fattenmyhips

Maybe they'd keep me stuffed to near capacity for days (or even weeks) with heavy, fatty foods so they can watch me struggle around a massive bloated and gassy gut that's so full it's hard to breathe like I'm some animal to be studied, all while they watch my belly and hips and thighs keep swelling with fat. They'd laugh at how the high fat diet gives me gut cramps and rub my sore and overstuffed belly, even though it's their fault to begin with.

Just some mad doctor fattening me up until I'm almost too big to move on my own and then taking notes on how I struggle to do basic tasks. They make notes of how people react to me and how offensively fat I am, how I react to taking up so much space in public. They'd experiment with putting me in my old too small clothing, noting how easily flustered I get as they eventually shred trying to contain my new mass. Theyd rub lotion into my swelling gut and eagerly map my stretch marks, thrilled as they slowly shift from their aged silver back to an angry red. They'd time just how quickly they can force my body up a pant size or three. They'd record videos and take pictures of me and post them publicly, documenting my progress for the world to see as I'm ruthlessly fattened up and turned into their pet just to sate their curiosity.

“You’re a fucking pig”

He deserved that. He really did. But he could take being berated if it meant he could stay with the woman he loved.

“Acting like a pig should come with consequences. Everyone should know just how much of a pig you are. I’ll make sure of that.”

Shaming, also fair. Public shaming would be fair as well. But what she had in mind went far beyond that.

- - -

It didn’t take him long to figure out what his “pig treatment” really entailed. It only takes so many funnel sessions before you realise what that much heavy cream will do to your body. Eating his (now grease laden) dinners out of a trough also helped it to click.

It had started fairly slow. The idea had taken a bit of time to fully form in her mind, but once she demanded he work from home it was obvious she had a clear plan for his piggy punishment.

- - -

3 months. 3 months was all it took for him to noticeably swell with fat. None of his jeans would fit over his thicker thighs, and even if they could they’d certainly meet their match with his now round, plush ass. Even when he was wearing his stretchier joggers, he now had love handles that would flare out over the waistband, instantly drawing your eyes into his swollen belly, which received the brunt of the damage.

He wasn’t yet used to the jiggle of his belly as he walked down the stairs in the morning, and that really was only an issue in the morning. By nighttime his belly would be so stuffed full that it would stick out stiff in front of him. He was trying to just avoid looking at it, not that looking down was getting any easier with the new ring of chub around his neck forming a cute yet faint double chin even as he pushed his jaw forward.

But he had to press on, after all, it’s not like she would really want her boyfriend to be a fat pig, right? She’s just pushing him. Testing his devotion after his unfortunate fumble. He knew he could power through, she had to lay off soon.

- - -

It took him a year to realise he was wrong about that assumption. He didn’t even realise on his own either. After a full year of stuffing, force feeding, funnelling and humiliating until he had finally grown into a satisfyingly lardy, butter ball of a fat hog, she broke up with him. “Of course I’d never forgive a pig like you. I just had to make sure everyone else would see you for the piggy you are before you break some more hearts”.

And so there he was. Swollen with fat beyond his imagination, past twice his size from way back when he was hot enough to not even consider the ramifications of his infidelity.

You arrive at the restaurant clinging to his arm, cheeks slightly flushed from the spring air—or maybe from how snug your jeans have gotten over the past few months. You’d both joked about “relationship weight” at first, laughing it off whenever your tummy peeked out beneath your shirt or when your bra dug in just a little too much after dinner. But lately, the laughs had started to carry a different tone. A curious one. A lingering one.

Tonight, you feel him guiding you inside with something more deliberate in his touch. You’re aware of your figure in a way you never were before: the subtle sway of your hips, the softness of your belly pressing against the waistband of your too-tight jeans, the faint jiggle in your step that wasn’t there last fall.

The moment you step into the warm, fragrant air of the buffet, his hand moves to the small of your back, possessive, proud.

“Mmm,” he murmurs into your ear, eyes scanning the endless trays of food. “They better be ready to refill everything. You’re starving, aren’t you?”

You hesitate, but he squeezes your side gently, thumb brushing the top swell of your love handle. “Go on, babe. First round. Don’t hold back.”

You blush, but obey, loading your plate high—though not obscenely so. A few slices of pizza, a mountain of mashed potatoes, a pile of fried chicken. You return to the table where he’s already waiting with his own plate, much more modest by comparison.

He grins. “That’s my girl. Look at you. Already getting serious.”

You eat, trying to ignore the people around you—families, couples, waiters—but it’s impossible not to notice how he makes it a performance. Every time you bring a bite to your lips, he watches you like he’s witnessing a private show.

“God, I love watching you eat,” he says, loud enough for the couple at the next table to hear. “You’re getting curvier every week.”

You almost choke on your bite of chicken. He reaches across the table to stroke your thigh. “Go on. Let’s see what second plate looks like.”

You feel your cheeks burn as you stand, belly already pressing harder into your waistband. Your shirt rides up just enough to show the slight curve of skin. You waddle a little more than before. He’s watching.

Your second plate is obscene. Pasta dripping in cream sauce, fried shrimp, egg rolls, meatloaf, cheesy scalloped potatoes. You hear a soft clatter from another table as someone drops their fork, eyes wide. Are they watching you? Or is it just in your head?

No, you realize. It’s him. He’s making them watch.

He waves at you to bring two desserts along while you’re at it. You don’t argue. When you return, he stands up and pulls out your chair for you, like a gentleman in a 1950s movie. As you sit, your belly bumps into the table’s edge, forcing you to inch your seat back a little. The motion makes your breasts jiggle visibly.

He leans in. “You feel how tight your pants are?”

You nod shyly.

“Good. We’re not leaving until that button gives up.”

You laugh—nervous, breathy—but keep eating. Bite after bite. Each forkful feels like a dare, like an offering. And you can feel the difference immediately—your belly pushing heavier into the table, bloating outward, softening into full roundness. You’re growing, and he’s loving it.

He calls the waiter over and orders more drinks, extra rolls. “She’s a growing girl,” he explains, again just loud enough. “Needs her fuel.”

On your third plate, you slow down. The fork trembles slightly as you lift it. He scoots closer, one arm draped over your shoulders.

“You’re doing so good, baby. Just look at you. Practically bursting.”

And then, right as you shift to reach for your drink—pop—the button on your jeans gives way. Loud. Startling. Heads turn. Your belly, freed from its denim prison, surges forward with an audible sigh of relief, a wide doughy dome cradled by your stretched shirt.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s my girl.”

His hand lands on your belly in front of everyone—palming the round, taut mound, giving it a small jiggle. “Grew out of another pair. That’s the third time this month.”

You don’t know whether to laugh, moan, or cry—but the heat in your cheeks spreads downward. You’ve never been more aware of your own body.

You bury your face in your third dessert, a towering swirl of soft serve, as his hand stays on your belly, a proud weight that says: Look what she’s becoming. Look what I’ve made her into.

A wink, a grin.

She sees me across the room and there’s an electric energy between us.

We talk, I make her laugh, and within a few weeks we’re meeting regularly for coffee or lunch and talking daily.

Within 6 months she moves in to my place and we’re spending the evenings drinking wine and eating richly.

The first few pounds are hardly noticeable, almost excusable. “Well, we did have quite a bit of pasta last night so we’re probably just bloated. It’s not that serious.”

A pound or two turns into ten. Double that for the two of us.

She’s now sporting a little chub and my potbelly is coming along nicely.

As the holidays close in she and I start stretching out our wardrobes until buttons start bursting off of softened bellies and thickened waists, seams tear and fabrics groan over fattened thighs.

The bed starts creaking louder when I make love to her, and the couch almost seems to groan in protest each movie night.

After a year, we’re both undeniably, unmistakably fat.

My belly has swollen from pot to cauldron and her hips have begun brushing against the doorframes as she passes. Still, we eat. Whether we realize it or not we’ve gotten ourselves into a routine of eating rich home cooking until our bellies are overstuffed, then washing it all down with dry red wine or sweet meads. Each night we cuddle and our guts are achingly taut with excess, in the morning we are slightly more swollen than the one before.

Now I’m starting to have trouble reaching my arms around her when we spoon and certain positions are nigh impossible for two big-bellied lovers.

She’s starting to struggle to fit into most clothes from the rack and I’m wheezing every time I come up the stairs to our apartment. We’re both approaching 300lbs and no one is manning the brakes.

you standing back and appraising me, putting me in different positions to see me better, making little comments like “gosh you’re big”, or idly commenting on my shape

taking time to measure me, fingertips grazing over my widest parts, using extra long measuring tape, before and after a feeding, commenting on the growth

Your hands gently (or not so gently) investigating my body, groping me, lifting my breasts or my rolls, handling my soft places, pushing your palms into my belly, testing its fullness, how much more it’ll yield

casually address where you’d like me to grow, how big you’d like my belly - maybe write notes on me, label parts of me, little words of encouragement (or degradation)

talk about my body passively; use words like fattened and overfed, talk about your goals for my body, how much I need to be fed, and then describe how you’ll fatten me

The waistband digging in, zipper straining, that cute little pout when you realize they just don’t fit anymore. No matter how much you wiggle or suck it in, that belly’s taking up all the room, and it’s not going anywhere. You’ve outgrown them, plain and simple.

Then I wanna squeeze you into a cute little sundress, the kind that used to fit just fine …before you got all soft and greedy. Now it hugs every curve a little too tightly, rides up in the back and clings in all the places you can’t quite hide anymore. Especially that plump tummy pressing against the fabric showing off how well-fed you are.

It started out as a little fun, where she would over eat and enjoy the feeling of her stuffed belly. She was athletic and had an incredibly fast metabolism, so of course she would never gain weight. But, her body had other ideas. Eventually the excessive calories and the frequency of her stuffings began to show their true form.

Her metabolism slowed and her body transformed. Gone were her abs and in their place was the beginnings of a pot belly. Her toned legs and ass, now wobbling under a layer of fat. Her breasts, once small and perky had transformed into large, jiggling udders.

But she couldn't stop eating. She didn't want to stop. The feeling of her growing form was strangely alluring. Her body grew more sensitive as the weight piled on. She couldn't help but touch every part of her lard laden form.