#cwntext

Picture being toyed with like that, a hand gripping your lower belly and teasing you for how much you've let yourself go. In a quick motion, there's a finger in your belly button that seems to control your entire belly's movement. You're still jiggling, even when this full.

Your shirt doesn't cover everything as easily, especially whilst your leaning back. You need the room. Your legs are spread wide, the fat on each leg being just as widened out. The waistband gets lowered under your belly, the sheer weight of it now fully showing. Your belly sits over and in between your legs amd each prodding squeeze seems to ripple throughout your entire body.

You move just a little, attempting to see the damage yourself. You check your sides, the expanse of each hip bulging from the waistband. There's softened love handles there, ones that almost blend into your fattened sides and heft of your rolls.

You're toyed with like that, hands slipping over each thigh and squeezing feverishly. You can't help but whine, maybe feign protest, but you'll continue to give sad eyes whenever you aren't being touched. There's a sweet spot somewhere on your belly, a certain motion helping you to get some of the air out. You still feel just as useless, but there's an undeniable sense of relief. You have enough energy to breath now, albeit heavy and belated a certain points. It gets interrupted with each touch, your lips aching to cut yourself off from sounding too eager.

Your sides recieve a squeeze in unison, fingers pressing into the skin and rolls where they can. There's a massage like motion, the kind that makes your back arch and causes you to relax for just a few seconds. Your chest gets the same treatment, cupped into either hand carefully before squeezing with a telling firmness.

Whilst leaning back, you understand the gravity of the situation. You understand your own weight, or at least accept it. It's not as easy as it used to be, but it's so doable. You're aching for some kind of stimulation, even if you don't think you've got it in you to truly do much about it. You need something.

So, you eat. You play with the nearest thing you can, something that's far easier to pleasure yourself with. You play with the weight of your belly, lifting it up and letting it fall onto your thighs, sinking in between them and completely covering any sight of what sits beneath. You're almost certain there's a jiggle there too, but you can't exactly see. You can only try again and again, shaking your own belly in hopes that the jiggle passes through your body in the right way to hit the spot.

The sight you see helps, your belly pushed out enough to where you've lost the sight of your own belly button. Your chest is spread, widened out and weighing you down on either side, pressed against plush arms and making the movement arousingly tedious.

Your second chin sits against your collar bone. It's something you can't see like the rest of you but you certainly feel it every time you move your face or part your lips to eat something. There's a lot you can't see, but you can certainly feel it. The way your thighs touch, spread wide as you lay on the sunken bed. You've really started to weigh everything down and when you move, if done abruptly enough, the bed moves with you. There's a sound to it, the specific kind that would make people think you're having sex and simply not just playing with your belly in an overzealous fashion.

It starts with pushing the urge away, falling coy at the mention of general weight gain. Maybe a friend mentions it, talking about how their two week vacation has left them ten pounds heavier. You consider for a brief moment that it could be you.

The same happens again where a friend mentions their clothes getting tighter. You consider how you would feel in their shoes and how you wouldn't be able to announce it so freely. It would feel strange. Personal. It would simply be too much for you to admit.

It's definitely not something you want, but you allow yourself to fantasise about it eventually. It entertains you, until one day, you accept that it excites you. There's something about the idea of it, about gaining weight and the process of it all. You can only picture it for now.

But then you fill yourself up during meals. It's for comfort at first and perhaps the first few pounds go unnoticed. But then your clothes are tighter and those fantasies seem almost real. Obviously, it's not the same, but it's a glimpse into all those thoughts you once rejected, slowly accepted and eventually pursued, albeit subconsciously.

There's a battle that follows. You lose some weight, you gain it back. You're pudgy and you can't seem to shift it. No big deal. It happens. It's embarrassing to think that it happened so suddenly, but you let it slide. It's not too noticeable and you've already accepted that it pleases you.

Yet there's many opportunities to worsen it. Your portions are easily added to. Your usual order turns from one burger to two, whereas before it had only been for special occasions. You assume it won't do much. You've already started wearing bigger clothes since the gain. You figure it won't get much worse. You're used to seeing your weight budge.

But you ignore the number. It doesn't matter. There's an element of denial in you, even when you're sat rubbing over the taut evidence that seems to actually sit in your lap now. It's something you're used to. Your belly sits in your lap like it has done for a while, but not forever. Perhaps you've forgotten what being skinny is like and only when you're seeking pleasure, you remind yourself of it.

Only when you're seeking pleasure did you actually consider making it worse on purpose.

But then you had seconds thoughts. You wouldn't know how to truly accept it. You wouldn't know how to stop yourself, perhaps. Ironically, that was one of the exciting factors of it. Even more ironically, that only became arousing when you truly felt the fear that came from the little taste of what that may actually look like.

It takes time. Endorsement, even. Someone comes along and changes it. Before, when you stared at your larger portion, you called it such. You recognised it as large. Now, you don't even think about it. This is simply your portion.

You realise how big it is when you go out to eat. Restaurants don't usually serve enough to fully sate you, but you have room for dessert at least. Then something else. There's something perverse about it and surely there shouldn't be.

You spend time considering changes, in the same way as you had done so before. You used to consider eating a little more, now you consider eating a little less. Just like before, it remains a thought.

You want to eat more. As you had fantasised, you feel as if there isn't a choice. You're conditioned to be full. You're accustomed to eating what sates you completely. You're reassured and endorsed in these habits, enough for others to comment on it.

At first, it's embarrassing. You've noticed by now. You've gained enough weight to have doubled what you used to be. You can hardly recall what it's like fitting into clothes they sell in most stores. You can't remember the last time you didn't need to eye up furniture with at least a little concern.

You haven't broken anything– yet, you think. You're aware that the thought alone is concerning. It makes space for your fantasy to spiral. It's already gotten worse. You're at a size where people have noticed it. They've witnessed it.

Suddenly, that's your thing. People come to you when they want to know what tastes good. They make space for you in the largest seat available and typically, you get the passenger seat in the car. It's a silent acknowledgement that you're fat now. Actually fat.

You can't consider going back. You try, obviously, but you give up. This is who you are now. You're simply like this. You can only look upon people who used to be your size and pity them. They don't know the comfort of eating a good meal. All those stares that used to make you anxious? They excite you now. It's encouraging. You're open about it.

You're hired as a personal cleaner.

You were well known in local area. At first, your name was tossed around with praise. You were dutiful, seeking approval and doing the best you could.

Then you came in contact with someone a little far from town. You wouldn't usually agree, but you do when persuaded by extra money and a little sweet talk. Apparently, they're aching to meet you.

So, you meet. You clean. Easy enough.

You're handed a bag of treats in the name of generosity and good faith. You don't like to decline and truthfully, there's no reason to. Whatever was in that bag, alongside kind, encouraging gestures and more money; you're more than inclined to come back.

This time, small talk is made. You're asked about your work, the neighbourhood you live in and your hobbies on the side. You share what there is to know, that you're merely like everyone else trying to make a good living. Your appearance is praised. It isn't anything vulgar or suggestive, rather, your smile is sweet and your presence is welcoming. Like before, you're handed a bag of treats in thanks.

That's more than before. Feeling daring, are we? You make a lot of noise when you're enjoying yourself. Mostly when you're alone, but even elsewhere too. You've picked a habit, didn't you notice?

You're getting messy again. Don't clean yourself. We're alone. There's no reason to act all polite when you're enjoying yourself.

There's denial on one end and delusion on the other. They'll talk about themselves as they aim to be, describing small bits of pudge as handfuls of fat. It's not there yet but it will be. In a public setting, they're barely chubby, yet they're already doing all they can to make themselves as fat as possible. They're eager. It's that eagerness that let's people fall head first into something like this.

I need you unrecognisable, waist twice the size and your previous outline nowhere to be seen. You sink into every seat, taking up far more space than before and creaking every chair loud enough to bring attention to you.

I need you to blow up at an ungodly rate, at a pace people can't even digest. You get carried away, no matter the place, a complete slave to your own indulgence and making an absolute scene every time eating is involved.

I need everyone to know how insatiable you are. You show people how much you've changed, what my influence has done to you. I don't even need to say anything, the way you eat and how much you eat says it all.

I need you lazy, breathing far too heavily as you mutter something about activities like this being easy only a few months back. You're blind to how much you've gained, embarrassed at how fast you've grown. You can't help but underestimate your own presence, knocking into things and squeezing into clothes that only fit sincerely well a while ago.

You've gone too far. Your figure says it all. Fat is your main descriptor. People talk about you and the first thing they mention is how insane the difference is, how much you've grown and how blinding it is to see how fat you've gotten within such a time.