#gainerfiction

You know you’ve gotten fatter by the way your thighs get so warm from your belly resting on them for too long. This wasn’t a problem back when you had a lap — which I suppose you technically still do, but it’s so thoroughly buried by that sack of blubber hanging off your midsection that it doesn’t really count anymore. You have to lift that thick flab roll any time you want to let your thighs and fatpad cool off, and you notice that’s getting harder and harder to do by the day.

You know you’ve gotten fatter by the way you get out of breath by the end of your walk to the bus now. It’s not that far — a few dozen steps to the end of your street — but by the end of it, you’re having to work to get your breaths in and out, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks and the perspiration beginning to seep out under your arm fat and down your back rolls. The hunger, too, is telling; the sugary treat you used to save for your first cup of coffee at work now disappears by the second stop, a sacrifice to the rumbling in your stomach that inevitably follows this briefest of workouts. The crumbs of sugar and pastry, and sometimes daubs of icing, trickle down over the rolls and belly filling your lap and spilling over into the necessarily empty seat next to you. None of your fellow riders are surprised to see them there.

You know you’ve gotten fatter when you go to stand up from your office chair, and the chair comes with you. You’d tried to ignore all the splitting seams, the periodic blowouts in your pants seat, the groaning chairs, the growing inertia of all the weight sloshing around on your rump. But ignoring it is no longer an option, not now that you have to squeeze yourself out from between the armrests of this XL roller. Your hips and ass may not be the widest part of you, but there’s no disguising the state you’re in now that they’re bigger around than even most beer bellies. You’re not gracefully squeezing past anyone on the way to the lunchroom — they’re getting out of your way, fast.

You know you’ve gotten fatter when clothes that can fully cover your body simply don’t exist anymore. When your thigh rolls bulge and sag out of the biggest pair of shorts you can find, tumbling over one another in a shapeless cascade past where your knees would be, if you could still point them out. When you have to cut the sleeves off of your 8XL tee to make room for your massive doughball arms and the sideboob rolls that hang over what’s left of the seam. When your belly hangs too low and wobbles too much with every minor movement to stay covered by your circus tent of an outfit. On the rare occasions when you still go out, you can’t help but put on a mutually unwanted show for everyone in the vicinity, who try with greater or lesser success to hide how horrified they are at the sight of your unmanageable obesity. Fortunately, there are plenty of chasers and feeders out there happy to fill in for you on the grocery or takeout run.

You know you’ve gotten fatter when you can’t even manage to shuffle into the shower without getting stuck. You always thought the shower seat you started using, once it became impossible to hold your shameful bulk up for the pathetically short duration of a shower, was going to be the failure point. Instead, it’s the cold, rigid stainless steel of the shower doorframe pinching the unreachable extremity of your belly on one side and the stacks of lard-filled back rolls on the other. You can already feel the burn in your leg muscles, underneath the shapeless lumps of fat disguising them as useable extremities, that tells you you’re rapidly reaching your limit for physical exertion. The same burning spreads to your overworked lungs, fighting against the weight of your blubber-packed tits to keep you breathing, as you struggle in vain to get yourself free. Good thing your feeder is there to extract you and bring you a couple dozen cookies to help you calm down.

You know you’ve gotten fatter when the slight pressure of your feeder’s touch against your blubbery chest is enough to make getting up from the couch impossible. You can still just throw your weight forward with enough force to tip forward onto your feet, pushing your hundreds of excess pounds up from a squat until you’re in a standing position. But not when he doesn’t want you to. It takes you so much effort, fighting against the flab smothering your body, that his halfhearted push is enough to send you rolling backward, out of breath and stuck in your divot on the couch. The perfect spot for him to caress your triple chins as he feeds you something greasy and fatty and soporific enough that you can’t even consider trying to get up again. You were probably too big to try it in the first place anyway, or so you try to convince yourself.

I love writing about positive, supportive male couples who embrace the joys of gaining, feeding, encouraging, stuffing, and belly play. I don’t write about force-feeding (unless it’s consensual) or revenge fattening. I read those kinds of stories sometimes, but as a writer, I want to explore the healthier sides to gaining.

I find fat beautiful, so I kind of get lost in describing it sometimes. I love the sheer variety of plus-sized body types, so I try to reflect that in my stories. Not every fat guy is destined to grow a big, round beer gut (although those are great, of course).

I typically stay away from magical plots or instant weight gain. That usually doesn’t do it for me.

I will never use AI in my writing. I like creating these stories myself. (I have a day job as a full-time writer/editor, so this stuff is sort of a release for me.)

I try to be realistic with how quickly my characters gain, but sometimes I get a little ahead of myself and stretch reality. Just go with it.

I've started to publish some of these stories as ebooks. They will always be available for free on Tumblr, but one of my goals in life is to make gainer fiction more accepted in the literary world. We need to get more of this stuff out there. I don't expect gainer fiction to ever become mainstream, but there's no reason why it isn't as mainstream as, say, werewolf shifter erotica or other niche subgenres.

Probably not important, but I'm a redhead, so if you're wondering why there's an overrepresentation of red-haired characters in my stories, now you know.

I’m a gainer in my personal life, but I’m terrible at it. I always get up to about 210 or so and then chicken out. These stories are a way to help me process some of those feelings so that I can eventually have the confidence to keep going. We’ll see. (196 as of today!)

Ohh, the cashier at the last place really got to you, huh? Yeah, they don’t usually play along like he did when I try to fuck with them. It’s always funny to see how uncomfortable they get when I talk about how big you’re getting, how hard it is for you to get around when you’re fat enough to take up the entire backseat of a car, how all this fast food is the last thing in the world you need but I keep getting it for you anyway. But not him, though. He was ready to give you a lecture about what all these processed foods — the ones loaded with saturated fats and sugars and sodium — are doing to your body. Called you a fatass right to your face! From the drive thru window! Man, I wish I’d recorded it; your fans would have loved to see that, you getting redder and redder from blushing, shifting your flab around while he went on about diabetes and heart disease and fat, lazy customers.

You’ve got to admit there’s something to what he was saying, though. I mean, you didn’t used to have to take a break just getting into the car. It hasn’t been easy for you for a while now, but to already be out of breath and panting like a dog by the time you’ve barely gotten to the car, sitting on the edge of the backseat with your fat filling up the door frame? It’s obvious you’ve gotten a lot heavier and a lot more out of shape, really damn fast. You had to spend a good five minutes with one huge blubber-packed leg and a good foot and a half of belly and side roll hanging out of the car before you were ready to start scooting those hundreds of pounds into the middle of the seat. With all the rocking and jiggling and wobbling you had to do, I wasn’t sure what was going to give out first: you, or the suspension. I’m not looking forward to trying to get your fat ass out when we get back home, not after you’ve stuffed ten or fifteen thousand calories’ worth of greasy junk into your bloated gut.

It has to be obvious to you how you’re steadily ruining yourself. Wrecking your body. Sabotaging any chance you might have left of living a normal life. If you had even a little self-control, you could probably level off your gains here, come up with some kind of a fitness routine that even a fat cow like you could manage, and start getting back down to just being regular fat instead of reality-tv fat. But you can’t resist it, can you? However unsettled someone like that cashier makes you, however much they might make you stop and think about what you’re really doing to yourself, you’re going to have me drive us through our usual date night cycle of fast food, aren’t you? You’re going to stuff burgers and tacos and fried chicken and ice cream and donuts and chips and candy bars into that blubbery sack of fat in your lap, and wash it all down with sodas and milkshakes and slushies until you look like a tick ready to pop and you’re barely coherent anymore. And then I get to have my real fun.

So you may as well make your peace with all this. Know that you’re not going to be able to make your future anything more than an endless round of trips through the drive-thru until, finally, you’re too porked-up even to get hauled around for that anymore. Until you’re almost unrecognizable as a person under a belly that’s heavier than most people. Until your arms and legs are so heavy with lard and bloated by your indulgence that you can barely lift them without help, let alone use them. Until there’s not a car left anywhere that’s wide enough for you to cram your dump-truck ass into. Until just sitting upright and staying awake is a workout that leaves you out of breath.

That’s when the food will start coming to you. I’ll miss our little outings like this, but having a date night at home will be a different kind of fun. The endless parade of delivery drivers, showing up every half-hour or so with enough from your favorite fast-food stops to feed a small party. I’ll be there to help you through the food coma, keep you focused and eating, even as you can feel the grease starting to flood your arteries and your breathing slow and your eyelids droop. Giving you all the stimulation you need to keep choking down more garbage and make it that much more impossible for you to do anything on your own again. Isn’t that what dates are supposed to be for anyway? Bringing you closer together as a couple? I don’t know about you, but I think it’s romantic.

I pull out my phone and order from Dr. Wok’s Chinese Restaurant. I’m so hungry that I get a lot more than I can possibly eat. Then I sit there in angry silence as I wait for the delivery guy. I grab the remote and change it to some documentary. (I’m in the mood for anything except cartoons.) You don’t even notice.

Finally, the food comes. The delivery guy is a muscly redhead. Pretty handsome, actually. I flirt a little, and he flirts back…

Until he notices your shirtless body on the couch. That’s the other annoying thing about you. Despite all your late-night munchies, you’re so much better looking than me. I’m not ugly or anything. Just average. A little gawky. But you’re tanned and muscled. You have this relaxed surfer vibe that I just can’t compete with.

I give the guy his tip. (It would’ve been more if I hadn’t caught him ogling you.) Then I bring my bags of food back to the coffee table.

“Dude!” you say. “That smells amazing.”

“You already ate,” I mutter.

I usually eat in the dining room, but I think part of me wants you to smell my food. I know Chinese is your favorite. I guess I’m being petty, but whatever. You won’t remember in the morning.

I open the Beijing beef (my favorite) and eat directly from the box. It takes me two bites to notice that you’re full-on staring. Drooling, too. “Nope,” I say. “All mine.”

“Okay,” you mutter.

You try to watch the documentary, but you’re not following it. (Maybe I subconsciously chose something boring just to punish you. I’m not really into it, either.)

A few minutes later, you grab a box of orange chicken and start eating with your hands. I can tell by your expression that you love the taste. I can also tell that you don’t even realize that you took my food again. You’re acting on instinct. You smell the savory sweetness and you instinctively eat.

I’m about to pull the food away and lecture you, but a thought crosses my mind. I’m not hangry anymore, so I don’t feel that annoyed. I’m more… curious, I guess. I want to see how fast it’ll take you to finish the whole take-out box.

Less than five minutes, it turns out. You’re in the zone. Globs of orange sauce coat your chin. Little speckles of food land on your abs. It’s honestly intriguing, and I’m not even mad that your saucy fingers are staining the couch again.

You let the empty box fall to your side and lean against the cushions, stuffed and satisfied. Your hands rub your stomach. It’s still flat, but your abs look less pronounced.

This is your second dinner of the night, plus whatever snacks you had when you first started smoking. There’s no way you’ll want to eat anything else.

But again, I’m curious. I hand you my half-finished box of Beijing beef. You take it.

I watch to see if you’ll start eating again. Probably not. You look beyond full.

For a long time, you just hold the food and stare glossy-eyed at the TV. Then, without thinking, you grab a handful of beef and pop it into your mouth. You’re eating just as fast as before, but your expression isn’t as blissful. You’re not really enjoying the taste anymore. I don’t think your brain is even registering it. You’re so deep into autopilot, driven by the smells and the easy access, that you shovel everything in. Once again, you let the empty box fall to your side and sink even further into the couch.

I decide to keep going. I take the next box (chow mein) and drench it with teriyaki sauce. Then I place it in your hands and watch you eat.

You start to slow, and I think your brain is finally registering the fullness, so I switch the TV back to Scooby Doo. That distracts you enough to finish the noodles.

And the kung pao chicken.

And the rice.

In thirty weird, wonderful minutes, all my food has disappeared into your straining stomach. You’re covered in sauce. You’re too exhausted to keep your eyes open. And your flat stomach isn’t so flat anymore. It’s painfully round. You hold it with both your hands and let out a deep, raggedy burp.

Then you pass out.

While you snore (I’ve never heard you snore before), I clean up your mess and wipe you down with a wet cloth.

In the morning, I see you in the exact same position as I get ready for work. Your eyes flutter open when you hear me.

“Dude,” you say. “I slept on the couch again.”

As if that isn’t obvious.

“Do you remember what you did last night?”

“Naw, man. I don’t even remember when you got home.”

Interesting…

***

August

Scooby and Shaggy are dressed up like carnival barkers, trying to confuse a frog mutant. God, this cartoon is terrible.

You’re half-asleep on the couch, your fingers rubbing circles around your softened belly.

It’s been six weeks since I started giving you extra food every night, and you’ve gotten chunky. Your pecs have poked out into moobs, and your abs are covered in a mound of hairy fat. Your face is still as handsome as ever, but I can already see the early signs of a second chin.

And the best part is, you still don’t notice how much you’re changing. It’s incredible.

You laugh at the cartoon.

“Hey? Having fun?” (It’s my way of checking if you’re still high. You definitely are.)

“A frog monster, man!” you say. Then you laugh.

Perfect. Once again, you won’t notice the food delivery.

Right on cue, the doorbell rings. I jump up to answer.

The handsome redhead is waiting for me. Teddy. We’re on a first-name basis now.

He smiles flirtatiously as he hands me my huge order. I can never tell if he’s into me or if he’s just grateful for the tips.

“Thanks.” I’m about to close the door when he stops me.

“Your, um, boyfriend is a big eater, huh?” He glances over at you.

I open my mouth to correct him (we’re not boyfriends) when he interrupts me.

“The guy I’m dating has packed on 50 pounds since we first got together. It helps that I can bring home as much Chinese food as I can carry.” He gives me a conspiratorial wink. “Good luck, man!”

He turns to leave.

So I’d been misinterpreting him this whole time. He wasn’t flirting with me at all. He just sees something in me that he sees in himself. He’s an encourager.

I drop the bags on the counter and have a mini panic attack. I don’t hyperventilate or anything, but my breath catches in my throat.

Am I really that obvious?

To the delivery guy, I guess.

But the fact that he knows what I’m doing feels like a punch to the gut. I’m not making you fatter because we’re in a relationship, or because we’re both into it. No. I’m doing it as petty revenge. I’m teaching you a lesson.

But…

But what lesson do you need to learn? You’re a good person. You don’t deserve this.

I grab the food bags and drop them all in the trash. I’m done.

You call my name from the living room. I rush in and join you on the couch.

“Who was at the door?” you ask, a surprising moment of clarity.

“Telemarketer,” I lie.

“Uh huh,” you say, as if my answer made any sense.

Then you go back to watching your cartoon. You’re not eating, but you seem just as happy. Sure, your stomach gurgles a little, but you still have that same blissful smile on your handsome face. Your body isn't missing all the extra calories. I have no doubt that you’ll lose all this extra weight in no time at all.

The next morning, I wake up early to go for a run. You’re not in the living room anymore, but the coffee table is covered in empty Chinese food boxes. Last night, you fished them all out of the trash. Ate every bite.

***

September

I get home from work. It was a good day. I have a new boss now, and he’s a lot easier to deal with.

I’m surprised that you’re not in the living room. I miss seeing you there. I probably shouldn’t order food tonight.

And I guess that’s for the best. I spent way too much last month. Despite my reservations (and guilt), I still pack you with food every night. I love watching you eat. I know it’s crazy, but that’s the highlight of my day.

With the house empty, I don’t know what to do with myself. I turn on TV, and even though I can choose anything I want, I automatically turn on a cartoon. It makes me think of you.

About an hour later, you stroll in, your arms filled with shopping bags. “Hey, man. Just got new clothes!”

It’s about time. None of your old shirts are able to cover your hanging belly, and your pants all look so uncomfortably tight around your wide thighs.

We’ve still never talked about your weight gain, but I guess you can’t deny it anymore.

You excitedly jump onto the couch, your belly flopping, and you show me your new outfits. “Had to go to the Goodwill. Now that I’m bigger, I spend way too much money on necessities.” (By “necessities,” you mean “weed.” It takes a lot more to get you high now.)

As you pull out a selection of nice, XXL shirts, I try to think of what to say. This is your first time mentioning that you’ve gotten bigger. I’ve been too afraid to bring it up, so now’s my chance to finally come clean. You don’t sound upset about it, though.

You hold a gray tank top in front of your body. You would’ve been swimming in the billowing fabric a few months ago, but now it’ll fit your thick gut perfectly. “You like it?”

“Um, so you’ve… outgrown your clothes,” I say awkwardly.

“Duh!” you say as your slap your gut. “What did you think would happen with you bringing home all that food every night?”

All the blood drains from my face. “You knew?”

“Weed doesn’t give you amnesia, idiot,” you say. “I remember everything. And now that we’re finally talking about it, I just gotta say… Thanks, man. You’re seriously the most generous guy in the world.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“Because you’re fat.”

You pull up your shirt (also new) and grab your exposed belly. It’s like you’re proud of it. “I’m not just fat, man. I mean, look at this thing. It’s so floppy.”

“And you like it?”

You scrunch up your eyebrows. That’s your thinking face. “Honestly? I’m happy with whatever. Doesn’t really matter to me.”

“Oh.”

“I’m all about enjoying life, you know? And when I’m baked, there’s nothing more fun than stuffing myself and playing with all of this.” You dig your fingers into your belly fat. A big smile stretches across your round face. “It’s like a stress ball, man. Touch it!”

I gulp. “I’m not gonna…”

You grab my wrist and pull my closer. I can’t help but press my palm into your belly. You watch, waiting for me to do something. I feel so awkward as I squeeze into your flab. I’ve never felt you before. You’re even softer than you look.

I hate that I like this so much. I pull my hand away.

You give me a curious look. “I thought you’d be into it.”

“Into what?”

You straighten up, letting your shirt fall into place. “Dude, aren’t you trying to make me fat?”

“No,” I say. You know I’m lying.

“Then why did you do this to me?” You scoot closer, your belly bunching into rolls. “And why haven’t you gone out on a date in months? And why do you always look at me like that?”

“Like what?”

You grab my chin and force me to meet your eyes. You wait for me to say something.

I don’t. I can’t. No words will come out of my mouth.

And when you’ve waited long enough, you kiss me.

I didn’t realize how long I’ve wanted this until your lips are on mine. I give in completely. My hands squeeze into your side rolls. You climb on top of me, forcing me to feel your weight pressing down. You radiate warmth.

And when you pull away, your belly still pressing into me, you say, “Why don’t we try something different tonight?”

“Wh-what?” I worry that you’re taking things too fast. I don’t think I’m ready for anything more intimate than a kiss.

“I’m not gonna smoke tonight,” you say. “I want to be completely sober when you stuff me. What do you think?”

I instantly grab my phone to order the biggest meal of your life.

***

July

I answer the door. The redhaired delivery guy gives me a huge smile. “Looks like you’re finally starting to catch up to your boyfriend.”

As I take all our bags, he uses the opportunity to poke me in my chubby middle. I’ve gained about 30 pounds this summer, all unintentionally. I kind of like it, though. And I definitely like eating alongside you. It’s more fun than just watching and giving you belly rubs. Perhaps I’ll keep going.

“Hi, Teddy!” you call from the couch.

The delivery guy waves at you. “Nice progress, man!”

You drum against your belly. It’s my favorite sound. “Thanks.”

Before Teddy leaves, he leans close and whispers, “I gave you extra egg rolls.” He emphasizes the word “you.” He wants me to have those just for myself.

“Thanks. See ya at Bear Night!” I say as I close the door.

I use the app to increase his tip by another $20. Love that guy. (And with my latest promotion, money is no object.) Then I bring all the bags to the living room, placing them on the coffee table right in front of you.

You breathe out a huge puff of smoke and hand me the bong. Two more hits and I’ll be gone. At your size, it takes you three times as much. That’s the one downside of your 150 extra pounds.

“What do you wanna watch?” you ask. You’re joking, of course. We both know you’re gonna put on cartoons again. (Family Guy this time.)

I lean my head against your soft shoulder and play with your moobs again. It’s part of our nightly ritual, my way of getting you ready for the feast.

“Fuck,” you mutter as I increase the friction.

Then, with your mouth open and your body rocking and jiggling in excitement, I use my free hand to grab the first container of sweet and sour pork. I eat a few bites myself. Then I start feeding you.

You're very stoned, but you know exactly what I'm doing.

The End