Broken Scale
I started gaining about a year and a half ago. It wasn’t really by choice; I met Dave and he pushed me into it so suddenly. I was a sort-of-thick, sort-of-athletic guy at 180 pounds. He told me on our second date that he wanted to fatten me up a bit. My mind went to that usual thing with couples where they both gain 10 or 15 pounds because they’re happy and comfortable. And I was already so happy — Dave was a perfect match for me. Handsome, kind, a bit dominant in the bedroom. I felt at ease with him right away and I leaned into the comfort pretty quickly. He ordered for me when we went out, which I thought was a bit strange but maybe sweet in an old- fashioned heteronormative way. Before I knew it he was stuffing me with melted ice cream and protein shakes and desserts every day and I weighed 217 pounds.
The gaining had become very intentional. Dave wanted me to get huge and I wanted to make Dave happy. I felt so sexy being that desired, and — I guess I’m not sure if all of that rewired my brain or something — I just loved being fat. It was liberating and sexual and taboo and it reinforced all of my most submissive impulses. I was less self-conscious than ever (Dave has such great ideas).
Dave kept track of my weight and we set specific goals. We did weigh-ins at his apartment because I didn’t own a scale. Our latest goal was 275 by the end of the year, which sounded massive to me and kind of scared me. One night, Dave came over with a box that had a little bow on it.
“Since you’ve made such good progress getting big for me, I wanted to get you a nice new scale of your own. That way, even if I’m busy, we can see how big you’re getting. I know you’re scared about the next goal, so this will help us ease into it more and make you feel more in control.”
I blushed at the gesture (Dave took such good care of me) and asked if we could try it out. Dave said yes and I stripped off all my clothes, even my socks and underwear. Dave told me that any extra weight from clothes was cheating and good boys don’t cheat. I never forgot to be a good boy. I stepped onto the scale and it read 225 pounds.
“Whoa! Are you sure this is right? That’s a little higher than I expected,” I said.
“Yeah, I’m sure it is. My scale is an old piece of shit, so it must’ve been off by 5 pounds or whatever.”
“Oh wow. I guess that’s kind of a milestone for me.”
“You’re doing so good, babe. I can’t wait to see you with another 50 pounds soon.”
Dave told me I should only weigh myself once a week: Friday mornings when I wake up. Otherwise I’d get obsessive or misjudge my progress. Weight can fluctuate a bit day-to-day. Of course I listened and ate even more than usual all week. I woke up Friday morning giddy to see the bigger number on the scale.
“225 exactly. That’s so odd, I was sure I gained a pound or two. Fuck.”
I told Dave my new (same) weight and he was also disappointed. “You need to eat more this week, and add a few more shakes in there. I want to see 227 at least by next Friday.”
And so I did. I stuffed myself to the point of exhaustion every day, including a few days with Dave. He rubbed my huge belly after I ate with him and he told me he could tell my efforts were working.
The next Friday morning, I stepped on the scale and it read the same thing. I looked in the mirror and saw a whale: puffy tits, a protruding belly that I loved to rub. I called Dave and told him it had to be broken because I had tried so hard all week to gain more than usual. His tone was more even than last week.
“It’s not broken, I tried it myself and it read my weight perfectly,” he said. “I know what’s happening. You reached a plateau. It’s really normal for gainers, you might not budge your weight for a few more weeks. You just have to keep going and push through and then the gains will happen really fast. You’ll see.”
I felt reassured (Dave is always right). I was so invested in gaining that I wanted to number to read 275 already, even though it still scared me a little. Honestly, this “plateau” made me even more determined and I ate constantly the next week. Friday morning came, I was still 225. I doubled down, ate more, still weighed 225. A month went by with the same results and I told Dave how I was feeling.
“I’m eating way more than I was before. At least two shakes every day, sometimes three or four. Eating huge meals, snacking through the day. I stopped exercising completely. I don’t know why my weight isn’t going up.” I absent-mindedly rubbed my belly while I was talking, comforted by the soft mass of rolls under my shirt.
“It’s ok! How you look and feel is the most important thing. You honestly look a lot bigger, I think your body is just getting used to the weight and distributing things a bit more. Look at your belly, it’s round as fuck and poking out pretty far! The scale will move eventually, we just have to keep trying as hard as we can. Try to enjoy it instead of stressing.”
He was right, of course (Dave is always right). I calmed down but stayed determined as hell to move the numbers on that scale. I’d go entire weekends without leaving the house, ordering tons of food and filling up until I almost felt sick. I felt myself getting bigger. My jeans (which I bought when I weighed 215 because my last ones were too small) felt so tight and I could barely button them up. My belly poked out under my shirts. My friends were commenting on my body more than ever (one keeps calling me “big bear”).
At this point it had been… 2 months? 3 months? since Dave got me my new scale. I looked at a photo from around that time and my jaw dropped. When things happen gradually, you don’t always notice the details. But I saw the comparison to what I looked like then and it the change was drastic. I thought “there’s no way” and stripped off my clothes to weigh myself. Still 225. I had a moment of doubt and grabbed my heavy cast iron skillet from the kitchen, which I knew weighed about 8 pounds. I held it in my arms and stepped back onto the scale.
225.
This confirmed everything for me. The scale was wrong and it probably had been the entire time. I felt a wave of relief followed by this unbridled emotion I couldn’t identify. I was crying but I wasn’t sure why. Just relief? Anger? Fear at what I really weighed now? It was all at once and I couldn’t pinpoint it. I ordered an Uber to Dave’s place, scale in hand and tears still streaming down my face.
Dave greeted me with confusion and concern. “Oh my god. What’s wrong?! What happened?”
I told him everything. “I don’t know why I’m crying, I guess I’m just confused and feel stupid. Who even knows what I weigh now.”
Dave took it all in, sat back, and laughed. I stopped crying immediately out of surprise. “Finally!” he said. “That took so long for you to figure out, I was waiting for you to realize. It was just a little joke.”
“Joke? What are you talking about?”
“It’s a prank scale, it’ll always read 225 no matter what. You were starting to slow down on the gaining and you were so scared about the next goal, so I figured this was the best way to keep you on track. And it worked! Look at how much bigger you’ve gotten over the past few months. No way would you have made this kind of progress without that scale.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was totally stunned into silence. He was right, of course (Dave is always right). But I was still left with no clue what I weighed and his prank felt like a betrayal.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Let’s see what you really weigh now.” He took me to his bathroom scale and I stripped off all my clothes, my bigger-than-ever belly spilling out of my shorts when they dropped. I was scared to look down when I stepped onto the scale, so I looked straight ahead. Dave looked at the number for me (Dave is always kind).
“Looks like we need a new goal soon, kid. You’re at 268.”
…
“You’re gaining faster than ever and that appetite is roaring. Let’s aim for 300 next, you’ll get it in no time.”
