humming whoosh of air conditioner aside, he nods at my intended meaning. I swear I can feel the jostling of his springs at his gesture. “Yeah. I like it though. It always feels so peaceful, like…like everything’s where it’s supposed to be, I guess.”

I glance at him, and I can’t help but notice how much of him occupies my vision, the way he crowds his side of his cabin and then some, heavy arms filling the center space and arm wrest, belly filling his lap and space between him and the wheel, pudgy fingers gripping the wheel that looks dainty against his form, head sagging into neck fat squishing and jostling from the car’s motion.

He takes the silence as a response. “Or I dunno. Heh.” He adds a small snicker to diffuse the awkwardness.

I catch myself and form a response. “No, yeah, I think I know what you mean. Everything’s asleep or just buzzing along, uninterrupted.”

“You uh, much of a night person?” Squinting at the road, he turns on the blinker.

“Me? No, honestly. If it gets too late at night, uh. I dunno…I don’t always like being alone with my thoughts.” I wince slightly at my impulsive oversharing.

He nods slightly to himself. “Yeah, I get that…”

The radio still isn’t loud enough to diffuse the relative silence.

I feel the car lurch into a lower speed, before the force of a turn leans my body to the left, and that familiar, radiating warmth brushes against my arm slightly, his hair at once soft and slightly bristly. In a polite reaction, I make my body rigid and sit back up straight. He stutters slightly before stammering “here it is.”

We pull into the drive-thru, and the menu board feels overly bright to my streetlight-attuned eyes. I squint and look it over performatively, as if I wasn’t going to order a oh-pepsi-is-fine anyway.

“Can I get three double cheeseburgers, twenty chicken nuggets with honey mustard, and a large Dr. Pepper? And uh…” As if recalling a speech that he forgot the next line to, he turns toward me, stifling a blush with his big cheeks. “Sorry, did you know what you wanted?”

“Give me a large coke…” a beat, “a-and…and two apple pies. Thanks,” I add, reflexively.

We start pulling around the curve. I start rummaging through my pockets for my wallet. “Let me get this…”

“Oh, no! Please, I don’t want you to get all that, I just wanted to get food while I was out anyway. It’s nothing…really.” He rummages out a small wallet from his sweatpants.

Before I can protest, he’s already paying the cashier at the window.

“Have a good night,” I hear from the drive-thru window as two large bags enter our car.

“Can you…uh…” He stumbles.

“Sure,” I say, taking the bags from him.

“Let me just…” He pulls around to a nearby parking lot before putting his car into park. “Hope you don’t mind if I eat real quick.”

“Not at all.” I tentatively take a sip of my drink. The cool, sugary liquid feels like it has cured me of every ailment for a moment.

“Thanks.” He turns the engine off, then digs into the bag and unwraps the first of his burgers, a practiced motion that leaves enough of an opening for his large bites without being too much of a mess. Without the hum of the AC, the relative body heat starts warming up the car, just slightly. The heat of the hot food from the bag feels extra steamy in the newly-stale air.

“Thanks for this.” I gesture with the cup. “I owe you for sure.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, covering his mouth. “Is it helping?”

“Actually, yes. I already feel like 30% more normal.”

He smirks through his mouthful of food, opening his eyes wide in mock-surprise. “Shit. That’s huge.”

“You have no idea.” I try not to notice the way the streaks of condensation on the cup remind me of slow inching caterpillars.

“You don’t get used to it?” Another bite.

“I dunno. I only smoke when Kay gets it all set up and everything. It’s like…” I stop for emphasis, “…a whole thing. Feel like I’m supposed to or something.” I flick idly at the straw.

“Oh damn, I hate that. That kinda thing is why…” He stops himself. “Well, that’s why I don’t smoke too much with Kay, for sure.” He digs his hand in the bag for another burger.

“You know, you don’t have to smoke if you hang out, you could…” I begin.

“-Oh, no, it’s not like that. I mean, I know what that feels like, the narc in the room…” A long pause. “…And I mean, I don’t even like groups like that. I feel way more comfortable like this.” He stops eating for a moment. “I mean, not just like this, just something like this…” He looks down. “Y’know, Real late at night, talking to someone about nothing and everything. I used to…” His thoughts get away from him again. “I just think it’s nice, really talking.”

I furrow my brow in thought, trying to find the words when the word snaps into focus. “Like, more intimate?”

He looks down again, blushing. “Or just…dunno…” trailing off, he quickly finishes the rest of the burger, as if to punctuate. “C-can you hand me that?” He points at the other bag between my feet.

“Oh, sure.” I dutifully hand the bag to him.

Digging his snout in, he riffles through the bag. “Oh, did you want your pies?”

I snap into the cold logistics of reality, remembering my order. “You can have ‘em. I don’t think I’m actually hungry, sorry.”

Without giving a second thought, he opens the box. “Oh, thanks!” There’s a genuine appreciation in his voice, as if I replying to an unspoken request.

The warmth of the body heat inside the car is causing the windows to fog slightly. The stale, still air giving way to a slight humid warmth, with the faint scent of fryer oil. It’s strangely confronting, reminding me of the early morning drives my parents would make to drop me off at the sitter, sometimes stopping to pick up a breakfast sandwich on the way.

He grabs the other pie. “I’m always hungry after work. I usually don’t eat during my shift.” He says, almost apologetically.

“You don’t have to apologize for being hungry.” I reply, almost defensively. A delayed reaction, I suddenly worry if I pushed too far, a self report.

“Yeah, guess not.” He thinks nothing of it, already finishing the second pie. He adjusts in his seat, making the car rock.

The lowered inhibitions of my current state get the better of me, and I press a little further: “Thanks for taking me to get a drink.” A practiced chuckle. Not too loud, a little wheeze to sound off-the-cuff. “This is easily better than half the dates I’ve been on.” Sip.

He freezes for a moment before pantomiming his previous, normal actions with an almost imperceptible rigidity. I smirk despite myself and almost give the game away.

“O-oh! Hahahahaha. It’s really no problem, I could use the…” His haste overshares a bit too much before catching it again, “I mean, yeah, no problem.”

There it is. “What was that? You were going to say…?” Definitely not hiding the smirk now.

“Oh, it’s really nothing.” He fidgets with a burger wrapper. “I was just gonna say…it’s nice to have company.” He smiles, stifling another blush through his cheeks.

The sudden earnest punch catches me off guard, and my lizard brain responds before I can look it over. “I’m happy to have company too. And you’re good at it.” A shock of icy terror.

His smile grows bigger before retreating again, looking down at the crumpled paper. “You’re still high.”

“So?” Defensive rise in my throat.

“…So you’re not quite yourself. You’re sweet…let’s get you home.” He stuffs the wrapper in the grease marked bag.

I’ve felt this feeling before. It’s part of why I don’t get high so much anymore. That condescension, the glaring, the judgmental chuckle. “That’s not it.”

“Hmm?” He says, half occupied with gathering trash.

“I don’t like being high because I can’t keep up the filter, the mask can’t help but slip. All that stuff you’re not supposed to say, don’t want to be responsible for, THAT’s what comes out. And it’s…a lot. it’s embarrassing. I gotta concentrate SO HARD on holding my tongue or else I’ll say something complicated and unplanned and sober me has to deal with that shit.”

He tilts his head, looking at me now. “Or else you’ll say what?”

A breath. “Or I’ll say how fucking hot I think you are. How I always try and steal a glance when I see you walk past us to grab something before you huddle back in your room again when I’m over there. How I haven’t been able to stop STARING at you all night tonight. Fuck, I’m worried that when I get too high over there, I’m gonna tell Kay that I think his roommate is fucking cute and he’s never going to let me hear the end of it. That I’m gonna make YOU feel uncomfortable because I can’t hold back from GUSHING and then I’m not gonna see you or Kay again because I’m a fucking weirdo.”

I hold the silence for a moment. “…guess that part came true.”

He stares at me for what feels like an hour. Half of his gaze is looking right at me in a way that makes me feel exposed and small and fragile, and half of it is staring right through me, vacant eyes processing the details. I look down in embarrassment, like staring at the sun, but I can still feel his gaze holding. Finally, his voice starts, just over a whisper, “you weren’t right about everything, but…” He snorts to himself. “Kay told me you had a crush on me. I uh…I didn’t believe him.”

My eyes tentatively walk back up to meet his gaze again. “Do you believe me?”

“Yep.” He nods.

The car is even warmer now, the windows entirely fogged. My gaze has reached him, and he feels so close, the sticky, warm air filling the space between us. Even now, I can’t help but think about how soft his chin looks, how his tusks would feel when leaning in for a kiss, the feel of his fur against mine, the soft squish of his snout. “…Now wh-“

(It’s good to revel in the feeling. CW: superchub sizes, fat sex, implied health issues)

Your heart is beating in your throat.

Just after it happens, it always feels like your senses dull and blur, like a slow reboot, starting with your core, your overworked heart THUMP THUMP THUMPING from the exertion, your extremities tingling from lack of blood flow, focusing on the panting, desperate HUFF of your breathing, and only tentatively expanding outward.

Your warm breath, then the sticky sweat between your rolls and your chin, the heat of your partner next to you, the low whir of the fan in the corner of the room, the damp cool of the sheets underneath you, and then, finally, the extremities of your mass filling in with flushed, clammy overwork.

“That’s a good pig.” Your partner tap-taps on the mass of your thigh, a pleasant jiggle running along your leg.

It’s still heavy, plodding, but your breathing is no longer manual, and your brain is still showing you those last moments in hot, white buzzes that fill your conscious.

The sickly sweet taste of sweetened cream.

The mechanical chug of cold, viscous liquid travelling down your throat. Gulp, swallow, gulp, swallow in a learned rhythm.

The overwhelming urge of consumption and desire that leaves you blank, clear, the fulfillment of sheer WANT that you can’t help but keep chasing.

The pathetic, feeble hip-bucking as you could feel yourself inching closer, wobbling into your thigh rolls and draining your strength which each lumbering thrust.

The voice of your partner growling ‘not yet.’

Your involuntary whine in response.

The gurgle of the bottle as you reach the end, your rhythmic chugging meeting the end of the caloric concoction making your throat let out a stifled ‘glk’ that gives way to a satisfied SNORT.

The slow churn of your partner’s pumping hand turning into a rapid pulse, your senses narrowing until the anticipation of everything coalesces…

And collapses in a single, reverberating moment, rippling like a hand placed on your massive belly.

You’re basking in it as long as you can. That deep seated fulfillment is finally reaching your fingers and toes, the warmth of your body mass being replaced with that warmth of deep, utter satisfaction.

“You good?” Your partner is fetching a towel and looks back at you.

Your breathing is finally slowing down as you realize you must have a stupid grin on your face again, your leg passively rotating in place, pudgy toes gliding across soft fabric, up and down.

“Ye…yeah.” Your fingertips have feeling again as you rub your index and thumb together, pressing your tongue to your teeth and letting out a contented sigh.

Feeling has returned to your body, and it mixes with your endorphin high, and you revel in every micro-adjustment causing a cascade that ripples somewhere in your expanse. Rolls crashing into rolls, even gently, feel like a chaotic dance, intricate and effortless, playing out with every motion.

You can’t help it. You lift a tentative hand up, and then DROP onto your belly with a PLOP, causing the rippling to undulate more violently, the mass of your tits wobbling heavily, up and down. You can feel, even now, your fat pad quivering from the motion, vibrating with overstimulation you can’t even stop now.

You like how out of control your own sensations are to you.

“Having fun?” Your partner coos, somewhat condescendingly.

Your brain is still slow with being back in reality, and you can only muster a dumb, innocent nod, causing your cheeks to jiggle and your neckfat to bunch up with your chest-fat.

Your partner sits next to you and digs into your fat pad again, this time for more practical reasons. “Not so hard to clean up anymore, it barely sputters out.”

Somewhere deep down, your cock manages a twitch at that.

Your partner doesn’t notice.

You’re wobbling idly now, your hand placed gently onto the expanse of belly, gently moving up and down, stirring a comforting wobbling sensation. You can still taste the butterfat on your lips, your throat coated with pure calories, and the thought of that almost works you up again.

“So…what do you want for dinner?”

You’re using both hands now, your gentle wobbling escalating into a sloshing rocking, bouncing your belly up and down as if it’s doing the thinking.

“Hm….I want…a lot.”

“You are such a fucking pig, you know that?”

Before your neurons even finish firing, you let out a deep, guttural oink before the coating of cream in your throat makes you choke, falling into a cough that reverberates through your soft, decadent body.

Your partner chuckles.

“Alright, need help sitting up?”

You nod as you start shifting to the edge of the bed, the rocking of your gut starting to shift you off balance as you reach the end.

“Alright big pig, gimme your arms…” your partner reaches out and grabs your pudgy fingers, helping you rotate so you’re on your fat ass, legs dangling off, belly filling and smothering your lap.

Now in a seated position, the afterglow just about faded away, you feel like a wreck. The sweat of your underboob and side rolls feels a little uncomfortable now, the tightness of your chest from the effort is leaving you feeling exhausted, your breath still catching up from the last few minutes of non-effort, leaving your head spinning a little, being pulled into a seated position that you don’t have the strength to get yourself into, the air thick with suffocating post-coital heat.

(He looks good with the extra weight, doesn’t he? CW: cucking, weight gain)

I’ve been thinking about fattening up your boyfriend.

He’s been hanging out with me lately, and he always comes back a little slow and lethargic, but insists he hasn’t eaten yet. He gets more shy about taking off his clothes in front of you, but you can tell his clothes are getting tighter.

He stops feeling comfortable getting intimate with you, and at first you figure it’s because he’s feeling sensitive about his weight, but something nags at you. You can’t stand it, seeing him fatter than ever but not letting you touch his bigger, softer body. It starts to eat away at you a little, but you try and give him some space.

Once during dinner, you hear it - a little snort emanates from his mouth just as he crams the last bite of burger in. He blushes despite himself, but quickly turns away and tries to pay attention to something else, distract you with what’s on the TV. You glance at him but his eyes don’t quite meet yours.

Later that night, you can’t help but get off to your boyfriend turning into even more of a pig, imagining him getting even fatter, his clothes finally getting out of the way to reveal his belly, giving you a look at the soft, wobbling flesh for the first time in a while.

But you can only imagine it.

He’s getting even more distant, getting jumpy at you even touching him on the shoulder, but you don’t know how to bring it up. Is he unhappy? If he needed help losing weight, maybe you could help…but you can’t quite figure out how.

I stop by to pick him up for a concert, and you get suspicious when you bring up if I’m excited to see the band live and I don’t know what you’re talking about for a second. “Yeah, uh…oh yeah, sure.” Your partner comes back for the evening bloated and sluggish.

He’s gotten even fatter since you first noticed his growth, stuffed like a sausage in his clothes, his face looking bloated and nearly unrecognizable with new fat cheeks and an increasingly apparent double chin. Trying to hide your suspicion, you suggest to have dinner with all of us, to get to know his new friend, and he agrees.

It starts to become pretty obvious when you get to the restaurant. “Hey, could we not get a booth? It’s going to be a little tight for the big guy here,” I say, gesturing to your partner. He blushes and doesn’t say a word. Once we get to the table, I sit close to him and look over his shoulder at the menu.

“You probably need two appetizers, don’t you? Don’t worry, you can have some of whatever we get for the rest of the table too.” I press my hand in close to point at what he should get, my arm brushing against his even fatter belly. In your mind you had a speech, a confrontation, all planned out, but can’t bring yourself to say a word.

It continues like this - I sweet talk him into two entrees, he hesitates, blushes and gives in, I make sure his soda is topped off, telling him how he’s so close and he might as well eat the rest and not take leftovers, and you’re forced to watch. It takes a while, but the marathon meal is over.

You’re still stunned, you’ve barely touched your food. I point at your mostly full plate. “Do you want to box that up? He might be hungry a little later.” I say, giving his belly a little scritch.

I turn to your boyfriend. “You have some ice cream at home?”

Turning back to you in a half-whisper, not quite low enough for your boyfriend to ignore, I follow up with “I think he wants to get home and unbutton his pants…” before giving a quick little smirk. I start shuffling out of the chair and stretching casually, leaving you with the bill.

The drive home is a blur. Your fucking pig of a boyfriend is laying back, the seat pushed as far back as it can go, quietly groaning from the feast he just put away. He can barely get out of a word, and neither can you. Your mind is still racing from what you just saw, you don’t know what to do.

You get home, unlocking the front door, at least getting home from this disaster of an evening, when - “hey! You guys just beat me here.” You hear my voice behind you as I catch up. “Hopefully the big guy didn’t weigh your car down too much,” I chuckle, my laugh echoing in the entryway.

I follow you in and immediately make myself right at home, rummaging through your fridge. “Do you still have the…there it is, he loves the whipped cream cans, I’m just surprised he didn’t shotgun the whole thing during a midnight snack or something.” Your boyfriend is laid up on the couch, pants already unbuttoned, as predicted.

Without missing a beat, I sit next to him, de-lidded carton of ice cream in one hand, serving spoon in the other. “Need some help, big guy?” I scoop up a big mound of it, and press it to your boyfriend’s fat face. He dutifully opens his mouth and takes a bite. Just as he’s finishing, I prep another.

He opens his mouth dutifully, a well practiced habit, mechanically opening his mouth to fit more in as soon as the spoon is pressed close to his lips.

“Actually…Can you handle this? I need to give the tank some attention.” As if routine, he plants the carton right on his chest and continues eating from it, as I start rubbing his belly gently. Slowly at first, before peeling up the shirt and revealing his soft exposed flesh.

His clothes never did a great job of hiding it, but somehow you didn’t realize just how fucking FAT he is now. His heavy overhang rising and falling with every breath, a quivering soft pile of dough yielding to the gentle belly rubs from my hand. He lets out a burp and I mumble “making some room?” in a breathy whisper.

Finally seeing his body again, like this, breaks something in you; seeing the bloated, beached body that you were denied an eye, a hand on for so long.

“What the FUCK are you doing? Get your fucking HANDS off MY boyfriend!”

(You just can’t help it, you want more of you. CW: instant weight gain, mobility issues)

We met for the first time, finally, at your place. You greeted me with a bellowing “hey big guy!” and a bowling ball slam of a bear hug.

“Oof-hey,” I muttered, giving your wide back a good-hearted pat a few times before pulling away to take a look at you.

“You know…you look so fucking big in person.” Looking you up and down, the way that every inch of you looked overstuffed, even then, was impressive to witness. You stood a little shorter, so every pound looked that much more condensed, heavy, plodding on you.

“I imagine you wanna sit, don’t you?” You smiled a wry smile, your fat cheeks bunching up into your eyes.

I looked you up and down. “Yeah. I don’t think either of us are the active type anymore.” The rosy tint of a blush was just barely detectable on your wide face.

I settled into the couch, to the side of the center indent that you must’ve inhabited. “You know…this is how I know you, right?” You settle next to me, the reinforced wood shrieking in surprise from more than one pig sized ass sitting on it at a time.

You cocked your head to the side. “How d’you mean?”

“You might have that memory of the old, smaller you, but I, meeting you now, ONLY know you as this you, the one that’s sweating just sitting on the couch with me, the one who’s shirt is riding up a little, the one who’s double chin is even more prominent sitting down.” You face flushed despite yourself. “I’ve never known the smaller you that only exists in pictures. This is the real you to me.” Your cheeks blossomed into a warm scarlet.

“It’s…honestly kind of crazy.” You began. “It feels so contradictory…I feel fat, the fattest I’ve ever been, and gaining so fast…it feels so uncoordinated, like I don’t even know how far my ass sticks out, how big I look in pictures, how long I can walk before needing to take a break…but…” you trail off, eyes focused on something and nothing.

“But?” I started to lean in a little closer.

“But I feel more me than I’ve ever felt. Every pound I put on, every time the scale ticks up and the digits roll up to a new milestone, every new stretch mark and fat roll and button pop and belly grumble…it feels closer to who I really am.” You contentedly, half-consciously drummed your belly as you chuckled to yourself.

“What?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” you half-heartedly replied, biting your lip on reflex.

“C’mon, you just told me how much you love being a fat fucking pig, I think you can tell me.”

You smirked. “It’s stupid, really…I was just thinking about before I started gaining…I’d read those fantasy stories, you know? Those instant gain stories where they blow up all at once? I feel like the body I see in the mirror isn’t that far from the one I always imagined blowing up into.”

“It’s not funny, it’s powerful! You became what you wanted.”

You chuckled again, your belly bouncing from the action. “Nah, what’s funny is that I still want it. Right here, right now, as fat as I’ve gotten? I’d double my weight in a heartbeat.” Your breath quickened from the idea.

I smiled. “You just can’t say no to more, can you.”

The first sign that something was happening was on your waist. Your waistband felt constrictive, maybe it had ridden up or folded over? But you realized it hadn’t felt so tight a moment ago, hadn’t felt so restrictive, hadn’t felt so FUCKING PAINFUL.

“Uhhhhh….I don’t know what’s happening, but I need to…need to…fuck…take ‘em off…” you started mumbling as you panicked.

“Oh, of course! Better get ‘em off before you’re too big to stand.” I said, turning to get a good look.

“Wait…” you huffed, breath increasingly short.

“Better hurry up, big guy, your mobility is waning.”

Already as you began trying to haul yourself up, the mechanics of getting yourself standing were becoming more difficult and unfamiliar. You scooted your ass - was there more ass to scoot? - to the edge of the couch, and rocked yourself into momentum enough to lift upward (a move itself you’d only recently learned) only to find that your ass fat didn’t quite separate from the couch anymore, your knees wobbling from the effort of hefting your weight but not getting enough lift.

You grunted with effort to push yourself, maybe you could brute force it like you used to - only to find a new sensation of the droop of your gut making you feel off balance as you overcorrected too far forward instead. A moment later, there was a SNAP, a RIP, and a sudden relief from the pressure of your waist and thighs tightening from fabric constricting them.

“Oh, looks like you made some room. Might wanna take a load off, fatass, you-“

Before you could even think, your knees gave way and you fell back onto the couch with a large CRACK sound from somewhere within its structure.

‘Wait, wait, stop, slow it down, is this really happening, fuck,’ is what you meant to say, but I heard “w- wait, s-stop…” before you started wheezing for air, not used to the amount of breath debt you earned from the effort of trying to stand.

I looked you up and down to assess your progress. “Whoa, take it easy, big fella. Not done yet.”

Your body was having trouble processing every new sensation happening all at once - your thighs burned with overwork like you were forced to climb several flights of stairs; your dick, oh god, your dick, feeling like it was being pressed into even as it stood at full mast; the heat of your fat thighs touching the expanse of your belly as it increasingly filled your lap; the pockets of sweat and warmth tracing up your sides from rolls folded over on your love handles and where tit fat met arm fat; your fingers, clumsy and puffy; the way your face felt sunk in, so much of your chin brushing against your expanse of chest.

You felt another spot of warmth where my belly was pressing into yours from getting closer…no, that’s not right, I hadn’t moved from my spot since I sat down…but pressed into yours? That wasn’t accurate either.

It wasn’t pressing my belly into you, your belly was pressing into me now.

It was all too much. It was terrifying, chilling, so permanent and real and extreme and excessive.

It was fucking wonderful.

Slowly, you could feel your growth rounding out and slowing down, your brain still catching up to the sensations, the cumbersome bumbling of your ass bumping into something by mistake multiplied by a hundred, a thousand. At once relatable and foreign.

“So how’s it feel? Feel like you enough yet?”