Tales from the Gainerverse (by HurlyBurly)

Greg sat and shuffled nervously, exhaling quick bursts of air to calm his nerves. His shirt felt too tight, the buttons straining to stay fastened over his belly. He loosened his tie for the third or forth time, but it still felt like a vice around his double chin.

“You got this,” he muttered quietly. He looked at his typed speech, rehearsing in his head ‘Dear partners, I’m honoured to be before you today, in a year that marks record sales of our fast food division’. He looked at the clock. Ten minutes to show time.

“Well look at you,” came a voice from across the room.

Greg felt his nerves worsen, “Oh... er, Mr Davies, I thought you were out of the country?”

“How many times, call me Doug. Flew back in this morning, you know I wouldn’t miss my best sales guy on his big day now would I?” Doug patted Greg’s belly, which caused Greg to jump uncomfortably.

“Looking sharp, although that suit is looking a little snug,” Doug smirked at Greg, and Greg quickly looked away. “Now I know you’re gonna protest, but I want you to wear this earpiece. I’ve got the script from your email and I can coach you if you lose your place.”

“Mr Davi— erm, Doug. I’m fine really. I’ve rehearsed it and I have a print out.”

“It wasn’t a request ‘son, Now, put in the ear piece. And did you prepare the other stuff for the stage like we discussed?”

Greg looked at the floor, then nodded meekly. This was supposed to be his day.. and once again the head of the company had to make it about him.

“Good, then it looks like we’re ready for showtime,” said Doug. “I’ll be at the back of the crowd, do me proud.”

Greg walked out to the podium slowly, to a healthy round of applause. He shook off the feelings from the interaction with Doug, and got his head in the game. When the applause stopped he took a deep breath and started.

“Dear partners, I’m honoured to be before you today…”

He heard Doug mutter down the earpiece. “As a big fat pig.”

“…as a big fat pig,” said Greg. He froze. Why did he have to say that? The room went silent. Greg laughed nervously. “A… big fat pig… because we have hit record sales within our fast food division!”

The crowd let out a laugh, as if they were suddenly in on the joke.

Greg continued his speech, but Doug continued to talk through the earpiece.

“Do you know how much you weighed when I put you in the fast food team. I do, 157lbs,” said Doug.

Greg felt beads of sweat form on his head and trickle down the fat rolls on the back of his neck. He tried to focus, to read out the script.

“It was a simple question. What are you willing to do to go far in this company,” said Doug, “And you said, ‘Anything’. And that’s a very dangerous thing to say to me.”

Greg found Doug staring him straight in the eye from the crowd. Time seemed to slow down. “And I said, the fatter you get, the more I’ll promote you, I must admit when I said it, it was mostly a joke. But just fucking look at you. I kept waiting for you to stop. For you to grow a fucking back bone, but it was like, the fatter you got, the more you seemed to do whatever the fuck I said.”

Greg felt his eyes un-focus, and his breath quickened. He could feel the damp sweat under his chubby armpits and moobs soak through his shirt. His heart was beating so fast that he instinctively clenched his chest.

“And by the time you reached 400 fucking pounds, I didn’t have any further roles to give you, so I made you head of division.”

Greg was struggling now, his speech had become disjointed, “And … I … errr… couldn’t have done any of this..”

Doug finished the rest of the sentence in his earpiece, “If I wasn’t such an out of fucking control obese pig, who will literally ruin his own body just to get ahead.”

“Stop it!” shouted Greg, the room went silent again. “Erm, stop it! I told myself, we can’t keep up this pace, but each and every one of you, you proved me wrong.”

Doug continued in the earpiece, “Why don’t you tell them about all the extra suits I’ve bought for you. Because you outgrow them as soon I can get them to your current size. Or how many times I’ve found you at the branch just eating leftovers. Why don’t you tell them the REALLY good stuff…”

Greg stared straight at Doug and shook his head violently.

“Why don’t you tell them what a fucking slut being over 450lbs has made you for me. Tell them that even now, you’re plugged for me.”

Greg felt his heart do a somersault as his sphincter clenched around the plug. He felt his knees buckle, and the script slipped off the podium. He bent down to pick up the piece of paper and could hear a large ‘Rrrrriiiiiipppppp’ as his suit trousers split, and a ‘ping’ as two of his shirt buttons gave way. The crowd started to laugh.

“You see. You’re a fucking joke. You really thought I’d let you do this? To take credit for everyone else’s work while you stuffed your face. They’re all staring at you, thinking how did such a fat fuck end up being my boss. How did someone so incompetent continue to work his way up the ladder. And the worst part is, you’re in so deep you can’t get out. You’ve wrecked your body, your skin, your prospects. If you want a reference to work anywhere else, you’ll need to keep eating until you’re 550lbs.”

“Doug, please,” said Greg.

“It’s Mr fucking Davies to you pig. You think just because you’re in a fancy suit that I’ve forgotten that you’re just a fucking fattened piece of livestock? No way pig. Now get your fat ass off the stage and backstage so I can stuff the 20 burgers I’ve ordered into you.”

Greg, with some effort, got back to his feet and looked at the crowd. He was in his ripped pants, with his gut hanging out of his shirt, and the crowd’s laughs became unbearable. He felt like he was going to pass out. He waddled back off the stage as quick as his chubby legs would let him.

He pushed his way into the backroom, and slammed the door, finally shutting out the laughs still coming from the auditorium.

“You did so well,” came a voice from behind him. “You very nearly made it through the whole thing.” Doug was already waiting.

“I… Why did you…” was all Greg could muster.

Doug smiled, “Because I just wish you would just admit to yourself, that no matter what happens, no matter how much you try and act normal, or that you’re some big shot, that you’ll forever be my fat fucking pig. Now…” said Doug as he took a bag of company fast food “…these burgers aren’t going to eat themselves.”

Greg knew exactly what to do, as he had done so many times before. He stripped off his clothes and got on all fours.

Doug forced the first burger into Greg’s mouth, “Now what do you say, pig?”

How long has it been. Since the instruction came in. The matter of fact text which said. “The delivery driver will be there in 5 minutes. Eat… All of it.”

You’re not even half way through, and it feels like it’s been an hour, maybe longer, it’s hard to keep track. Your eyes have glazed over. Stuck halfway between the gainer brain and the goon. Jerking yourself but knowing, and not wanting, to shoot until the instruction is complete.

Your gut is protesting, stretchmarks still angry from the sheer amount of food he has gotten inside you since you met. You know you’re being reckless. Know that you’ll likely push yourself above your goal weight. But here, in the moment, nothing is going to stop you gorging and gooning. Fat is all there is.

The remaining fast food has since gone cold, but you continue. Because the idea that this food should be warm, taste good, or even be pleasurable has faded, and all that matters is to consume. Every box of fries making the wheezing slightly worse. Every burger setting off another belch as you continue to jerk in your Precum filled fatpad.

Somehow you near completion of the mountain of food, and with your gut distended, breathing heavy, and your mind a soup of gainer-brained obsessions and goon-filled lust, you’re getting close.

And as the last burger goes in, you show him the object of his creation. You stare and wheeze into the little blinking light of the webcam. Stretchmarked, fat-burdened body exposed. In a bondage of your own making.

Another text appears, “Good. You may finish.”

And as your stuffed body lurches with the power of your food-induced orgasm, your stomach somersaults as another text pops up on screen…

“Thanks for coming, I didn’t know who else to call,” said Dr Evans.

“Well you sounded panicked on the phone. Is it about the team?” Coach Cain replied.

“I think you’d better see for yourself, there’s been a complication.”

“I swear to god Doc, if you’ve done anything to my guys this close to the play offs, then I’ll—“ Coach composed himself, “look, you assured me this was safe.. that this.. High Intensity-.. dammit whatever the fuck it was called.”

“High Intensity Muscle and Bulking Ordinance”

“Yes that,” said Coach, “Would have them in tip top shape.”

“Yes. It’s perfectly safe. The H.I.M.B.O uses subliminal cues and visual aids, as well a few secret chemical ingredients, to drive muscle growth and channel competitiveness. The theory was flawless. But we didn’t account for…”

“For what….? For what!”

“The feed got corrupted,” said Dr Evans, opening the door to the medical room.

Coach Cain did a double take. His star player, Scott, was stood stark naked, flexing his muscles and grunting. Where he once had perfectly chiselled abs, now there was a huge ball gut covered in .. were those stretchmarks? His arms had exploded with muscle growth as had his pecs, it was like someone had placed a bodybuilder’s chest and shoulders on top of a beach ball. Scott continued to flex and grunt.

“Sc-scott?” said Coach, “What happened son?”

Scott flexed and grunted, “Scott BIG. Scott need big muscles for game. And Hungry. And HORNY!”

Coach turned to Dr Evans and grabbed him by his collar, “What the fuck have you DONE!?”

“The subliminal feed. There was a mistype in the algorithm, by the time we realised, he’d already been subjected to it for over a week. We did an emergency shutdown and brought him out early. And we think it stopped mid subliminal cycle. Our model didn’t account for that eventuality. The algorithm had got confused, and started showing him muscle and gainer porn.”

“What the fuck is ‘gainer porn’?” said Coach.

“Gainer porn!” moaned Scott “Get Big. Get Fat!”

“This was a straight A College Senior, what’s happened to his speech? What have you done to his fucking body!?”

“We’re still finding that out…”

The Coach stared at the blank dopey stare on his star player’s face.

“Simply put, he’s becoming more and more dumb. He eats. He works out. That’s mostly it.” Dr Evans looked around shifting his eyes back and forth.

“What do you mean ‘mostly it’?”

Coach approached slowly, as Scott continued to flex and moan and rub his large belly, “Scott son, it’s me. It’s Coach Cain. Are you in there?”

“Hey coach. Big Coach. Look at your muscles.” Scott said, getting a glazed look in his eye. He suddenly grabbed Coach Cain’s muscle gut “BIG sexy coach,” Scott growled.

“Hey, get the fuck offa’ me,” said Coach pushing Scott back. Scott’s huge muscle-and-fat frame staggered backwards slightly.

Coach looked down and saw with disbelief that Scott… was now rock hard. He flexed his muscles, rubbed his belly, before finally starting to rub his now Precum covered cock. Coach couldn’t believe that this was the same person who had taken the team to their best season ever, that he was now.. this… this…

“Himbo!” said Scott, “Big dumb Himbo!” He continued to writhe and buck his hips, as his huge ass thrusted back and forth to fuck his hand.

“What is happening!? Why is he saying that?”

“When we restarted the H.I.M.B.O he was still plugged in. We’re not sure why, but he keeps saying that, over and over. That he’s a big—“

“Dumb Himbo,” finished Scott. “Oh fuck yeah, fuck yeah I’m so fucking Big. Big Man. Big cock. Gonna fucking cum.”

Coach continue to watch in shock and horror as his former star player, now a stretchmark-covered tank of a man, jerked and moaned before his cock exploded with ropes and ropes of cum.

Time seemed to stand still. Coach Cain couldn’t comprehend what was happening, before he blurted out “Well at least we have the rest of the team… right? Right!?”

Dr Evans opened the door and beckoned Coach back out of the room, “…..Let me show you the other subjects.”

Coach’s blood ran cold as the sounds of weight training, moaning, and eating, filled the air of the corridor. He could then make out multiple voices say “I’m a Himbo” “I’m a big dumb Himbo.”

"Objectify You" by HurlyBurly (Audiobook Edition)

Every time he comes back, and you smell the grease on the air, and you hear the door slam... you feel it. That moment when you allow yourself to wonder, what it would have been like. If you hadn't met. If he hadn't got you into gaining. If that 160lb swimmer hadn't been sweet talked by him. But those eyes, and that beard. And that smooth voice. You stood no chance.

It was fine at first of course, the only gain you were aware of was 'muscle gain'. You'd always had the fantasy of becoming the 100% top musclebear of your dreams. He paid for your gym membership, kept telling you how he wanted you massive. You gained so much muscle in that first year. And he would always be there with your post-gym feast. Chicken and rice, protein shakes; you'd post to your Instagram and the likes would flow. You'd go home and be so horned up; he wasn't a bottom but he would let you, just because he knew how much it meant. You felt like a massive bull.... his massive bull.

He would give you cheat days of course, "You've earned a break. I don't want you to sacrifice too much pleasure," he would always say. And what was a cheeky burger or two every now and again? He kept trying to get you to 'dirty bulk', saying it was the latest craze, that guys were seeing massive gains from it. Eventually you let him talk you around.

It did the trick at bulking you. He fawned over your little belly. And the praise was intoxicating. He started to feed you while you fucked. He would say stuff like, "Think of how much muscle this will be, come on bull, eat it. Be that powerful top you dreamed of. Push that belly out." You'd always struggled with your body image and having someone so obsessed with it. Well it started to mess with your head. You found yourself throwing away your sense of what you wanted, just to hear him praise you. To tell you that you were sexy. You just sort of blinded yourself to the reality. Suddenly there was no sex without food. And the gymming stopped. You hit 350lbs without even really trying.

You should've took that as your point of no return, but he was so suave, so persuasive, it all felt so normal. To be growing, for your once proud abs to be covered in stretchmarks, because the only thing that mattered was hearing him obsess over your body. You were no longer his top bull; the exertion was too much for your size. He kept playing with your ass and eventually you let him top you. From that point on, it seemed that any request for you to top, became a night of you getting your ever-fatter ass ploughed.

Years passed, every attempt to reason by your brain failed, and you resigned yourself to your fate. When you hit 680lbs, you got into bed and never really left it again. The 100% top musclebear was gone, now a 100% bottom megachub. Afterall, at that size, it was the only sex you were able to perform.

You always wonder if that was his plan all along. To get you so fat that there was no escape. I mean, it's not like those ham hocks that now formed your legs were going to let you run away, were they? You might not even make it through the doorway.

He came in with tonight's pizza and set it down. "Do you know it's been exactly five years since your last muscle Instagram post? And from that moment on, I've made it my mission to completely reverse every single last muscle fibre. Until all that was left was lard. Fuck. Look at you, wheezing away and completely dependent on me. Now, let's get a good one shall we." It all happened so quickly. You just had enough to grab a piece of bedsheet to cover your fatpad before the picture was taken and posted.

You couldn't breathe. The panic made you feel like you were going to pass out. Your whole body hurt. Your heart felt like it would beat out of your chest. And he got closer whispered, "Think of all the loads the chasers are going to shoot to that before and after."

You get there early, you want to make a good impression. His gruff voice otherwise sounded quite posh on the phone when he invited you over for dinner. So you found the best dress shirt that still fit you, some slightly-too-tight chinos and smart shoes.

His place is huge, and you sheepishly ring the doorbell. He greets you warmly, and leads you to the kitchen where he is cooking, stopping every few moments to play with your belly tenderly.

The food smells so good; chicken in a rich cream sauce, mashed potatoes. You can feel yourself relax. This is going to be nice.

Your mind wanders. Maybe you could leave the whole gaining/feeder thing behind? Find a nice man who treats you right. Maybe this is the one time you were a good judge of character, and you didn’t pick the guy who wanted to turn you into a ravenous pig. The words ‘ravenous pig’ send a slight stir to your cock but you try and stifle it, this could be your chance to be ‘normal’, whatever that means.

He plates up his food and puts it on his dining table.

“That looks amazing, I can’t wait to try it.” you say, and give him a gentle smile.

He chuckles. “Why would you try it? I’ve already served up yours.”

You’re confused. You can’t see any extra portions until you spot in the corner of the room a bowl, on the floor, full of grey looking slop.

“Very funny. What’s your dog gonna do if I start eating his food.” You laugh it off.

“I don’t have a dog,” Suddenly the gruffness in his voice is at maximum, and the poshness is gone.

You stare at the bowl and see it says ‘PIG’ in big capital letters.

“B-but..” is all you can muster.

“But what? You didn’t think you’d be eating at a table? Eating this exquisite chicken I cooked, did you?”

Your blood runs cold.

“You’re a fattened piece of livestock. You’re a pig. Pigs don’t sit at the table, they eat from a trough.”

Your heart is pounding. He was supposed to be your way out of this madness. You hadn’t mentioned gaining with him at all. Is it just that obvious to everyone that you could be made to gain?

You should leave. Tell him to shove his pig bowl and his food. But…. you bend down onto all fours and start to hungrily eat the pig slop, spilling some down your dress shirt.

We both know you're so much more than just the hundreds and hundreds of pound you've gained. But seeing you there, in your element, it's so easy to want you, and objectify you. Encircled by a group of feeders, hands grabbing every inch of you. Tugging at fat rolls, hands disappearing between your folds, tracing the stretchmarked skin.

Hearing you huff and wheeze as they have their way with you. Fat chubby cheeks pulled to each of their lips, getting off with you, getting off with the hulk of fat before them. Sensory overload happening, as the food comes out, donuts being stuffed into your hungry mouth. Barely giving you a moment's reprieve before the next one. Protests muffled by the conveyor belt of calories. The groups eyes widen just seeing how quickly you can put it back. They express shock, they laugh, all while you continue to be their personal fat factory. I can see your mind swimming, I see it in your eyes.

The hands increase their exploration of your massive form. Fat tits squeezed, gasping as your nipples are pinched and tugged. Fingers fucking your belly button. And as it gets to a crescendo and you cry out, you are silenced by the funnel gag shoved in your mouth. The custard is poured and more comments are made, they look at their creation, hungry, desperate, at their mercy. They whisper in your ear. Ask you if you're happy what you've done to yourself, how far gone you are. And you whimper in pleasure as you struggle to finish the custard. Hands continuing to prod and shake, and squeeze.

Until attention moves south. And one of the feeders reaches your fatpad. He looks at his glistening hand, and sees how much you've been leaking. Your eyes widen as his flash a wicked smile. A vibrator appears and is matter-of-factly inserted into your fat pad, eliciting a grunt.

The taste of custard changes to someone all more familiar. Your gainer shake. Melted ice cream, weight gain powder, full fat milk. Dumped down the funnel without much care. Your body begging you to slow down. Gut distending into your lap. Hands now forming an all out assault. Feeders groping and shaking every part of you. Getting off on your fat. Fucking folds of your fat. The muffled whimpers as the vibrator continues to pulse. Fuck. It's all too much. You're getting close. I know you're getting close.

As each of the feeders blows their load over your fattened form, a final strong tug on your tits send you over the edge as the last of the gainer shake slips down, the vibrators pulse at maximum, and you cum. Oh fuck do you cum.

You knew the words he was going to say before he says them. You’ve seen that look too many times.

He called it a “Fun Run”, and as you waddled to put some clothes on, he was putting down the seats in the back of the van.

The suspension squeaked as your massive body climbed onto the mattress he’d placed in the back. He strapped you down using a combination of the existing seatbelts and a custom harness he’d made. He sarcastically said “safety first” as the last buckle clicked in.

As you approached the first drive-thru, the butterflies in your stomach became too much to bear. “Large Family Bucket” he said. At the second window, the attendant handed over the food and as you drove off the attendant caught a glimpse of you in the back, his eyes a mixture of surprise and judgement. You felt blood surge to your groin.

The van stopped and you knew the routine. It was fed to you, quickly, ruthlessly, grease covering your mouth and sauce falling down your beater vest.

“One down, four to go,” he said.

* * *

By the time you hit the final drive thru, a donut place, you could barely think straight. Stomach straining from so much food, helplessly stuck in the back of the van. And now his pièce de résistance, rather than make the last order himself, he pulled past the speakerbox so you were making the order.

“Tell them what we want,” he said.

You started murmuring, trying to compete with your totally full stomach. “I… wait… food, too much…. food. Need.. to.. cum” you wheezed, barely able to breathe.

“He said we’ll have a box of 12,” he shouted, before turning back to you and muttering “And you’re gonna finish every. Fucking. One of them.”

And with that, you felt your body convulse, as the hot cum shot from your fatpad.

Well it's New Years' Eve and you're finally getting out of the house after stuffing yourself silly over Christmas. It took you a while to find a shirt that still fit, but you found one, even though you will spend the whole evening pulling it downward to cover your overhang. You'll try and focus on the night out, but the need to gain will be gnawing away in the back of your mind.

Your mates will be all "Are you feeling alright, you seem a bit out of it." But they don't know what it feels like, to have lost control to the drive to be obese, to be morbidly obese. You will hear hushed whispers of "He's getting out of control, how the hell did he get so fat? We need to do something."

Your phone will be in your pocket, calling out to you. You won't want to, you intended to enjoy the night out, but somehow your muscle memory will lead your thumb to press the Grommr icon. You do it without thinking these days. You will shift into a corner of the bar so no one can see your screen. The sight of the red notification dot will fire an endorphin shot right through you.

You took a picture of yourself in a jock before you left, in a compromising position that the old you would have objected to. You weren't going to post it, but the need for people so see how gratuitously fat you've got this year took over your rational brain. You will check the comments. You always appreciate the "Wow, looking good buddy! ❤️" comments, but secretly want someone to say "Fuck me, look at the size of his ARSE!!??"

Then you'll see one from your feeder which will stop you in your tracks: "So. Fucking. Fat." You won't be able to take it after that. The noise. The heat. Your heart will beat faster and faster, and you'll need to go out for some air. The gainer brain will take the wheel.

You'll make an excuse and leave. "It's only 10:30, where are you going?" they'll say, but in the end they'll just give up and let you go. You'll barely remember the walk home, but a text will come through from your feeder: "I hope you're keeping well fed". You'll stop at a kebab shop and order two large kebabs, a burger, chips, and a tub of ice cream. The shop owner will say, "I hope you all enjoy it!" and a jolt will fire through you, knowing it's all for you.

By 11:30 you'll be on a video call with your feeder, with just the burger and the ice cream to go, grease covering your hungry mouth. Your stomach will ache and you will rub you stretch-marked gut in hopes of some relief. Your feeder will firmly tell you to continue, and your cock will jump up, as you force the burger down. "That's my good pig".

There’s something about Mall Santas isn’t there? It’s the lack of commitment. The beard, a synthetic jungle of fake curls held in place with an elastic band. The belly, a foam pillow that the ‘Santa’ can take out and slip back into the real world unnoticed. With so many bearded, bellied daddies and grand-daddies around, it seemed almost sacrilegious when compared to the -idea- of Santa Claus. Why wasn’t the Mall Santa circuit wasn’t filled entirely by guys who represented the ‘real’ thing.

But inside the local mall, James shifted uncomfortably as the army of children waited patiently at a private after hours event, to meet the man in the big red (polyester) suit. The youth centre leader had gathered James and the rest of the volunteers, and was co-ordinating how this would work. He assigned volunteers at points before and after the Grotto, volunteers inside with Santa, and others to manage the queue and take the children back once they had finished their visit. James heard a hunger pang growl, and he rubbed his pudgy stomach as if to try and plead with it to stay quiet. There would be time for stuffing later.

“And er… James, was it?” said the youth centre leader looking at James’ volunteer badge, “You will be the second person here by the Grotto door. Santa will call in each person one by one, and you’ll let them in just here.”

After the roles were set, James’ heard a low booming voice say, “Ho ho ho, Santa is ready to see you now!”

With a cheery demeanour, James’ sent in the first kid. Time seemed to fly by, and the queue went down. Each time, Santa’s guttural growl came from the other side of the door, catching James off-guard and sending a jolt of electricity through him. James chuckled at the ridiculousness of his reaction. But hey, he’s always liked an assertive man. Even one in a fake beard..

Slowly the volunteers drifted away as their roles concluded. The queue attendants first, then James volunteer partner, with a mumble of “You’ve got this here right? I didn’t think it would take this long.” James sent the last kid in, as the youth group leader returned and said “Right, that’s the last one. Thanks for your help, we’ll take everyone back to the centre, so give it five minutes to keep up the illusion and you can head off yourself.”

‘Well, that’s my good deed of the year done’, thought James, allowing the facade to drop as he checked his phone.

“Ahem,” came the voice from beyond the door. “I’m ready for you now.”

“Erm.. actually I think that’s everyone.. ‘Santa’,” said James. He walked around the sides and back of the Grotto, but no kids remained and actually, no adults either. The place was empty.

“Santa is waiting! Don’t want to have to put you on the naughty list.” The low voice boomed from inside the Grotto. Once again tinged with a gravelly authority.

James slowly creaked open the Grotto door and in a hushed voice said “There’s no one left to see you, er, Santa.”

“Oh I don’t think that’s true is it? After all, you haven’t seen Santa yet, have you James?”

James let out an embarrassed chuckle thinking what a ridiculous thing that was to say. He stepped fully into the Grotto. Gone were the volunteers, and all that remained was a man sat in a wooden carved chair. James stopped in his tracks as he saw the ‘Santa’ in front of him.

The first thing he noticed was, of course, the huge belly. Tucked into a red coat and spilling over his lap. This was no pillow, or false belly, and instead moved with every word and chuckle. Next was his piercing blue eyes, sat atop chubby rosy cheeks. A beard of mostly white with some hints of grey coated his double chins. He had one of those ‘gentle giant’ faces, and James stomach lurched, unsure whether those eyes flashed with authority or kindness. Likely both.

“How do you, er, how do you know my name?” James asked.

“Because I’m Santa Claus!” Said the man, his belly letting out a jiggle as he laughed to himself. James’ stomach did another somersault. “And… because it says so on your volunteer badge.” ‘Santa’ shot James a knowing wink and pointed to the badge hanging from the lanyard.

“Oh. Oh right! Yeah…” James said with a nervous chuckle.

“Now why don’t you come and sit on my knee and tell me what you’d like for Christmas.”

“Look fella, the volunteering was fine and all. I don’t know what you think this is.. but I’m not about to—”

“So I see you really do deserve your place on the naughty list,” said Santa, the kindness fading and the authority growing. “And it’s ok. I already know what you want for Christmas.”

“Oh you do huh, and what’s that? What does Mr Mall Santa think I want for Christmas?”

“To be a big fat piggy.”

James stopped in his tracks. “W… what?”

“You want to be a big fat piggy don’t you. You want to gain weight. Intentionally. Recklessly. You want to be a big fat boy for Santa.”

“How did you…. What are you saying? That’s…”

“Say it. Come on. Say, ‘I’m a naughty piggy who wants to be fatter’. Come sit on my knee, and say it.”

James was frozen on the spot, and Santa’s leather-gloved hand reached out and took his wrist. Slowly, Santa led him to his knee. James felt his legs buckle and he was sat on the big man’s lap.

“Now..” said Santa, clearing his throat. He leaned close to James’ ear, “Say. It.”

“I’m a..” James felt a surge of electricity fire to his groin, “I’m a… naughty piggy… who wants to be fatter.”

“Gooood. That’s a good piggy. Tell Santa what you want for Christmas.”

James could feel his hard cock pushing outward from his jeans, and panting, he said “I want to be huge. Just a big… fat… piggy.” His face flushed red.

James gasped as Santa’s gloved hand squeezed his hard cock.

“See piggy, was that so hard? I told you Santa already knows. And even though you’re on the naughty list, I want to make sure you get your present.”

“Oh fuck… what’re you.. Mmmmm,” James gyrated his hips pushing his throbbing cock into the big mans hand.

“Feels good doesn’t it piggy?” said Santa, as he slipped down James’ fly and pulled out his hard cock. With his other hand, Santa pushed up James’ t-shirt. The cold leather oh his glove traced the spiral of fresh stretch marks around James’ belly button. “I see you’ve already made a start, haven’t you piggy.”

“Oh god.. that feels… so— Ungh.” James gasped and babbled to himself.

Santa took his finger and pushed it against the dot of precum at the tip of James’ cock, then put his gloved finger to his lips and sucked off the salty fluid. “You taste good, piggy. Now, let’s see what we can feed you.”

Santa took a box of nearby sugar cookies and placed one against James’ lips. “Eat up piggy… I wonder how big we can make you.”

James ate the cookie greedily, in between pants from the gloved hand working his cock.

“That’s it piggy, two of them… now three. Just like you wanted.”

James mind became a whirl, pressed up against the big guys belly as Santa fed him cookie after cookie. “Feed… feed me Santa.”

“Good boy,” said Santa, “We’re getting through the entire box.” Santa’s hand increased the pumping on James’ hard cock as the gyrating became stronger. “You’re going to so fat. Such a big fat piggy… 300lbs…”

“Mmmmph!” said James, his eyes widening as he gulped down the remnants of another cookie.

“400… yes 400lbs… at least!”

“Oh fuck!” whimpered James.

“500lbs of pure lard,” said Santa as he shoved the last cookie from the box in James’ mouth.

“Oh god, oh god.. Santa… I’m!”

“Yes piggy,” said Santa, leaning in real close. And with a dominant growl, he whispered in James’ ear. “We’re not stopping until you hit… 600.” And with that Santa worked James’ cock hard, locked lips and pushed his tongue into James’ mouth.

James could only moan and convulse as rope after rope of cum shot out of his rock hard cock and over Santa’s glove. Santa raised the glove up to James’ lips, and James hesitated for a moment, before greedily lapping up his load from the big man’s glove.

Time stood still for a second as the aftershocks of James’ orgasm pulsed then waned.

“Now what do you say, James?”

“Th… Thank you Santa.”

“Good,” said Santa, the sweetness returning to his voice. “There’s hope for you yet on the nice list… But I think you prefer it on the naughty one…”

*              *               *

-Christmas Day-

The next few weeks saw James dissecting the whole experience, as well as shooting load after load remembering how it felt. How did the guy know his name… his… fetish. Who the hell was he?

Staying at the yearly family get together, James nursed a swollen gut after finishing his Christmas dinner (as well as several of his relatives leftovers), until a call came from the other room.

“James, we missed one of your gifts! I’ve put it up in the spare room where you’re staying.”

James sluggishly climbed the stairs, the itch of fresh stretch marks tingling under his Christmas sweater.

On the bed lay a box which said, ‘Merry Christmas James, love from Santa.’

James opened the wrapping, to reveal a box. On the box was a label, one he knew well. ‘Boost - Nutritional Drink - Very High Calorie.’

A further hand written note said ‘Here’s to 600lbs piggy.‘

“So what was it?” came a voice from downstairs.

“Just something,” replied James, as he wiped the remnants of the first carton of Boost from his lips, “for my future”.

Daddy held the spoon still for a moment. The boy sat naked, and let out a slight moan of discomfort.

“Come on boy. It’s Thanksgiving, you know the drill. Just like last year. My special rules still apply.”

The boy cradled his distended gut, and let out a whimper from his mash-potato caked mouth. Daddy gave him a moment of reprieve, the spoon held motionless in mid air, gravy glistening in the low light.

“Locktober and No-Nut November only end when this whole platter is in your greedy stomach.”

The boy looked up at his Daddy, his mind awash with the haze of being much too full and having been hand fed for over an hour. The green been casserole, the pumpkin pies, the eggnog, the catering sized tray of mashed potato, as well as the entirety of this turkey, all destined to be made into new fat on his ever growing body.

Daddy’s round gut strained against a tank TShirt which read “Who’s getting stuffed this Thanksgiving?”, a bush of wiry chest hair sprouting out from the top, and his artic blue eyes stared directly into the boy’s gaze - never quite settling between a state of kind tenderness, and a dominant intensity. The boy felt a surge in his locked groin, and slowly opened his mouth again.

“That’s it, that’s my good fat boy. Only a few more mouthfuls of turkey left, and you’re done. You’re so close.” Daddy pushed the spoon into boy’s mouth gently. “Swallow. Come on boy.” Then with a sudden sternness he repeated: “Swallow.”

The boy wriggled and whimpered as he chewed the mouthfuls of turkey and swallowed them down, some escaping from the sides of his mouth and creating sticky trails of gravy. The boy stopped again, panting and shifting uncomfortably, his pierced tits jiggling, and belly sloshing from side to side. He opened his large thighs so that his distended belly could hang lower, and hopefully allow the food to settle.

Daddy’s patience had expired and he took the boy’s chin in his hand and pushed downwards to open the boy’s mouth, before shovelling in another spoonful. “I told you. To. Swallow.” A further spoonful followed, then another. The boy was panting heavily, trying to time his laboured breathing in between spoonful after spoonful of food. His huge gut gurgled and his locked cock began to strain against the cage as it became engorged.

“See, was that so hard?” The intensity of Daddy’s voice faded into a gentle whisper, “I do hate having to use that side on you my boy, but know that it is necessary sometimes, to show you how much further you can go, than you think.”

The boy nodded meekly and swallowed the final spoonful. Daddy pulled up a chair alongside his boy, and rubbed the boy’s huge distended gut in gentle circles. The boy whimpered and moaned as the pressure eased slightly.

“That’s my good fat boy, I can tell you are now in the right headspace, and you are filled to capacity….

….So.

….Tell Daddy what you are thankful for.”

“I’m thankful…” the boy stopped, panting, his mind still in a haze of thoughts and feelings that he couldn’t quite get to come out verbally.

“That’s it boy. Don’t rush it. Take your time.”

“I’m thankful for Daddy….. thankful that he is my feeder, and for the love he shows me every day.”

Daddy smiled a warm, genuine smile.

“I’m thankful for my huge body, for my muscles and my fat. My huge gut, my strong arms, and my solid butt. Thankful to pass 350lbs this year, and thankful for all that Daddy has helped to mould. For the focus that Daddy brings to my quest to be my true self, and thankful for the stretchmarks and scars along the way that show me where I’ve come from….”

The boy looked down hesitantly as if he’d said too much. Daddy nodded to him in reassurance.

“…. But most of all I’m thankful to be Daddy’s fat bull.”

You remember when you met him. How could you not. There was just… something about him. Something that your body was drawn to, and yet knew was risky at the same time. Like staring at the sun.

He sat across from you, in the same café where your weight loss group met each week. He just appeared one day, and then was there every week without fail. Drinking a coffee, reading a novel. Shooting you a look from above the pages. Just long enough for you to know it was intentional, before he stared back down. You would feel yourself space out at what the instructor was saying, entranced by the stranger across the room.

It took you weeks before you worked up the courage to talk to him, but when you did, it felt like you’d met a long-forgotten friend.

“I’m John,” he said. He was warm, charming, and full of compliments. He would tell you that you looked great, that you didn’t need to lose weight. Would tell you that ‘275lbs wasn’t even particularly big by today’s standards’. He had this way of talking that felt like you could tell him anything, so when he lulled you in, and flatly asked you after one of the group meetings, “Do you even want to lose weight?” you found yourself blurt out, “No”.

And uttering that word was like opening a chapter of yourself you hadn’t got to read yet. You … didn’t want to lose weight. You did it because your family kept nagging you to go, your doctor kept berating you at your check-ups. But… was being fat really that bad? Denying yourself food felt like agony, and it wasn’t like suitors were lining up even when you were thinner, so… why fight fate?

Things with John ramped up quickly. You were infatuated with him. Chats became dates, dates became fancy meals, and meals became a weekend away… John wanted to take things further. You resisted, you wanted the lights off, to keep your clothes on. He was so perfect and you were… well. You weren’t sure. But no one had ever made you feel like you were worthy of whatever was happening. You sat on the bed, paralysed to move.

“Here,” John said, taking your hand and wrapping it around his wrist, “You lead me where you’d like me to go.” You took his hand to your face, your arms… and then… your belly, wincing as you did so. John lit up, his hand rubbing your fat belly, his other hand coming to meet it. Your own hand fell away as he moved up to your chubby chest, and you let out a slight whimper as his hands glided over your puffy nipples. He slipped your tshirt over your head, and returned to your belly. Working it rhythmically, pushing the fat up and down, and making it shake. It was somehow relaxing… hypnotic even. Until you realised that the bottom of your belly slamming on your groin was making you hard.

John continued, almost piston-like, belly up, slamming back down, belly up, slamming back down. Until you felt your hips move forward in anticipation, to feel the full weight on your belly slam on your crotch. He unbuttoned your jeans and slipped your cock from your underwear as the belly slammed down again. What was happening? Why did this feel so … arousing? He continued as he leaned in and kissed you deeply. Confidently. Like your mouth was a prize he would get, no matter what.

“Unngh, what’s happening… oh my god…” you whimpered as the belly continued to slam, and the nerves in your cockhead suddenly sent signals down your shaft and into your balls. You were going to cum. You arched your hips up, and squeezed your ass in tight.

John, realising what was about to happen, grabbed your nipples hard, and leant in close. “That’s it fatboy. Cum for me. Cum from fucking your own fat.” The words were cold and dominant, and your stomach somersaulted at how you had been spoken to.

But you were past the point of no return, you felt your balls tighten and shot what might have been up there with the biggest loads you’d ever shot. “Unnngggghhhh!” you let out, the sound from your lips was almost guttural, as you spasmed with each rope of cum erupting from your cock.

Time stood still for a moment, until you heard John.

“Wow. I’m impressed,” he said, beaming.

“How did you… learn how to…” You trailed off as you found yourself lightheaded and still panting.

“That’s worked up an appetite hasn’t it. Let’s go replenish your energy… I know a good all-you-can-eat place,” said John, the side of his mouth moving into a smirk.

What was that with the whispering? Did he call you… fatboy? You put the thought to one side, and got dressed.

You remember when you were given it. It was from your feeder for your 2 year ‘feeder-versary’ as he called it. He’d been growing you for two years from that date.

You remember being puzzled when you opened it. It was a picture of you. From before. In a nice frame. In the picture, you had just gotten off the plane for a trip to Hawaii. The tshirt flowed vertically covering your small stomach. A cute pair of slim shorts. Big smile on your face.

You were appreciative of the gift (after all it was a great trip) but confused as to why this would be what he chose to mark the occasion. He sat it opposite your feeding chair.

He would never tell you why this was the gift of choice. But it soon would dawn on you. As the years passed, and you continued to eat, and continued to grow. You stared at yourself in the picture, and he stared back at you.

As your belly grew from flat, to round, to flabby, to a tidal wave of blubber hanging past your knees, he stared at you. As you outgrew the feeding chair (twice!) and the arms and cushions had countless amounts of food, drinks, and hot loads spilled over it. There he was.

And it all became clear. He was put there to remind you. To show you the contrast of what giving into your gaining urges has done to you. Too fat to fit into those tshirt and shorts, too fat to walk around Hawaii, hell, too massively fat to even fit on the plane.

And as you look at him in the picture, your faces line up, and the light catches the picture at the right angle, and becomes a reflection. And gone is the bright eyed fit guy on an adventure, and in his place is the constantly naked, wheezing food-and-fat-addicted slob. Whose only goal is to eat and cum, eat and cum.

You let the cursor sit there flashing for a few moments, reading the sentence back, before you hit enter.

“Growing guy here. Wanna be a brainless Himbo. NO limits, transform me Sir.”

You got a few likes, before a message appeared from someone in your inbox. It simply read “We start tomorrow.” Half an hour later an address appeared with more details.

*          *           *

You arrived at the address, a decent looking place on the nicer side of town. You were told to arrive in your workout clothes and a jockstrap. You stood at the door, hesitated, then rang the doorbell.

A man opened the door and you felt your groin surge. He was in his late 40s or early 50s, and had the build of an ex bodybuilder or a wrestler. Huge solid muscle covered by the padding of age and slight indulgence. His sleeveless T-shirt showed off his big arms which were covered in 90s style tribal tattoos. He looked at you with a stern but friendly look, with slightly receded jet black hair and a matching handlebar moustache curling into a slight smile.

“Hello Himbo. My name is Bud. But you will call me Sir, or Sir Bud.”

You felt yourself flush, and with a sudden shyness, let out a meek “Yes Sir.”

“Now, please deposit any personal possessions in this.” He held out a ziplock bag which read “Himbo’s Things.”

“Wait. You’re being serious?” you said.

“Those are the rules. You said you wanted to be a dumb Himbo. What use would a dumb Himbo have for a phone?”

You smirked, and figured you would just play along. You put your things into the bag and he left them by the front door. He led you through his kitchen and past another few rooms before you approached a room at the end of his property. It was small, and all the walls and ceiling were painted a pale hot pink. A chair was in the middle of the room, with weights and a bench on the left side and a set of speakers on the right.

“This is the pink room; this is where you will be transformed.”

Something about the way he said it drove you wild. Powerful, lustful, horny, and if you dared admit it, slightly terrifying. Your cock went hard.

“I see that excites you,” said Sir Bud. “Let me take a look at my Himbo.” He walked around you in circles brushing your hard cock as he did. “Tense for me. Show me how much muscle you have so far.”

You sheepishly raised you arms up and squeezed, causing your modest biceps to pop and bulge under your tshirt.

He squeezed your arm, “Definitely enough to work with, a solid base”, he turned to your gut and put his hand on your belly “With enough overeating to be nice and thickset. Weight training and feeds are going to make you huge.”

He sat you in the chair, and stared your into eyes. “Relax,” he said sternly, and then walked over to speakers and switched them on.

*          *           *

You woke up and let out a groggy grunt. You must have dozed off. Weird.

“Got a bit too relaxed huh?” said Sir Bud, “Now, it’s time to train.”

Almost on autopilot, you approached the weight bench and picked up some weights.

“Now dumb Himbo’s like you only respond to one thing.”

Absent mindedly, you found yourself staring at his cock.

“See what I mean. Himbos can’t resist the next bit of cock can they?”

Your face flushed and you felt blood rush to your own cock.

“If you can complete all of the set I’ve drawn up for you, you will get your reward.”

The workout was a blur. The small room, a windowless box of transformation, seemed to disorientate you. Your muscles ached, your cock surged, your ass twitched with every squat. It was like the edge between working out and sex had blurred. You’d never felt anything like it, and it was intoxicating.

Sure enough, after you completed all of your set, Sir Bud slipped his meaty cock over his cargo shorts and beckoned you over. You dropped to all fours and took his meat inside your mouth.

“That’s my big dumb Himbo. This is what you need. To be a big muscled, brainless object for my pleasure. A fleshlight with muscles,” Sir Bud sped up until wave after wave of warm cum coated your throat. He sat you back in the chair and approached the speakers.

“Fuck that was so goo——“

*          *           *

You woke up groggy and disorientated. Your muscles ached and your stomach growled.

As if somehow reading your mind, Sir Bud appeared with a tray of donuts. “Eat up big boy. I need my Himbo massive, and that means we train big. And we eat big!”

You started to say “Thank you Sir” but a donut was forced into your mouth. You choked slightly before chewing and swallowing it down. Then came another.

“Wait, slow down Sir, I don’t think I—” you started to say.

“No Himbo, you don’t think,” said Sir Bud, cutting you off. “Leave the thinking to Sir, you’re just a big dumb Himbo.”

A wave came over you, and you suddenly found yourself craving each and every last donut. Your cock started to go hard at the force feeding you were receiving and soon the tray of nine was down to one.

“Tell me what you need Himbo,” said Sir Bud.

Without even thinking you blurted out, “To be MASSIVE. Make ME MASSIVE SIR!”

“Fuck yeah,” said Sir Bud. He took your hard cock in his hand and squeezed. You were suddenly so horny and on edge that you felt like the slightest touch would make you cum. Sir Bud took the last remaining donut and rubbed it against your cock head.

“Hnnnngggh!” You cried out as a large warm load shot onto the donut.

Sir Bud, without missing a beat took the cum covered donut and shoved it in your mouth. You swallowed instinctively. You leaned back into the chair, absolutely spent and in bliss. You became aware that you started to hear some——

*          *           *

Sir Bud was standing over you gently tapping your face to wake you up, “Training time Himbo.”

“Wait, what time is it?” you said.

“Don’t worry about that Himbo. Let’s see if you can beat your personal best from the other day.”

“Wait, what do you mean, the other…” your voice trailed off. You stood up and went back over to the weight rack. It felt like an old friend, and you felt safe in your private pink room. The warm walls acting as a cocoon. Transforming you. You knew where every weight was, all the combinations you could use to grow for Sir. Fuck you wanted to grow for Sir so bad. To be massive for him, and be his brainless Himbo. Wait, what were you doing again?

“Let’s train,” said Sir Bud.

You started to do your squats and heard a huge rip in your shorts, your butt was so huge that it had torn right through the seam. But you’d only bought these… well, you couldn’t really remember when… but you knew they were fairly new.

“Looks like we are training just in your jock from now on then Himbo,” said Sir Bud with a wicked smile. Now come get your reward for such impressive growth. Before you really were aware, you were sucking his cock and swallowing another load.

*          *           *

You woke up to the feeling of your stomach achey and bloated. You could sense the feeling of dried food around your mouth. “What happened, am I .. wait why I am here again?”

“Why you’re training to be my Himbo. Isn’t that what you want!”

“Yes Sir!” you shouted without thinking, then quickly snapped your hands over your mouth in surprise.

“What’s happening me…” you started to say, before he stopped you. “Enough talk, tell me what you need?”

You felt your body move on its own. Your muscles tensed, your back arched and puffed out your massive chest, and your shirt clung to the round muscle gut. You exhaled strongly from your nose and your eyes widened, you raised your arms above your head and tensed, so that your biceps strained at the cuffs of your t-shirt sleeves.

“To be. Massive. So big for Sir. Make Sir happy with size. Big Muscle. Big Fat. Only Big Muscle Fat.” Your breathing was so heavy at this point that you started to feel blood rush to your cock, which was now prominent in your shorts.

He approached you, and looked at his Himbo, smirking at your muscles and your hardening cock. He gave it a squeeze, which caused you to exhale strongly through your nostrils and let out a guttural raw. “Hmmmmph! Hymmmph!”

“Good boy, such a big strong fucking Himbo boy. It should be happening by now. This is the good part..”

You felt a moment of soberness and wondered why you had so easily and automatically assumed this pose for him. You went to ask what was happening… but…

“Why. Can’t. What. Speaking?” Your voice had changed. There was a quiver of panic. You felt so strong, but something was happening. You could no longer think straight, your eyes focussed on Sir, it was like he was all that mattered. Everytime you tried to focus on something else it was like a fog entered your head.

“You’re beginning to realise aren’t you? You told me to make you a brainless Himbo. To transform you without limit. Guess you got what you wished for, huh boy?”

You tried to speak, but it was as if your brain could no longer find the words. Like you knew the feeling but couldn’t put it into sounds. Instead your mouth let out a grunt. Your stomach did another somersault as you felt the last ounces of control fade away, the last parts of the old you disappear. Until all that was left was the Himbo. You instinctively dropped to all fours and raised yourself up on your fists, so that your body was presented to Sir.

Sir Bud took your chin and pulled your face up to look into your eyes. “Himbo-ing complete.”

EPILOGUE - TWO WEEKS LATER

Sir Bud sat at the bar as he sipped on a whiskey. He was in his black leathers and a T-shirt which read “The answer is: ‘Yes Sir’!” in large white letters. You were at his side, dressed in a pink baseball cap, a black jock, and a black crop top which strained heavily against your stretchmarked shoulders and biceps, and hugged your muscle gut. In big pink letters it read “HIMBO” across the chest.

“Does your friend want anything?” said the barman.

“Oh don’t worry about him, he’s fine. He was fed and watered before we came out. Isn’t that right Himbo?”

You tensed your muscles and let out a, “Hmmmph. Hyymmph!”

You saw another man approach Sir Bud. The two nodded in acknowledgement. He stared at you and let out a slight chuckle.

“You used it then. I told you it would be worth it.”

“It’s fucking incredible,” you heard Sir Bud say. “I mean look at what it’s done to him, for fuck sake.” The two laughed.

“Well I knew once you saw how it worked for me, that you’d need your own pink room”, the man turned to the other side of the bar, then shouted “Isn’t that right Himbo?”

You stared across the bar and saw another muscled man, in a backwards baseball cap, a tight shirtless T-Shirt which read “Who needs a brain in your head, when you can have a cock?” The man let out a grunt and came over to you.

“I see yours is still doing well,” said Sir Bud. He stopped and looked at you both, “Whoops! Perhaps a little too well.”

The other Himbo had started to rub your body and you instinctively tensed your muscles. Your cock hardened and he dropped to his knees and began to suck it in front of the whole bar.

“Himbos huh. Can’t take them anywhere.”

The two men laughed, you puffed out your chest, and you shot your load.

And I’ll glance over on the train. Seeing you take up two seats. Watching your whole body jiggle as we travel over each rail piece. Ka-thunk ka-thunk. Ka-thunk ka-thunk.

And I’ll notice that your eyes are glazing over, as if you’re distracted, somewhere else, as if you’re deep in sensation. And it dawns on me… that the bumps of the rails, the train jolting every few seconds and forcing your fat to jiggle… it’s setting off your nub.

And buried within your fat pad, your sensitive nub is going hard from the vibrations of the train. Going hard from the vibrations of your body. And your wheezing is getting louder and louder. And I can see your hips buckling forward. Your eyes fully wide and glazed over.

And as we enter a tunnel it goes pitch black, and I hear the wheezes turn to gasps and whimpers. And a sustained “Unnnngh!”

And as the automatic lights come on inside the carriage, I see the wet patch on your sweats by your fat pad. Your eyes now unfocused and with a dopey smile on your chubby face.

You must have met him five, maybe six years ago. He said he was ‘a serious feeder’, but isn’t that what everyone says?

But if you are honest with yourself, you only know now how serious he was. He made you swoon at the numbers he promised you, 450, 500lbs, that your entire world would change. That your identity would be rewritten. That you would be… unrecognisable.

And he followed through. The constant feedings, the way he wouldn’t let you lift a finger, and the sex. Oh fuck the sex. The world shifting, earth shattering, white hot sex.

He wasn’t like your ex. With the pressure to stay thin, to be one of the ‘muscle gays’. The comments, the cliques, the emptiness. No, having your serious feeder was a freedom you’d never experienced.

As so it continued, until 350, became 450, and finally you were 500lbs of unadulterated blubber, any semblance of the past you was gone.

Except one day. There is a knock at the door.

Your heart stops as you see him. It’s your ex, he doesn’t look like he’s aged a day. He explains that he’s been looking for someone who used to live here. Someone he hasn’t been able to track down. He says your name.

Your stomach does a somersault and you duck behind the living room door.

Your feeder shakes his head and says no. “Let me just ask my partner,” he says, “We don’t know anybody by that name do we?” He smiles at you with a smile that is both beaming with pride, and has a wicked fire behind it.

You waddle out from around the corner, and catch your Ex’s eye. You heart is pounding at what he will think, at how much you’ve let yourself go. You are too stunned to speak. Time seems to stop as he looks at you with those familiar brown eyes.

You take the parcel and set it down. You weren’t expecting anything, it’s not your for birthday for another three months… You open it and find that inside is an envelope, a gift wrapped box, and a memory card.

The tag says: “OPEN the present. READ the note carefully. Then PLAY the file on the memory card. Happy 300, babe”. You recognise the writing. It’s your feeder’s handwriting.

You open the present, and staring at you is a black object, the size of a torch maybe, with a tapered stem handle and a round ball at the top. You recognise these from the gym, it’s some sort of sports-therapy massage wand.

You read the note: “Please take this gift as a sign of how proud I am of you. At your weigh in last week, you achieved a very important mile stone. 300lbs. 300 fucking pounds! I know you were hesitant at first but I hope I’ve shown you, you were destined to be fat, and how free you feel without the discipline or prison of the gym. I give all my boys this gift at this time, as a sign of things to cum. I know you will appreciate it in the same way each of them has. Keep going babe, I’m so proud. Xxx”

Confused, you take the final item, the memory card, over to your computer. What the heck did all of that even mean. Why would they each needs a sports massager? You know he can be a little rough sometimes, and your knees aren’t exactly as comfortable carrying 300lbs as they were carrying 160 when you met him, but it doesn’t make sense. You’re getting nervous and can feel your chest tighten and your breath quicken.

You insert the memory card into your laptop. Your mouth is dry and you feel your hand shaking but you click on the file. What follows are clips of a series of men, six, maybe seven in total who all start off looking at the camera playfully. Chiselled chins, slim bodies, some even have washboard abs. They candidly laugh and smirk and the camera, and arrogantly say who they are, how much they weigh, or can bench.

And in every case the video then jump cuts to a massive man, each at least 500 maybe 600lbs, who are lying naked on what looks like the same bed. Each one heaves and wheezes and their massive bodies sway and wobble. Your stomach lurches and somersaults when it dawns on you - these are the same men.

In each clip, the men are struggling to move, and reach in vain at their groins trying to reach their cocks. Each clip proceeds in a similar fashion, with each man moaning and protesting “I… I can’t reach it. Fuck I can’t reach it,” some say “What have you done to me?” others mutter “How will I jerk off?” Before a familiar voice says, “I warned you this moment would come. Remember the 300lb Gift. Tell me what you want. BEG ME for it”.

Some men give in quickly, “Please use the wand,” others protest for a while before admitting defeat, “I need to cum, please use the vibrator”, and each clip ends in the same way - with the same type of massage wand you received, being rested against their fat pad and the huge men shooting load after load of cum.

You then watch the final clip and react in horror as you see yourself staring back. It was the movie he shot of you, when you first met. You mess around looking playfully into the camera, he asks who you are, and you say, and you gloat about how much you can bench press. The video then jump cuts to a black screen which says ‘[Immobile Wand Orgasm Clip to follow here]’.