literally just kink

You blushed hard. It fit you with ample room to spare. Your feeder knew you, even if you hadn't explored the full range of each other's limits yet—they knew a little bit of humiliation got you hot, made your stomach knot guiltily. It would be your first time going out in something this obviously fetishitic, but you weren't going to tap out. You were only a little chubby, 60 pounds overweight, max. You weren't going to get any bigger without a feeder, and you looked forward to doing it with this one, softly, sweetly, plumping up in the comfort of a supportive relationship.

The night started out exactly as you pictured. They picked you up and complimented your outfit—you put on a pair of bike shorts underneath the muumuu, just for comfort, but the muumuu reached down nearly to your knees. They held the door at the restaurantc they put a hand on your back to guide you to your table. The hostess did a double take at your muumuu but put on a professional smile. The momentary flash of shame only primed you for your feeder's insistence that they get your plate for you. You nodded, a little shyly: this was what you'd been waiting for, someone to tell you what to eat and how much, and watch you stuff your face and bloat up while doing it.

They came back a few minutes later with a plate piled high—greasy sliders and mounds of potato salad and chicken wings, almost obscuring two mammoth slices of pizza—along with a salad bowl full of vanilla soft serve.

It was more calories than the normal person age in the course of two days. You ate and took satisfaction in eating, rubbing your stomach discreetly under the table whenever things got a little tight. You'd been stuffing yourself at home, occasionally, but this was something else entirely. Your feeder picked at a salad but mostly just watched you stuff your face, your cheeks bulging with food and your breathing getting thick. Unusually thick, you felt, but then again—you were new to this, pigging out so hugely, and in public.

You interspersed huge spoonfuls of soft serve with bites of food, imagining it soothed your stomach. Far from it, but you didn't know that yet. As the food on your plate dwindled, more and more you just wanted the ice cream. It was melting, and soft to begin with, and the second you finished your food, you shocked yourself by tipping the bowl back and just drinking the sweet slurry inside. You felt it run down the sides of your mouth but could hardly stop yourself. Even though you were so full you'd were almost gasping—no, that wasn't the word. You were snorting. You finished the ice cream and snuffled after the residue clinging to the bowl, snorting while you licked it clean.

You set it down, breathing hard. You blinked at your feeder, who watched you with an almost sly satisfaction in their expression.

"What's— Snnrt— What's happening to me?" Real fear coursed through you now, alongside a kind of bottomless ache, a need to be so full you couldn't move, or speak, so full you could only flop down on your side.

"Why don't I get you another plate, first?" They said.

You couldn't argue: it was what you wanted after all. They came back with several plates—they'd gotten a tray from somewhere—more of everything from the first round, plus piles of mashed potatoes drowning in gravy, salisbury steak, glistening, fatty macaroni and cheese, full cups of ranch, two huge slices of cake and another bowl of ice cream.

You whimpered and tucked in, even though your gut was tight under your loose muumuu. You ate so fat you thought you'd choke. You straight up drank the cups of ranch. You could feel food on your face and didn't have it in you to care, or even slow down. You ate the cake slices barehanded, and stuck your head in the bowl of ice cream to suck it down. You had the sense people were looking at you, even heard them whispering: oh my god, what is that person doing? What a nasty fucking slob! But you carried on, powerless before your own urges.

You recognized the noises you were making better now. You were oinking. Oinking as you gulped down a pitcher of soda. You slapped a hand over your mouth as you burped, too loud and sloppy to be stifled, and then you felt your nose: wide and flat and unmistakably changed. You felt the top of your head, where there'd been a sort of itching that you'd ignored in favor of glutting yourself. Two floppy ears had sprouted there.

"What—? OIIIIINK. What did—?"

Your feeder smiled at you. "Feels good right? I knew it would." They pulled something out of their pocket, a vial, and shook it to show you it was empty. "Just a little something for your inhibitions."

You groaned, and snorted, and look down at yourself. The parachute-like garment you'd put on at the beginning of the night was getting tighter. No, you were getting fatter. Shockingly fat, and fast. You wanted to leave. You wanted to find a way out of this mess you'd gotten yourself into. You wanted to eat your way through everything in the restaurant, suck the ice cream out of the machine and guzzle the grease from the fryers. You were instiable, and your feeder knew it.

They got you another tray, then another. You ate through it mindlessly, gorging and oinking and burping. People were still talking about you. Look at that fat fucking pig! Look how disgusting! Porkers like that should stay home, not make the rest of us look at them!