Toastycoon

Especially since your alarm clock hadn’t gone off this morning, and in your mad dash to make it to work on time, you’d forgotten to grab breakfast. Now it was nearing ten in the morning, and you’d had yet to even make it over to the office snack stash to sate the roaring hunger of not only your belly, but of your mind.

As you sit here, squirming in your creaking office chair, constantly interrupted by tasks, emails, and messages, you mourn the lost food you could’ve stuffed into your mouth.

You know you “shouldn’t” feel that way, that you should be pleased you’d made it this long without a meal — you know several of your coworkers are probably secretly thinking this is good for you, given how they’ve watched you balloon over the last few years.

The hunger you feel makes it hard to think that way, though. All it makes you is irritable, desperate, and immune to the embarrassment that comes with being this affected by simply being a little late to your usual meal time.

In a brief reprieve, you manage to heave out of your office chair and waddle your way to the snack stash at the back of the office. Your belly leads the way, pressing hard against the front of your shirt, which is only covering anything because it’s tucked into the front of your pants. Even those are holding on for dear life against your burgeoning belly, your belt on its last notch and the zipper teeth pulled tight.

Your thighs chafe against one another, the inner stretch of your pants pilling and near threadbare. Your footfalls are loud through the office, amplified by the way you huff and puff while you haul yourself a mere few yards to your chance to put another chin under your face.

You grab for a baggie of cookies, some chips, a candy bar, and a soda from the fridge. Before you even get back to your desk, the candy bar is gone, and your hand is stuffed into the bag of chips while the other items are wedged between the fat of your arm and chest.

Your chair shudders as you plop back into it, the arms pinching your ass as you shimmy close to your desk once more. The curve of your middle brushes the edge of the table as you reach for your keyboard, and your head spins as it smacks you over the head just how fat you’ve gotten.

You don’t care if anyone sees as you shove your snacks into your mouth so quickly that some people might miss that you even had any. You’re too, suddenly, thrilled by the idea of stuffing yourself so fat and full that reaching the keyboard isn’t even a possibility.

You bite back a whimper as you subtly brush the sides of your belly with the heels of your palms, reveling in the new growth left there even from just last week. Arousal courses through you, throbbing in your groin, as you squirm in your seat again. Your face is flushed, turned on and frustrated that you can’t immediately take care of it.

You try to control yourself, but ten minutes later, you’re back up to grab more snacks. You think you’re being discreet, but the wobble of your ass makes you difficult to miss. You need to invest in bringing some of your own snacks, you think, as you fight the urge to clear out the snacks in one fell swoop.

Twenty minutes after that, you go to your boss to ask if you can go home early, claiming you might be coming down with something, and hoping nobody notices that the front buttons of your shirt are showing just a little skin between them.

~~~~~

Nearing four hundred pounds is a lot, but when you’re this worked up, it’s not nearly enough.

You know you should just go home and have a normal, if not large, meal and call it good. You’ll get full, get off, and get it out of your system.

However, as you sit at a stoplight, your stomach growls at the sight of the fast good drive through. You try to ignore it, but your eyes and your mind keep drifting. You bite your bottom lip, gripping the steering wheel until your knuckles are white. You get a brief flash of what you would look like if you were so fat and so stuffed that you’d wind up wedged by the steering wheel, and that’s all it takes to break your self restraint.

You’ll just get a regular order, you think as you pull into the line, but you wonder what it would be like to order the whole menu. You blush at the thought of being stuffed to the gills, stuck on your back with your domed, red, tight belly in the air above you. You wonder, excited, what your belly would feel like under your hands as you rubbed and fondled it.

You blush, both out of eagerness and out of shame. You know you shouldn’t be excited about such a concept — no normal person gets this excited about eating enough food to last someone nearly a week, let alone knowing just how much damage it’ll do to your waistline.

Before you can stop yourself, you order enough for five people anyway.

“I’m getting together with some friends,” you lie, and the cashier laughs along with you. When you pull up to the window, though, you can see it on their face that they don’t entirely believe you. Your face goes even redder, but then the food is in your hands and the excited thrill of eating it all makes you forget about it entirely.

It’s like you go into a trance. Once you start thinking about it, you can’t stop. And once you actually commit, there’s no going back. In fact, you tend to go even farther than you’d initially planned.

You absentmindedly nibble on some fries and sip at your large soda as you drive, only to find, once you get home, that all the fries are gone, your soda is empty, and you’d eaten half the twenty-count chicken nuggets without even noticing.

You want to chide yourself, and there’s a brief bout of shame that surges from your belly, but a deep, growing part of you is in love with how your gluttony took over without you even trying. Like many times before, you know you’ll be beholden to your urges and unable to control yourself.

Deep down, a slowly-diminishing voice asks if this is a good idea. You might be in deep, but you can always stop — better late than never — and start shedding pounds rather than adding them on.

Your belly growls, and the thought of eating so much that it hurts drowns out your doubts. Every day, you grow closer to not caring what you or other people will think about adding another hundred pounds to your figure.

You get yourself into your apartment as quickly as you can, and you don’t even change out of your work clothes before settling onto your groaning couch to gorge on your fast food meal. The buttons on your shirt are puckering, straining against the increasing fullness of your belly. When you sit, it pushes your belly outward, and with that, one of the buttons pops open.

Your face goes red and hot, and you sit there, frozen, as one hand slowly reaches forward to feel the newly exposed skin, like you can’t believe that just happened. As it stands, you can’t see it all too clearly either. You whine and squirm in your seat, but rather than let any mortification take over, you grab for your drive through bag and pull out your first burger.

It hits your tongue, and you immediately feel yourself slip into a daze. You slump back into the couch, taking huge bites and hardly chewing between swallows, while one hand finds its way to your gut. You whimper, feeling the soft flesh give under your palm as it fights to break out of your shirt. You can’t help but moan at the thought of eating this shirt to tatters, shoving the last bite into your mouth and grabbing for the next burger.

Cheese, double patties, all your favorite toppings in excess, with added fried onions. It’s heaven in your mouth, and you rub circles along your belly as you eat three heaping beef burgers in less than ten minutes. You feel drunk off it, hardly registering at all just how much you’ve already eaten.

You can feel a tightness in your stomach, but that’s part of the thrill, so you allow your hand to move on autopilot, reach for the rest of your chicken nuggets, and shovel them into your mouth one after another.

Your belly presses onto your thighs with every added bite. Over the sound of your biting into your fried chicken sandwich, you’re pretty sure you can hear the buttons of your shirt whining. Your belt is digging hard into your stomach, but, despite the slight mortification, you’re intent on popping at least one more button.

Topping off your soda, four sandwiches, and double-serving of chicken nuggets, you bring the straw of your double chocolate shake to your lips. The cream is thick and heavy, and you sigh through your nose and shut your eyes as you gulp, your free hand rubbing even faster circles into the side of your bloated belly.

You pause only to avoid a brain freeze and take a breath, which makes it painfully obvious how full you are. You can’t even expand your lungs all the way, and you whimper and blush as you press onto the growing firmness of your middle.

Your fingers tease the growing holes between your shirt buttons, and you squirm where you sit as you desperately chug more of your milkshake, whining as you silently plead for one of them to—

Pop!

The straw leaves your mouth with a snap, and you palm eagerly at your newly exposed skin while you rock in your seat. The fat of your thighs and fatpad create a delicious pressure between your legs, and with the added feeling of relief from your massive, domed belly breaking free of its confines, your orgasm snaps through you, too.

You suck down the last of your shake as you ride the wave of your pleasure, that crest peaking higher as you blush bright red while blatantly getting off on stuffing yourself with excess calories upon calories. Your hand clutches at the front of your belly, hooking your fingers into the growing maw that was once your belly button, and gives the stretched flab a languid shake.

Your whole body shudders as the several-meals-worth of food jostles inside you, barely contained by skin soon to be riddled with even more stretch marks.

Several feelings course through your mind as you come down from your high. First is relaxation and relief, finally getting that intense need out of your system. Second is shame and embarrassment, face flushed as the post-nut clarity hits you and you’re left with an aching belly and a lost button; you wonder what an outsider might think if they saw you, a glutton helpless to your own urges, uncaring for the indecency of your fat gut on display and half a dozen fast food wrappers laden around your bloated figure. Third is just a glimmer at first, something fluttering in your belly, and it’s amplified as you rub both your hands across your distended belly and roam them over the growing mounds of fat on your chest, your sides, your thighs, your ass.

Your hands return to the front of your belly, where you finally undo the buckle of your belt, followed by the button of your pants, but your belly makes work of the zipper on its own.

You moan with relief as your belly is granted total freedom, no longer pinched by the waistband of your pants.

Finally, your mind settles on one last feeling: more.

The rest of your shirt buttons follow your pants, undone and open, exposing the entire expanse of your belly and every roll and fold that comes with it. Suddenly, though not without more blood rushing to your cheeks, you find you’ve got more room in that belly of yours.

With a bit of a heave, thrown slightly off-kilter by the swell of your gut, you get to your feet and find your body moving before your brain can catch up to what it’s doing.

Before you know it, you’re standing in your kitchen, in front of the open pantry door, with your hand stuck in the double-sized box of sandwich cookies you just got from the store the other day. Grocery runs are dangerous for you, especially when hungry and unable to discern between what you need and what you want, because now it means you’re stocked up and held hostage by your desire to clear out all your cabinets immediately.

Your pudgy hands rip open the packaging as you stand there, and the cookies find your lips two at a time. You huff and grunt as you stuff them into your mouth, chocolate crumbs and vanilla cream dancing down your throat.

You feel like you’re outside your own body, like a dream, watching your hand work between the box and your face again and again and unable to stop it. You simply allow yourself to get lost in the taste of them, one of your favorite treats, and the would-be concern and horror of eating the entire box in one go falls to the wayside.

The empty packaging gets tossed aside, your body intent on getting more food inside it. You reach for the family sized bag of chips next, the bottom of the bag resting atop the dome of your belly as you shovel them into your mouth by the handful.

Your trunk-like legs quiver slightly below you, but you’re too focused on eating the entire bag of fried chips to care.

Chips gone, you reach for the bag of chocolate covered nuts next, then the box of crispy fried onion toppings, then the entire box of fruit gummy bags, until your easily-attainable snack foods are completely wiped out.

You lean back where you stand, groaning as you arch your back to accommodate the front-heaviness of your stuffed belly. You stare down at it through half-lidded eyes, lust and your stuffing-haze clouding your mind. Your belly is red and angry, jutting out far and wide, looking half like it’s ready to burst.

Your brows twitch together, mouth falling open on a soft gasp. Even your chubby hands look small against the taut skin.

You stare around yourself, taking absentminded inventory of the dozens of now-empty food packages littered over the counter and floor. You think, again, that you should be mortified. Maybe there’s still a part of you that is, but that’s also the very thing that makes it all the more appealing.

People enjoy the taboo. It just so happens that your favorite taboo doesn’t quite align with the broader public.

Below you, your legs begin to ache as they struggle to keep you upright. You’re not done yet, though, as your belly groans and churns through your multitude of meals wrapped in one.

Your body won’t be sated until you can’t move from under all the food you’ve consumed.

The freezer is your next target. A couple pints of ice cream, half a box of ice cream sandwiches, the tube of edible cookie dough you got with the intention of saving it for a special occasion: all of this gets cleaned out while a double helping of frozen mac and cheese cooks in the microwave.

It only needs to cook for a cumulative ten minutes, but all the ice cream is gone and you’re halfway through the thawing cookie dough when the microwave dings.

The gooey noodles are forked into your mouth in a steady stream, and you whimper thinking about how many boxes of this you’d be able to eat in a row.

As it stands, after all the other food, this one is topping you off nicely. You cradle the plastic container on top of your chest and practically slurp the cheese like a drink. Your belly groans from it, and you sway drunkenly as your stomach pangs from how full you are.

It’s a high you can’t get enough of. Your skin swells out in front of you, a testament to your greed and gluttony. You wish you’d taken a picture of yourself before you’d made a total hog out of yourself, just to revel in the addicting feeling of how big you made yourself.

You toss the pasta container into the sink and raise the second half of the cookie dough to your mouth. It’s soft now, and you take a massive bite where you’d once just been gnawing. Your other hand pets your belly, and you shiver feeling just how firm it is. The skin tingles where you touch it, oversensitive and delicate where you know big rippling stretch marks have bloomed.

Your hand roams downward, and you have to strain slightly in order to feel any soft fat able to be pinched. The rest of your belly is round and tight, completely filled to bursting, and you whine softly at the pain you experience when pressing your hand down on it.

In just a few minutes, the cookie dough is gone, and though you won’t have before and after pictures, you’re still wearing your work clothes.

Your chins and cheeks bunch against your face as you look down at yourself. Crumbs and ice cream drops are stuck to the red curve of your belly. The sleeves of your shirt already feel like they’re pinching. You feel uncoordinated as your pudgy hands grasp the buttons of your shirt, impeded by the sheer girth of your belly.

You pull, curious to see how hard it’ll be to close this shirt back up. The two buttons around your chest meet each other, if not with a little difficulty, but the third one needs another inch of give to even stand a chance. You try to suck in your gut, but that proves futile the instant you attempt it.

The button below that is in even worse shape, and not just because that’s the one your hedonism snapped off and sent flying across the room earlier.

You yank and tug, remembering that it had actually been easy to get this shirt on that morning. Now, the fastener looks miles apart, more than half a foot of space leaving the curve of your belly entirely exposed. Your face goes red, and you allow yourself to pretend that this was your predicament this morning, or even at work had you stuck it out the rest of the day and gotten yourself some lunch. You imagine the horror and desperation you’d feel snapping off buttons in the office and left with red, stuffed skin exposed for all your colleagues to see, completely unable to hide what a fatass you are.

You whine and gasp, heat throbbing between your legs, as you try for your pants next. If the shirt was impossible, the pants are completely out of the question. With so much food packed inside you, you can barely even reach for the fly of your pants, totally impeded by the expanse of your stomach. When you do manage to grab the button, you know there’s no question: there’s no stuffing your belly back behind the waistband.

You drop the attempts and return to rubbing your belly, moaning softly as you tremble all over.

You’re completely at the mercy of your impulsive desire right now, unable to stop yourself as you chase your pleasure and crack open the door to the fridge. Deep down, you know you should stop. You don’t want to actually hurt yourself, but the forefront of your mind isn’t concerned with that right now. In fact, you know, as you float through your fatass autopilot, that the only thing you’ll be cognizant of later is just how many pounds you’ve tacked on.

Leftover pizza slices make it into your mouth cold, a quarter-used tub of chocolate frosting disappears as you scoop it into your mouth with your hand, a block of sharp cheddar cheese leaves crumbs down your stomach as you bite straight into it. Each bite gets faster and faster, trying to outpace the hunger pangs, trying to avoid your brain telling you you’re full. If you eat fast enough, by the time it registers, it’ll be too late for you to stop.

You’re cramming a couple slices of leftover blueberry pie into your mouth when your legs finally have enough of holding up your heft. You groan, licking berry syrup off your fingers as you brace one hand on the counter and begin to sink to the floor.

Your belly is well and clearly in the way, and your face goes bright red as you huff and wheeze around trying to ease yourself down onto your ass. You land on your knees first, shifting and turning until you shake the floor when you land on your ass and slide your feet out from under you. Your legs stick out, spread to make room for the growing sphere of your belly, the heft of it pressing hard against the tops of your fattening legs. It’s then you realize that, if you were just a couple dozen pounds heavier, all that stuffing would have your belly cleanly touching your knees.

A gasping whine slips last your lips as you lean against the cabinets and stare at your mess of a belly, so big and round that you can even feel it pushing the flab of your chest up into your chins. You rub your hands over the skin, admiring with trepidatious glee just how far it sticks out from your body. You can hardly believe it’s yours, but it is, indeed, connected to your body, despite it seeming to have a mind of its own.

Food wrappers are littered all around you, the glow of the fridge casting delicate shadows across the floor. Your brow furrows, heat rushing to your face as you wonder, briefly, what you’ll have left to eat for the rest of the week.

Even so, it doesn’t stop your eyes from drifting back to the fridge, where they meet the still-mostly-full gallon of whole milk sitting in the door.

Your hands move of their own free will, hooking your fingers through the handle and knocking the door closed. The cap gets dropped onto the floor to roll away, out of sight, since you won’t be needing it anymore.

The top meets your lips, cool and creamy, as you tip back the jug and let it fall down your throat. You hardly have a chance to breathe, gasping through your nose each time you pause to swallow. It makes you even more woozy than you already are, head spinning as you drift through your haze of gluttony and desire.

As the milk jug lightens, you release one hand from it to instead place it against your belly. You don’t even have to focus in order to feel your belly swell out against your palm with every gulp. Your stomach groans in mild protest as the milk fills in every lasting available gap between the countless foodstuffs taking up residence, but your mind is chasing the thrill of finishing the final swallows of your heavy drink.

When you reach the end, you lap at the rim and over your lips, making sure not to miss a drop, and taking in shallow, gasping breaths. Your lungs, along with the rest of your organs, are pressed for space as your stomach becomes the star of the show.

Feebly, you place the empty jug down and plant both hands against your stomach and rub. The pressure is almost too much, despite hardly applying any at all, and you whimper as you try to shift your body to get more comfortable.

The attempt is futile. You’ve done what you desired: eaten yourself into being stuck where you’re sitting.

Your belly is red and shiny, swelled beyond comprehension. You almost can’t believe it, but you’re too full and woozy to feel any sort of mortification about what you’ve just done. All you can do is stare at yourself, belly sticking out what must be nearly three feet, and pushing out to the sides against your arms in an attempt to put all that excess somewhere.

You’re a beached whale, trapped by your own gluttony. Rather, your inability to control it.

Desire courses through you like a fire. Your groin throbs relentlessly, and all it takes is one gentle press on top of your belly, pushing it down onto your lap, for you to be a moaning mess, coming through your underwear and leaving you sticky and wet.

Your brow furrows, your moans lilting up into pained whining, as the pulsing in your core squeezes your strained stomach, once again highlighting just how stuffed you are.

Your hands rub tender circles over your skin, and you allow your eyes to slip shut and focus on simply breathing, not moving another inch in hope of avoiding upsetting your stomach. You revel in simply feeling how large you are, how round, how unapologetically fat.

You blush as you begin to come back to earth — as much as you can despite your brain’s inability to focus on anything other than how full you are and the twinges of pain emanating from your stomach — and consider what anyone else would think if they saw you. You bite your lip, imagining the looks passersby would give you if they could see you — the way they’d gawk, do double takes, point and whisper behind their hands about how ashamed you should be, how unapologetic, how you’re such a fat pig with no self control and someone needs to take food away from you, for your own good.

Those thoughts flash through your own mind, but there’s nothing you can say in response. You simply can’t help it; there was no stopping your tear until it left you pinned in a stupor, glutted beyond recognition and knowing, deep down, that it’ll be even worse the next time as you attempt a high greater than the one you experienced today.

~~~

It takes hours, but eventually, you digest enough that you can get yourself to your feet without feeling sick. It takes all your effort, and you need to turn over onto your hands and knees in order to get the leverage necessary to hoist yourself up. You whimper pathetically when it makes the front of your belly kiss the floor, and if you’re not careful, it’ll trigger your fattening desire all over again.

With effort, you shed your clothes, and you swear you already have new fat accumulating on the outside of every inch of your body.

The following day, you call out of work. A stomach bug, you say, and you’re not far off.

Unable to control yourself, you’d eaten yourself even further into a food coma the night before, leaving you still feeling stuffed the following morning. None of your shirts would cover all of that skin, and you’d blushed ten different shades of red as you accepted you’d need to stay home to overnight-ship some new, larger clothes to your front door. You wonder if any of your coworkers will notice, and if they’ll comment. Whether they know the reason behind it or not, you’ll blush anyway and say it’s been sitting in your closet for some time, ignoring how obvious the lie is, given all your clothes as of late, the ones you’ve worn for years, have been tearing at the seams around your growing body.

Of course, you’d eaten yourself into an orb that day too, ordering endless streams of takeout, leaving your bedside table piled high with bags and containers, showing off the multitude of meals you’d managed to stuff into your face by the end of the day.

As you sit leaned up against the headboard, you gasp and whine, rubbing your belly that now well and truly does touch your knees as you sit. Your whole body is noticeably bigger, all that food fattening you up an inordinate amount.

There’s nothing on your mind other than getting food and getting fatter, and you’re half tempted to call out of work the following day and do it all over again — three days in a row of pure, unstoppable gluttony and hedonism.

No, five days, you correct, as you realize tomorrow is Friday.

Despite being so stuffed you can’t move again, you decide before really thinking that you’ll be staying home again tomorrow. You whimper after a few moments, realizing it’s purely because you’re already planning what food you’re going to order, and how much of it, and if you’ll be able to keep yourself stuffed to the gills from morning till night with no reprieve.