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You stand in front of the mirror, running your fingers absently down the front of your shirt, still tasting the creamy garlic sauce clinging to your tongue from dinner. You’d eaten more than you meant to—again—but your husband had cooked your favorite. How could you resist?

Your stomach feels a little heavy, but nothing unusual. You sigh, rubbing the slight bloat with one hand. The house is quiet. Your reflection stares back at you, familiar, unchanged—until something shifts.

A flicker of warmth blooms in your belly. Subtle at first, like a blush deep under the skin, then spreading fast—hotter, heavier. You blink. Is the room warmer?

Then your shirt twitches.

You freeze.

It’s nothing dramatic, just a soft, slow stretching across your middle. You frown, watching as the fabric that had moments ago hung loosely now clings ever so slightly tighter. Another heartbeat. Then tighter still. You press your hand to your belly and find it—rounder. Firmer. Swelling beneath your touch.

“What the hell…” you whisper, barely breathing.

It doesn’t stop.

Your belly pushes outward in real time, the pressure building as if someone’s slowly inflating you from the inside. You watch in horror as a soft roll forms just beneath your waistband, spilling over it with each passing second. You feel your jeans biting into you—really biting now—your thighs swelling against the denim like overfilled dough.

You stumble back a step, clutching your stomach with both hands. It’s warm. Soft. Heavier than it was even moments ago.

A terrible realization begins to form. Something’s wrong. Something’s happening to you.

And then your eyes widen.

Your arms.

They’re thickening too, puffing slightly with a layer of soft new weight. You raise them and feel the fabric of your sleeves tug uncomfortably against your growing biceps. Your upper arms jiggle with the movement—they never used to jiggle.

You suck in a shaky breath, only to feel your chest press forward, filling your bra more than it had all day. You gasp, watching your reflection as your breasts swell with the rest of you, your neckline dipping lower, roundness threatening to spill over.

Your stomach lets out a loud, wet glorp, and suddenly your waistband gives way with a sharp snap. The top button of your jeans launches across the room, and your belly surges forward into the open space. Round. Soft. Heavy.

“Oh god—” you whisper, hands trembling as you try to cup the bulge, but it’s no use. There’s too much of you now. Your belly is growing faster by the second, overfilling your hands, drooping downward, wobbling with weight it didn’t have just minutes ago.

You grab your shirt, trying to tug it down, but it won’t stretch far enough anymore. It’s halfway up your stomach now, clinging like plastic wrap around your expanding torso. Your hips flare wider, thighs ballooning beneath you, and the seams along your jeans cry out—stressed, breaking.

You can barely think. Your breathing is shallow. Panicked. Your cheeks feel hot—no, not just from fear. They’re… fuller. Rounder. You see it now in the mirror: your jawline softening, a second chin beginning to bloom as your face catches up with the rest of you.

“Please,” you breathe, not even sure who you’re pleading with. Yourself? The mirror? Him?

Your husband.

He cooked dinner tonight.

You gasp again, clutching the wall for balance as another wave hits. It’s like your entire body is pulsing, every beat of your heart pushing more fat onto your frame. Your thighs rub now with every shifting step, denim stretched nearly to splitting. Your belly jiggles with every tiny movement, heavy and pendulous, the lower curve resting against the tops of your thighs.

You feel helpless—trapped in your own skin as it continues to grow. The magic pill he must have slipped you… it’s still working.

You meet your own eyes in the mirror, wild and wide with disbelief.

You’re huge. You’re getting huge. Right before your eyes. Right before his.

And somehow—beneath the panic, the shock, the embarrassment—

You feel something else stirring.

Something you don’t want to name yet.

Something that’s growing just as fast as the rest of you.

You’re still staring at yourself, paralyzed, panting lightly as your overworked clothes cling for dear life. Your belly has ballooned into something obscene, rounded and soft and bouncing faintly with your breath. Your legs feel like overstuffed sausages in denim, your thighs touching in places they never used to. Everything feels foreign—alien and overfull and yours.

You’re so wrapped up in the surreal sight of yourself swelling that you don’t even hear him at first.

Then:

“Oh, wow…”

You whip your head around—too fast. Your face wobbles. Your chin brushes the soft swell of a new double beneath it.

He’s standing in the doorway. Watching.

Your husband.

There’s something in his eyes. Not fear. Not concern. Something warmer. Darker. Almost—proud.

“You—you did this,” you stammer, pointing at your distended stomach. Your voice cracks, half in disbelief, half in fury. “You put something in my food, didn’t you? What the hell is happening to me?”

He doesn’t deny it. He walks slowly toward you instead, calm, composed, like he’s admiring a painting in motion.

“It worked faster than I thought,” he says softly, eyes roaming your rapidly expanding form. “I thought it’d be gradual. But this…” He pauses, gaze settling on the rounded shelf of your belly. “This is incredible.”

You stagger back a step, belly sloshing with the motion, face burning. “I’m huge!” you shout, voice almost shrill. “I don’t even recognize myself!”

You try to tug your shirt back down, but it won’t budge—it’s practically painted onto your bloated form, the hem now hovering far above your navel. Your jeans dig in painfully at the thighs and hips, the zipper holding on by some small miracle.

“I know,” he says, stepping closer. “Look at you. You’re… breathtaking.”

“You drugged me!”

“I helped you,” he replies, voice gentle but firm. “You never let yourself go. You were always worried about control, about calories. I just gave you a little… push.”

Another wave of heat rolls through your body. You groan, clutching your belly as it lurches outward again, visibly rounder even in the space of seconds. Your thighs press tighter, your stance forced wider. A seam at the side of your jeans splits with a loud rrrrip.

He watches it happen. You see his throat bob as he swallows.

You whimper—truly whimper—backing toward the mirror again. You can’t escape it. You’re in it. Becoming it.

“What’s happening to me…” you whisper, voice cracking. Your legs are trembling under the added weight. “I’m still growing. It won’t stop.”

He’s close now, almost within reach. You feel him before you see him—his hands, warm and steady, gently cradling the underside of your belly. Holding the weight you can barely support.

“Twenty minutes,” he murmurs. “That’s all the pill needed. Just twenty minutes to show you who you really are.”

You shudder in his grip. The touch sends something through you—humiliation, horror, heat. You try to pull away, but your body’s too slow now, too heavy.

“I—I can’t walk right,” you mutter, tears stinging your eyes. “I can’t breathe in these clothes.”

“I know,” he whispers, voice laced with something deeper. “You’ll need new ones. Much, much bigger ones.”

You whimper again, helpless, heavy, bursting at the seams.

And when he leans in—presses a kiss to your swollen cheek—you realize he’s not going to stop this.

And deep down, a part of you doesn’t want him to.

His lips leave your cheek, warm and lingering, and you feel your breath hitch in your throat. You’re still growing—barely, now, but enough that the waistband of your jeans feels like a noose around your hips. You shift your weight and wince at the pressure digging into your belly, your thighs straining against the confining denim. Another seam gives out with a sharp rip down the side.

Your hands flutter uselessly at your sides.

“I can’t even get out of these,” you whisper, shame burning behind your eyes. “I’m stuck.”

“Then let me help you,” he says softly.

You should resist. Scream. Demand answers. But you don’t. You stand there, flushed and trembling, as he sinks to his knees in front of you and gently brings his hands to your thighs. His fingers move with surprising reverence, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he handles you too roughly. Which is ridiculous—there’s nothing small about you anymore.

He traces the torn denim with his fingertips before gripping the zipper, now warped and strained. A quick tug and it gives way, bursting open like a dam. Your belly surges forward with a sigh of relief, freed at last. The button’s long gone, but now even the fly peels open, baring the lower swell of your stomach and the beginnings of your overgrown underwear.

“God,” he breathes, more to himself than you. “Look at this belly.”

You close your eyes in shame. But you don’t stop him.

He works the jeans down, inch by inch. It’s not easy. Your thighs resist, soft and heavy, and your calves protest as the fabric peels away. You lift one foot, then the other, wobbling unsteadily as your balance shifts with the movement of your bulk. He steadies you without a word, hands always warm, always firm.

When the jeans are finally off, you hear him exhale softly. You’re left in stretched, overworked underwear—your panties nearly buried between your thighs, waistband folded beneath the curve of your belly, everything riding far too low to be comfortable.

Your shirt is next. You hesitate, instinctively tugging at the hem, but it barely covers your ribs anymore. You glance down at your arms—plumper than ever, dimples and softness in places that used to be firm—and then up at him. He just nods, gently lifting the hem.

The fabric sticks slightly around your chest, now heavier, fuller, pushing out in ways that strain your bra. But he’s patient, guiding it upward over your body, baring inch after inch of pale, soft skin until finally the shirt comes free over your head. He tosses it aside, and there you stand—barely clothed, more exposed than you’ve ever been in front of him, and easily twice the size you were just twenty minutes ago.

You’re panting softly, your hands fluttering over your middle, your hips, your chest, like you can’t decide where to hide. But there’s too much of you now. No matter what you cover, more spills out.

“Come here,” he says gently, stepping back and offering his hand.

You shake your head. “I don’t think I can… move. Not well. I feel so… heavy.”

He only smiles. “Then we’ll go slow.”

It takes effort. Every step is a shuffle. Your thighs rub. Your belly wobbles. Your center of gravity is so different that each movement feels like a negotiation with your own body. But he stays close, one hand at your lower back, the other sometimes guiding under your belly to help you forward, always steady.

He leads you to the bedroom.

The bed looks smaller than usual—or maybe you make it look that way now. You ease yourself down with his help, gasping slightly as your belly pools across your lap, thighs spreading wide. You can’t sit quite the same anymore. You’re bigger in every direction.

And you feel his eyes on you the entire time. Not with judgment.

But with awe.

He steps away for a moment—then returns, holding a digital scale.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I’m not ready—please—”

But he kneels beside you, brushing your cheek with his fingers. “Just once. So we know. Then I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

You hesitate. Swallow. Nod.

Getting up is awkward. He helps. Every wobble, every jiggle is met with quiet admiration. When you finally step onto the scale, your belly hanging slightly, breasts resting on its upper swell, you hold your breath.

The number appears.

And it’s massive.

You gasp.

He exhales, his hand wrapping gently around your side.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice low and reverent. “And this is just the beginning.”

You stare at the number on the scale, your breath shallow, your mind racing. It can’t be real. It can’t be.

But the number glows back at you, undeniable.

You’ve gained over fifty kilos in twenty minutes.

You cover your mouth with both hands, a soft moan escaping—part horror, part awe, part something deeper, darker, harder to name. Your belly trembles slightly as you stand there, wobbling under your own new weight, skin flushed, thighs pressed tight together.

He’s still kneeling beside you, hands at your hips, anchoring you in place.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, gently rising to his feet. “Come. Let’s get you off your feet.”

He guides you back toward the bed, slow and steady, his hands never leaving your skin. You’re starting to feel it now—not just the mass, but the effort of carrying it. Your legs are unsteady, your back aches faintly from the pull of your belly. When you reach the edge of the mattress, you nearly collapse onto it, the springs groaning beneath your added heft.

You lean back on your elbows, breathing heavily. Your belly spreads across your lap like soft dough, your breasts resting on top of it now, their weight undeniable.

“I can’t believe this,” you whisper. “I can’t believe how big I am.”

“I can,” he says simply.

You meet his gaze. There’s no shame in his expression. Just admiration. Hunger. Devotion.

He kneels again, now between your spread thighs. His hands glide over your knees, which now touch when pressed together. He helps you shift further back onto the mattress, then gently nudges your legs open. You let him. You’re too tired to fight it, and too curious to stop.

The way he looks at you…

It’s not just lust.

It’s reverence.

He crawls onto the bed with you, leaning forward, placing a slow, deliberate kiss on the underside of your belly.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to see you like this,” he murmurs against your skin, voice muffled by soft flesh. “Full. Heavy. Glowing.”

“I—I didn’t ask for this,” you protest weakly, but even to your own ears it sounds like you’re grasping. Your body is trembling, but not from fear. His lips move lower, trailing kisses across your stretched skin, hands cupping your hips with care.

“You didn’t have to,” he whispers. “You just needed help letting go.”

You let out a shaky breath. He’s undoing your stretched underwear now, easing it down your hips, over your thighs—moving carefully, slowly, like undressing a precious gift. He kisses your inner thighs, marveling at how plush they’ve become.

“Look at you,” he says softly. “There’s so much more of you now.”

You’re blushing furiously, but you don’t stop him. Your hands drift to your belly, lifting the soft mound slightly just to feel its weight, then letting it fall again. It jiggles. Sloshes faintly. It’s real.

You’re real.

And so much bigger than you were.

Time slips by in a haze.

You don’t know how long you lie there afterward—sprawled across the mattress, your swollen, overstretched body sinking into the sheets, your skin slick with warmth, tingling everywhere he touched. He lies beside you, one arm curled around your waist—what part of it he can reach, anyway—and the other hand gently stroking the underside of your belly, as if still marveling at the size of it.

You breathe slowly. Shallowly. You have to. There’s so much of you now that even lying still feels like work.

You’re naked, exhausted, sticky—and starving.

Your belly lets out a low, insistent grumble.

He chuckles softly beside you. “That didn’t take long.”

“I shouldn’t be hungry,” you mumble. “It hasn’t even been an hour…”

“You burned a lot of energy,” he says, brushing your hair from your cheek. “Your body’s working overtime. Growing like that… it takes fuel.”

You close your eyes. Part of you wants to resist. The other part?

You gave up that fight the second your jeans burst open.

After a few minutes, you make a soft sound and try to sit up. It’s difficult. You feel heavy in ways you never have before—your belly drapes over your lap, breasts wobbling with the effort, thighs too close together to shift easily. You grunt softly, struggling.

“Here,” he says immediately, rising to help you. His hands slide under your arms, lifting with care as you grunt your way upright. Even that little motion leaves you panting. You’re sore, inside and out.

Your old clothes are hopeless. What’s left of your jeans lies in a tattered heap on the floor, your bra stretched out beyond saving. Even your underwear seems to have lost all elasticity.

He disappears for a moment into the closet.

When he returns, he’s holding a shirt—one of his. The biggest one he owns. It used to hang off him like a curtain.

Now, it might barely cover you.

You hesitate, reaching for it. He slips it over your shoulders instead, pulling it gently down your body. It’s soft and smells like him, and even though it’s enormous, it still stretches tight across your belly, hugging your hips, clinging to your chest like it was never meant to fit someone like you.

You sit on the edge of the bed, panting slightly, cradling the swell of your gut. You feel full. Soft. Fed.

Changed.

And then you see it.

On the nightstand.

A small, familiar-looking capsule. Sitting beside a glass of water. Waiting.

You stare at it.

“You left another one?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t answer at first. He kneels down in front of you again, taking your hands gently in his. “I wanted you to see. To feel what it’s like first. To know what you’re saying yes to.”

You swallow. Your heart thuds loud in your ears. You look down at yourself—thighs squished together, belly hanging over the edge of the mattress, shirt riding up your hips already.

You’re enormous.

And you could be bigger.

“Just one more,” he says softly. “No pressure. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it away.”

But he doesn’t move.

You reach for the pill slowly, fingers trembling.

It’s still warm from the light. Waiting. Promise glinting in the smooth curve of it.

You glance back at him. “If I take this one…” You trail off. “Will it do the same thing?”

“Maybe more,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Your body’s used to it now. It might not even take twenty minutes.”

Your belly grumbles again, louder this time. A sharp hunger, as if the first transformation only whet your appetite.

You stare at the pill. Then at him. Then back at your stretched body.

And you pop it into your mouth.

Swallow.

His fingers tighten gently around yours.

“Good girl,” he whispers.

And already, the warmth is blooming in your core again.

You barely have time to set the empty glass back on the nightstand before the warmth returns.

It starts low in your belly, like a coiled ember flaring to life. You inhale sharply and press your hands to your middle, feeling that telltale pressure again—not pain, not exactly. Just the sensation of something swelling, stretching, filling from the inside out.

Only this time, you don’t panic.

You wait.

You watch.

You’re still sitting on the bed in his oversized shirt, the hem resting high on your bare thighs, your body already overgrown, overstimulated, sore from what he’s done to you. The fabric stretches tighter with each passing second. Your belly begins to push further into your lap again, softening, rounding, growing heavier with every slow breath.

“Oh god,” you whisper. “It’s happening again…”

He’s standing in front of you, hands on your knees, eyes locked on your body with reverence. “You’re doing so well,” he says softly, rubbing circles into your plush thighs. “Just breathe through it.”

You moan—helpless, already shifting to make room for yourself. You can feel the fat returning, piling on in slow waves, your skin buzzing with it. Your thighs spread further, belly sliding over them now. The shirt rides up inch by inch, clinging desperately to your swelling frame, the fabric bunching beneath your breasts.

You bite your lip as your hips widen against the bedspread. Your love handles begin to push outward, your backside thickening beneath you with soft, delicious weight. Your arms are heavy now, your upper arms dimpling, the sleeves of the shirt growing tight.

He watches you like a worshipper in church.

“You’re—watching me grow,” you murmur, voice thick.

“Yes,” he breathes. “And you’re letting it happen.”

You nod, dazed. You are. And that’s what makes this different.

You chose this one.

You shift, trying to lift yourself slightly, but you’re already heavier than you were minutes ago. Your belly quivers as it shifts, spreading wider across your lap, pressing against your thighs. Your breath catches as you feel the underside brush the tops of your knees.

“How big…” you ask between gasps, “How big will I get?”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Big enough to forget who you were before. Big enough that you’ll need my help. For everything.”

Your body responds before your mind does—thighs clenching, belly heaving, nipples hard beneath the tightening shirt. Your second chin is thicker now, brushing the top of your chest when you glance down. Your cheeks are round and flushed. You look stuffed, decadent. And you’re still growing.

Another wave hits you, heavier this time. You fall back into the pillows with a whimper, one hand on your belly as it rises higher, firmer, deeper. Your thighs shake. The seams at the sides of the shirt groan in protest.

“I can’t stop,” you gasp. “It’s not slowing down—”

“You don’t need to stop,” he whispers, crawling onto the bed beside you. “You’re beautiful. Every inch. Every pound. You were meant for this.”

You close your eyes and surrender to the feeling—his hands gliding over your newly forming rolls, his fingers sinking into your waist, your hips, your middle as they all bloom under his touch. He lifts the shirt, baring your belly as it swells, warm and flushed and trembling beneath his palms.

And you feel it now—not just the growth, but the power in it. The weight. The surrender. The strange, addictive pleasure of becoming something more than you were.

“I’m getting… so fat,” you moan, voice high and broken.

Your fingers, shimmering with traces of oil and salt, straighten out the party-sized bag of chips you hold. The thin plastic crackles softly as you adjust it, the smell of fried starch and seasoning still clinging to the inside. It’s empty, almost. You bring the top of the bag to your lips and tilt, letting the crumbs and tiny pieces at the bottom cascade into your waiting mouth. You angle the bag higher, neck craning back just enough to make sure nothing is wasted. You shake the bag a bit, encouraging the extra calories to free themselves, to make a new home in your belly, and eventually more pounds on your frame. Not that you need it. But at times it feels like you do.

You set the bag down as you chew, hands now free to fondle the ever-growing mass in your lap. Your palms sink into the soft weight there, and the flesh gives easily, pushing back when you squeeze, your breathing slowing as you focus on the sensation. Your chair creaks faintly as you shift, making room for yourself.

You eye the nutrition facts on the bag, do some quick math in your head, trying to gauge how many calories you’ve added to your daily total, how much fatter you might get as a result. The numbers blur for a moment as your stomach tightens and relaxes under your touch, a deep pressure sitting low and wide inside you. You sigh into your gaming chair, pleased but unsatisfied, somehow. Two subs and a bag of chips later, and you still crave more, despite the fullness. The craving sits alongside the weight in your gut, a persistent pull that doesn’t fade just because you’re stuffed.

The mess before you should be evidence that you’ve eaten enough. The wrappers and crumbs litter your desk, greasy fingerprints on your deskpad, your controller. It somehow makes you glad and sad at the same time, as you typically do after a heavy meal. Glad at your accomplishment, how much fattening, indulgent slop you were able to fit into your fat gut. Sad that the meal is over. Sad that you gave in again.

Your chair leans back further, reclining as your hands trail over your belly and you consider whether you should eat more. Your gut spreads and lifts at the same time, dense beneath your palms, the skin pulled tight enough that you feel it respond immediately to your touch.

‘I’m full…’ you think, and you are. The thought comes matter-of-factly, a simple data point to consider. It lands without judgment, just an observation, like checking a gauge and noting the reading. Your stomach presses outward as you lean back, heavy in a way that’s noticeable but not punishing, fullness sitting solidly instead of sharply.

To anyone else that’d be the end of the matter. What else is there to consider? You’re full, you’ve had your fill, your belly is round and heavy in your lap. But you’re not aching, you’re not pinned to your seat by your own gluttony. You can still breathe comfortably, still move if you want to, even as the fullness makes itself known with every small adjustment.

The question isn’t really whether or not you’re full, it’s how fat you want to be tonight, how much further from healthy you want to make yourself, how much you want to regret it in the morning. The thought carries a sort of anticipatory pull, your fingers pressing more firmly into your belly as if testing how much give there still is, how much more it could take.

Your mind drifts to the myriad of snacks you know wait in the kitchen. Foods that you buy because you crave them, in massive amounts because that turns you on. The memory of stacking them into your cart comes back easily, the way greedy eyes led your choices alongside the physical effort. You’d fantasized about stuffing yourself with them even as you waddled down the aisles of the store. Only to come home, eat a fraction of your haul before you hit a wall, and feel disappointed in yourself. That disappointment settles in your chest as you think about it, your hands pausing on your belly as if weighing the feeling against the fullness already there. Whether the disappointment stems from the limits of your gluttony, or the gluttonous decisions themselves, you’re unsure. Maybe both.

You sit up, letting your belly roll forward between your thighs, greedy in how much space it takes up. The motion forces the weight to spill outward, settling with a slow shift as it claims your lap. Your legs part a little more to make room, fabric pulling where it presses against you.

‘Maybe this is enough,’ you think.

You’ve gained so much over the years, your body steadily growing, expanding until it’s the first thing people notice about you, how fat you are. You love that, but also try to hide it. It was easier when you were smaller, easier physically and mentally, when the changes were subtle enough to stay yours alone.

You indulged, with close to no consequences. None that anyone could see anyway. No one ever saw the massive amounts you’d eat in private, no one ever noticed the small belly that started to form. And you were happy with that, ecstatic even. No one ever saw how aroused those few pounds made you. Some extra padding here, a tiny new roll there, sensations you’d linger over for days or weeks. It was more than enough, at first and for a while.

You remember how it felt then, how each calorie, every meal added a little more softness to your frame, the changes slow enough that they blended into normalcy. You felt yourself getting fatter, sure, in the way your thighs spread a bit more or your chest jiggled a little when you moved. But you didn’t see it. You’d stuff yourself, cum at the feeling of fullness and the few measly pounds you’d gained, then go about your life. Your clothes would still fit, buttons closed, waistbands held, and no one was ever the wiser, comments never came. A private affair.

You reach forward, grabbing the half-empty 2-liter of soda sitting on your desk. The plastic is cool under your fingers, slightly tacky where a stray drip has dried. You lick some salt from your lips as you twist it open, the cap popping loose, and begin to drink. One gulp, then two, and another, the carbonation burning lightly as it slides down into the already packed weight in your gut.

You barely notice as your free hand makes its way to your belly, rubbing slowly as the sugary liquid bloats you even more. The pressure builds, your stomach rounding harder, pushing outward as the soda settles and spreads. A small flicker of arousal spikes as you feel yourself swell, quickly doused by the reminder that you’re trying to maintain, not gain.

Although, “trying” may not be the right word. You haven’t actually changed anything, haven’t even made much of an effort. But you think about it, sometimes. You just need to get to the right weight first. The thought lingers as you keep drinking, each swallow making your belly feel tighter, heavier.

You pull the bottle from your lips and set it down, breathing heavily after your long swig, chest rising against the fullness below. A burp rumbles up almost immediately, escaping before you bother to stop it, low and thick. It somehow makes you feel fatter, more overfilled, and reminds you of how much of a pig you are.

Your hand still rests on the bottle as the other gives your belly a jiggle, the mass wobbling under your palm, heavy enough to lag behind the motion. The movement makes your t-shirt ride up a little, exposing the curve and the way it hangs forward. There’s no missing the thing, your gut. Your shirt fits fine, in the sense that you’re covered, but it still clings to the mound, stretched smooth across it, and you wonder if you’ll outgrow this shirt too.

The thought makes you pick the bottle back up, drink a little greedier as your hands fondle your middle a little rougher. The soda sloshes as you tilt it higher, carbonation rushing into the tight space inside you. Your fingers dig in, kneading and shaking, and you moan softly as you feel your mass jiggle and quiver under your touch. A shake of your belly sends ripples upward, the movement carrying through your chest. That motion creeps higher, tugging at your double… triple chin as the weight shifts and settles again.

‘Just one big mass of fat,’ you think to yourself. Bigger than yesterday, smaller than tomorrow. The certainty of it makes you drink faster, swallowing without pause, the idea that your gain is inevitable.

You know your gain is entirely self-inflicted, even now, as you consume more calories than your body needs. But at times it feels as though you have no part in it at all, like your body is simply carrying on without your express permission. Even at times when you aren’t so greedy, when this fetish doesn’t consume you so completely, you still seem to grow. The weight increases and stays, clinging to you whether you want it to or not, whether you’re trying or not.

Or perhaps you’re just delusional, so accustomed to eating so much that restraint still results in excess.

You lean back in your chair, resigning yourself to finish the bottle, because why not. The angle forces your belly higher, and you have to stifle a burp as you continue to chug, throat tight around the constant flow, unwilling to pause and break it.

Your hand leaves your belly and moves to your chest, grabbing one of the mounds, fingers squeezing as you try to reignite the glimmer of arousal you felt earlier. It doesn’t take much these days. Or maybe it does. The hundreds of pounds you carry everywhere, the fullness of food you feel constantly, the knowledge that you’re not yet as fat as you will be, they all add up to feelings and sensations that take more effort to suppress than they do to summon.

You suck down the last of the soda and let the empty bottle drop onto your desk. It hits with a hollow clatter and rolls slightly before settling, forgotten. Your hands grasp your belly as it heaves with every heavy breath, tight and uncomfortable from the fullness.

You moan as you try to gently rub and jostle it, slow circles at first, then firmer pressure, coaxing the trapped weight to shift. The mass sloshes and resists until finally a long, drawn-out burp slips out of you, loud and uncontrolled. The sound seems to come from deep inside, pulled loose by the pressure. You sigh at the end of it, shoulders sinking as you take in the small bit of relief it gives you, but the discomfort stays, dense and present.

“Ughhh,” the strained groan slips out, carrying both satisfaction and the ache of having had too much. The waistband of your shorts suddenly feels too tight, the confines of your chair suddenly too small. And still… your thoughts drift back to the snacks. To the idea of pushing it a little further. A snack cake, or some cookies maybe. Your thoughts are modest, but you know the reality will be much worse, much more.

‘Just a little more,’ you think. You downplay it on purpose, making it sound reasonable. It’s hotter that way. So that when the inevitable spiral comes, you can really feel it, can relish in just how much control you’ve lost.

It’s hard not to let that thought excite you, especially knowing—or believing—that this lifestyle won’t last forever. That someday you’ll have to stop and rein it in a bit. But you can feel it starting now, those increasingly frequent moments where you’re constantly hungry, wanting more, eating until excess every night.

Moments that stretch on, hours or months at a time, leaving you with new habits and new pounds every time they finally pass. When every thought, positive or negative, seems to push you toward food. When you just can’t seem to get enough.

This is one of those days.

Now if you could just find the energy to get up.

You reach for your phone and open social media. The last thing you need is motivation to eat more, and yet that’s exactly what you’re looking for. The screen lights up your face as you scroll, thumb moving slowly, deliberately. Post after post slides by. Feedees showing off their gains, soft bellies pushed forward, bodies heavier than they were weeks or months ago. Feeders tempting with their bodies and food, curves, plates, captions meant to linger. Each image makes the weight in your gut feel more present, more demanding.

You keep scrolling until you come across a text post that makes you stop. It feels too specific, too well-timed, like it’s meant for you alone:

“What a fat mess you’ve turned into, sitting there all full and spent. I bet you’re already thinking about what your next meal will be, you fat fuck. What are you waiting for? Is a stuffed gut really enough to keep you from eating a little more? Don’t you want to feel the heavy, dragging weight of your own greed weighing you down? Don’t you want the satisfaction of knowing you’ve eaten enough for three, four, maybe five people today? All those greasy carb-filled, fat-heavy, sugar-drenched foods are just waiting begging for the opportunity to be gorged upon, to slip you into a food coma, to make you fatter come morning. Go chug something, tubby.”

You read the post again. Then again. The last line lingers longer than the rest. Go chug something.

Your gaze drifts from your phone to the empty bottle of soda on your desk. You’d chug more if you had it. You try to recall the contents of the fridge, mentally scanning the shelves through the fog of fullness. There’s nothing left to bloat with. Nothing except a quart of heavy cream.

The thought hits you hard. A pleasurable surge rolls through you at the image of it, thick and caloric, poured straight into you. Chugging something so rich, so fattening, in one go. On top of everything you’ve eaten today. On top of the snacks you’re still planning on filling yourself with. Your stomach feels heavier just thinking about it, your body reacting before you even move.

It’s exactly what this body needs.

You brace your hands on the armrests of your chair and force yourself up. The effort pulls a grunt out of you as the chair protests beneath your weight, and another burp comes tumbling out as you straighten. Your belly drags downward with gravity the moment you’re upright, the weight of it tugging at your spine.

The hem of your shirt has ridden up even more, bunched under your chest, but you leave it be. The exposed curve of your gut hangs heavy, the skin faintly flushed, and the sight of it makes your pulse thrum a little harder. You like seeing it like this. You like feeling it pull and sway without anything in the way. You like how fat it makes you feel.

Your walk is closer to a waddle as you make your way to the kitchen, thighs chafing with each step, belly swaying side to side in front of you, every step requiring more effort than it should. The burden of your obesity. Your breath quickens quickly, shallow and labored. A few steps in and you’re already tired, the food packed into your gut making it harder to draw deep breaths, harder to move with any real speed.

But there’s food to be eaten. Cream to be chugged. Addictions to be fed. So you waddle on.

Part of a commissioned piece, full story on Patreon.

I wish I was straddling you and your thick belly right now... I wish I was teasing you, sliding my hands along your jiggly flab and sliding along your cock with my soaking wet pussy lips, asking you if you're hungry... because I woke up and can't fall back to sleep until I know you're going to wake up fatter.

I want to feel your cock twitching beneath me, aching to be inside me, but you know theres a 2,000 calorie entry fee...

so you're going to have to tap into your bedside oreo reserve and I'll bring out some heavy cream and we'll have ourselves a sleepy milk and cookies stuffing. You'll already be in a haze, not fully awake but still fully eager to eat and fuck in this dreamy state.

You'll feel me completely coating your cock with my wetness as I shove oreo after oreo past your piggy lips, my dripping pussy lips sliding along the underside of your throbbing cock. Sometimes I tease the tip a bit, grinding on it, parting my lips ever so slightly, pretending like I might let you slide in early, only to giggle pull away and slide more cookies in your moaning mouth instead.

You'll get more and more greedy the more I tease you... youll be able to feel my pussy pulsing even from the outside and you'll want nothing more than to have your dick buried deep inside me, so you'll eat faster... so fast you might even accidentally overachieve and eat an extra 500 calories because you're so lost in how good it feels just to ache for me, knowing it won't be long before you have me. You love the feeling of being a stuffed pig so much that eating can put you in a blissful trance, especially when youre this sleepy and horny and desperate to please me. You don't even realize how much you're eating, you're just following the pleasure in front of you.

And then when you do finish your 3,000 calories(lol oops! how did that happen?) I dont want you moving, I want you lying down so I can use you for my own enjoyment. You're my big, fat, overfed toy just here for my pleasure, to help me fall back asleep and then you can fall into your second food coma of the day (your 1am funneling was the first one before this 5am binge).

I want to feel your wobbly belly undeath me and your eager hands all over my body, squeezing my fat ass while I jiggle your tits. I want to hear you gasp while I slide onto you, feeling you spread me apart while I continue to shove more cookies in your mouth just to make sure I'm training you well, so every time you eat you think of this, you think of my pussy sliding on to your aching cock, giving you some relief while also somehow making you even hungrier.

I'll let you finish once we get another 500 calories in you, but I'll take my time, I'll make sure you enjoy every bite and beg for more. I'll keep you right on that edge of cumming where you completely lose track of time, where your body feels electric, where you almost feel high just from the feeling of my pussy squeezing you every time you moan and beg to be filled even more, making you more ravenous and eat even more like a pathetic piggy.

We'll feel completely intertwined, my desires taking over your entire being, making you twitch and shake involuntarily, making you lose control of your body to me, making you my piggy puppet... you, your appetite, your flab, your greedy mind, your cum, those all belong to me and only when you fully feel that loss of control (and once you've consumed enough calories to add another pound of blubber to your softening, former fit boy body so I can rest easy knowing there will be more of you to play with in the morning) once I can tell you've completely lost yourself to me, thats when I'll let you cum, exploding inside me and feeling that release throughout your entire body, each wave of pleasure extended by the rippling of your flab throughout your pudgy body.

1000%, yes. it’s always been hot to be degraded because i love it so much, but the mental transformation/ruination has been sooo real. i can’t think of a specific moment, but when i was approaching 250 lbs a flip really switched once i realized i was actually doing the thing i thought about so often.

Feedee Edition!

Roll a d20 to get your challenge for the day

Original poster cute-feedism-things

1. Breakfast stuffing: get a dozen donuts and eat every last one (if it's Krispy Kreme make it 18). 

2. Worth the weight: hop on the scale and take a picture of the number. Do it again at the end of the day. Share the results (and impress whoever you share it with)

3. Moisturize Me: get comfy, get naked, and get in touch with your body as you slowly lotion every inch of yourself.

4.Consequences: for every 200 steps you take today you need to eat 1000 calories. Be mindful of how much you're moving your body.

5. Planks: set a timer for 3 minutes and get in plank position. Every time you have to pause the timer for a break is another 500 calories you need to eat today (make it 1000 if you're under 200 pounds). 

6. Pizza party: get a large pizza and finish the whole thing (make it 2 if you get thin crust)

7.Low Hanging Fruit: Get on all fours and take a picture. Show someone how low your belly is hanging these days.

8. Self care day: get comfy and surround yourself with your favorite snacks. Relax today and graze while doing all your favorite low effort activities.

9. Probable pounds: Roll 2d4. You need to weigh that much more (in pounds) before you stop eating tonight.

10. Empty calories: get at least 2500 calories from drinks today (you're probably going to want a milkshake or 2).

11. Extra large thighs… I mean fries: treat yourself to your favorite fast food and make sure it's over 5000 calories (it's okay if that means you need to treat yourself for 2 meals, you deserve it)

12. Find your max: count calories and stuff yourself until you physically can't anymore. That's your max. If you've already done this once, make sure to beat your last score.

13. Quiet contemplation: turn off all media and set a timer for 10 minutes. I want you to lay down, get comfy, close your eyes and just spend this time exploring your body. Has it gotten bigger? Softer? Where do you feel most sensitive?

14. Touch yourself while you stuff yourself: get in touch with your hedonistic side by masturbating while you eat. Don't cum until you've had at least 2000 calories.

15. The best shape you'll ever be in: do as many situps or pushups (your choice) as you can. Subtract that number from 20 and then multiply by 500. That's your calorie goal for today (if it's a negative, multiply by -1 and add 2000 calories)

16.Just Desserts: in addition to your normal meals today, you're going to eat at least 2500 calories of desserts. 

17. Cupcake game: find your favorite piece of feedist porn/fic/etc. Every time you start getting turned on, eat a cupcake. No touching yourself until you've finished all of them. (This works best with longer stories/videos)

18.This still fits: put on your tightest clothes that still “fit” (you can actually get them on your body) and take a picture from whatever angle makes you look fattest. Post it if you feel comfy or share with someone privately.

19. It's about the process: cook your favorite recipe and eat the whole thing for one meal. The dishes can be future-you’s problem. Just enjoy yourself for now.

20. Double trouble: Roll 2 more times and do both!

Let the games begin