Please dni if you commonly talk about death f3aderism, morbid obesity, extreme health issues, MPreg, or DDLG, it makes me uncomfortable and I usually look at who follows me :)
I'm not a f3ader or a f3adee and don't ever intend on being either. I'm more into soft and also fictional stuff, but I do like looking at actual fatties <3
Other knks that will appear:
• Alc intox 🍺
• Pet Stuff 🦴
• Voyeurism...? Maybe. 👓
• Masochistic Stuff / Bound Stuff / Torture ⛓️💥
• Vampirism 🦇
• Don't Know If Himbo's Count 🤨
• Whatever gets my gander on a certain day
But it's mostly bellies 🐖
Also, this is also kinda a Wilson blog...? I will occasionally post and reblog about House MD. If getting reblogged by a kink account bothers you, I will remove it. My kinks are my kinks, your boundaries are your boundaries.
Also, also, I am only 19, so do with that what you will.
It's Friday the thirteenth. A known day of bad luck. That must be the reason for all of this.
You work in a baking factory, churning out cookies to stores all over the country. Unlike in a bakery, everything is pretty much made from the same dough, with different flauvouring and small changes. And this dough is developed to be the most addictive possible, regardless off it's high sugar content.
You know this first hand, as you can never help yourself around the boxes of discarded batches, free for employees. What started as a small taste is now a few full boxes. Every day. Safe to say, it's visible around your waist.
Today, though, there is nothing more than crumbs on that table in the corner, and that is were your bad luck starts. You walk passed it at first. But the monotonous work at your station does nothing to keep your mind of the soft chewy chocolate chip cookies or sweet crispy carmel filled ones. You'd take anything, really. Just a small taste. But every one of your increasingly frequent visits to the corner gets the same disheartening result, the table is still empty.
As the end of the day approaches, your craving has turned into an outright need, and a plan develops in your head. You'll wait until your collegues leave, and then take what you so desperately need - it's tecnichally theft, but you are unable to help yourself at this point.
After the last goodbye, you turn the machine on again to pump out a few fresh cookies, aimed for your private bag instead of their usual boxes. Or better yet, they could go straight into your mouth.
You climb up onto the side of the convayor belt to get to the irresistable, fresh cookies faster. But with the recently gained weight, your dexterity is not what it was, and you end up slipping and getting stuck. Thouroughly stuck. At least the cookies are basicly falling straight into your face.
It's only when you have eaten a sizable enough amount to satisfy your greed, and then some just for the pleasure of it, that you realise what a precarious situation you have gotten yourself into.
You're still stuck. With your now packed and even bigger gut, only more so. The cookies keep sailing onto your face at a steady pace. There is no way you can reach the stop button from here. There is no one coming back until Monday morning. The only way to keep a mountain of cookies from piling onto you and suffocate you is to keep eating...
(A change in appearance makes a change in perspective. CW: weight gain, light slob, implied possession. Based on ideas explored with my friend Roswell.)
You didn’t even believe the message at first.
left my suit at your place, feel free to try it onnn
im headed back there in a month or two, I can pick it up then
You sighed at the idea that he was somehow doing you a favor by leaving it here for you, when it caught your attention by way of a holographic sticker of a fox reflecting from light of your bedside lamp, your eyes naturally settling to the one item newly placed into your room. A large black crate, adorned in stickers, leaned against your closet.
You tapped at the side of your phone, fidgeting with it by unlocking and locking it a few times before your eyes drifted back to the box. Might as well, you guess.
Setting the crate onto your bed with a grunt and a huff made the rickety frame creak. The container was much heavier than you thought. You realized too late how dirty the container must be, haphazardly skidding through airport carousels, thrown onto old hotel carpets, spilled on by drunk furries or whatever the fuck else fursuiters do. Too late.
You flipped open the black clasps around the perimeter of the box and swung the hinge open, revealing a chocolate-brown fur pile stuffed into the interior. What are you doing.
You pulled it out - a rounded, brown pig’s body with pale-pink accents. Simple, but you found it somewhat charming in its own way. You put both of your feet into the hoof shaped pajama-like bottoms and begun to pull up the suit, shapeless fabric slowly billowing out into a more human-like shape. The fabric held tightly, slightly restrictive against your own body. You were unsure if it felt more like a blanket or a straitjacket. When you got it over your shoulders, you shuffled over to the mirror to see how you looked so far.
Off. You looked off. A large, rounded body with a tiny head sticking out. You didn’t realize the suit was padded, but it must have been, the way your belly and hips had an extra plushy curve to them now. You chuckled at nothing in particular. You looked stupid. You felt stupid. You always thought this fursuit thing was a little goofy, and now, seeing the caricatured figure in the mirror, you still didn’t quite get it.
You gave a little pose to yourself in the mirror and laughed at yourself. Duh, you’re missing the head, surely that will fix everything.
At the bottom of the crate was the head, a gruff looking pig with a prominent snout. You gave a deep, dramatic breath and placed it over yourself.
It smelled vaguely of sweat, but not unpleasantly so. It was darker, looking through its cartoonish eyes, but you had more visibility than you expected. You shuffled over to the mirror again, outfit fully assembled.
Weird. You felt weird. You were staring at yourself in the mirror, but your form was distorted, pulled and stretched at the edges. Your plush belly had a satisfying curve, shading your waist with its volume, hips placed sturdily underneath, framed with a thick additional layer of costume fluff. Strangely, there was a feeling of looking at someone else, breaking the function of the mirror to see the image of the friend you saw going wild over the weekend where you should be.
Well, his suit at least. You thought back over the weekend; come to think of it, you don’t remember seeing him that much out of his suit at all, like he was following some kind of chivalrous code. You chuckled to yourself, a small snort laugh. You saw the pig in the mirror snort to itself too.
Lifting a tentative hand up, enrobed in a soft fur, you couldn’t help but think about how thick it looked, your form rendered larger by the plush, fuzzy layer on top. You placed it on your oversized belly, giving it a slow, circular rub. The pig in the mirror did the same. The feeling of fur against fur had a slight, satisfying resistance to it, and it made your own fur hair stand up on edge. It felt calming, feeling the fabric pressing up against the lining and transmitting those sensations to your own body, muted and amplified.
You placed both hands under the padded belly and gently lifted it, your doppelgänger doing the same. Your the suit head’s dead eyes watched the action with a kind of static adoration, and the fluff bounced slightly as you let it drop. It made you smile, despite yourself. You swear you could see the elation in the body language of the plush pig in the mirror.
—
He said to try it on. You definitely did that already. But there you were, dirty crate thrown back onto your bed, grabbing the head with your surrogate fuzzy paws to put it on again. Something about it felt satisfying. You looked at your augmented reflection in the mirror, and leaned back slightly, hands cradling both sides of your fuzzy belly, head in a prominent head-cock, more broad and characterful than you’d ever do in your own body without the suit.
Your hands were already absent-mindedly rubbing up and down your enhanced gut, the satisfying stimulation of your its fur against itself.
You wobbled your head back and forth a bit, watching your floppy ears follow a beat later. You felt the material lightly hit the sides of your head, almost like you could feel the sensations of your phantom appendages. You experimented with wiggling your plush thighs and ass, feeling the slight flick of your springy curled tail, rendered in plush detail.
Suddenly, you got the urge. It felt too honest not to try, and before your shame got the better of you, you let out a tentative SNORT. Something about seeing the chocolate-brown reflection in the mirror make that noise felt good. It felt right.
You could hear your heavy breathing in the mask, the way it resonated, sounding fuller and deeper. Like the snort did. You let out a more prominent OINK, feeling the noise almost rattle your head, the way it felt so booming, deep, and guttural.
You noticed the way your twin in the mirror would expand out and then contract with each heavy breath you took. This is what you look like, right now. This is you. You gave your belly a prominent smack and chased it with another OINK.
—
It had been a few extra wearings before you figured out the mouth could open, and you could even fit stuff in it. You had the idea to try chugging a two-liter - something suitably pig-like - and looking at the proportions of the bottle in your covered hands, it almost looked small, a light refreshment for a big pig like you.
You fumbled with your plush paws on the bottle cap for a moment longer than your other fingers would have managed, and carefully tipped your head back, using the bottle to help open your mouth, and shoved it around your lips.
Gulp after gulp, sweet liquid poured down, and you did your best to let it flow, the burn of the acid almost feeling hot against your throat, the sounds of the chugging liquid accentuated from inside the mask. You caught a glimpse of a brown pig tipping the bottle back, other paw on its belly, and you didn’t want to let it down by not finishing it immediately.
You closed your eyes and let the feeling of sugar calories wash over you, hearing your snorting breath through your nose as you drank. You felt your tongue taste air as the bottle emptied, removing the bottle from your lips with the bottle cracking from decompression. Licking your lips, you let the feeling of sugar and caffeine settle for a moment. You actually fucking-
A thunderous BELCH. A deep, rattling burp spilled out of your mouth all at once, the mouth of the pig opening slightly from the way your mouth was agape. Fuck. That felt good. You instinctually smacked your gut for good measure, and let out another belch to follow it up. You gave a good oink-oink and rubbed your belly covetously.
—
You found yourself wearing the pig a lot more. The restrictions from the fabric and padding started to feel more normal to you, and even a weird sort of comfort - soft like wearing pajamas in the winter, restrictive like a weighted blanket. it was still too warm, and you were sweating into it more, but you got used to the feeling, and it brought even more familiarity when you realized you were smelling more like it it was smelling more like you.
You don’t even know if you registered it consciously at first, but you had started eating more, too. There was a perverse pleasure in watching you the pig chug something, the sensation of your own belly pressing against the padding, but you wanted to revel in that hedonistic, gluttonous urge more often, so you started making more food, ordering extra, having dessert.
It wasn’t until it was noticeable in the mirror looking at your other self that you got worried. Your formerly lithe, even somewhat athletic build had softened, the shadow of a slight overhang on your boxers, a doughy midsection, face puffy with a hint of a second chin under the right light, the sharp angles of your elbows and calves blunted with a softness, hips thickened and ass rounded out.
Your first, sharpest pang of worry was would you get too fat to put on the suit again? The thought scared you for a moment, but as you slid on that familiar fur, you still felt the taut but supportive edges of the suit conform to you easily. You could feel the way the padding was collapsing weightlessly to make room for your newly added pudge, like memory foam compressing, and you breathed a snort of relief.
You smacked your gut with your paws, feeling a reverberant THUMP and a more substantial wobble undulate in response. You OINKED, your a pig’s natural reaction to something that excites it that deeply.
You felt ravenous.
—
You kept having a thought, more and more. The pig would be proud.
The elevator was out, and you had to climb a couple flights of stairs to make it to your desk, and you felt a deep lethargy on the last step, feeling yourself breathing heavier than this kind of effort would usually muster, which worried excited you. You thought about the way your breathing sounded more low and heavy in the mask.
The pig would be proud.
You remember how heavy you felt as you set the fork down and laid back in your chair, hearing a slight creak from behind. The buffet tasted so much better than you expected, and you couldn’t really help yourself. You remember getting full a couple plates ago, but you just wanted to keep going. You looked over the messy tablecloth, strewn with dirty plates, knowing it you did that.
The pig would be proud.
You became a bit of a mess. You were sweating more, and you couldn’t tell if it was the weight or the lack of exercise. Your shirts barely squeezed over your gut, and your place was littered with takeout containers you hadn’t bothered to clean up. You imagined the pig in this habitat, completely content.
The pig would be proud.
You were having trouble remembering the cause and effect. You felt like you were acting them out intentionally You felt like they happened to you incidentally It was just what came naturally to a pig you.
Sometimes, late at night, you’d find yourself laying in bed, rubbing your belly back and forth, slowly and deliberately, nursing the big meal you had that day, snorting to yourself, just for the pleasure of it, feeling your plush belly with your paws, though you don’t ever remember putting it back on, just like how you barely remember ordering as much as you do - is that any good for you? Has any human being even gotten this fat, this fast? It feels so surreal to look in the mirror and see a stranger, your own face made unrecognizable, your eyes so dead and empty compared to the pig.
HROINK. You The pig struggled off the bed, which let out a louder creak than it used to. Waddling over to the mirror, you it looked at its pig face, your its eyes filled with life, wiggling the head’s its snout with joy. You the pig hefted the suit’s its belly with both hands paws, feeling the weight.
The pig’s gotten fatter lately, the boundaries pushed out, annexed further, hips spread outward, ass wide and round, fat gut drooping into a deep, smothering overhang of fuzzy chocolate-brown, heavy chest swelled into prominent tits now, fat arms pressing into its sides and hanging at an angle, cheeks puffed out prominently, perfectly framing its large pink snout. It gave its belly a smack, watching the rippling jiggles oscillate from its gut to its thighs and up its fat chest. It squealed in delight.
what's in this: Secret feeder Annie thinks her new beanpole boyfriend could stand to put on a few (hundred) pounds, and enlists the help of her doctor sister to make it happen.
Also available on deviantart and ao3.
“See, isn’t he cute?” the girl said as she showed her sister a photo of her new boyfriend on her phone.
“Yeah, you can really see his potential here. I think you picked a good one, Annie.”
“I know! He’s a total beanpole and I’ve only managed to get five pounds or so on him, but look at that little pooch of tummy! So cute,” Annie cooed.
“I’ll see what I can do. Bring him in next Wednesday. I’ll give him a physical and some nudges in the right direction.” Annie smiled at her sister. It was so nice having a doctor in the family. Especially one that was sympathetic to her… preferences.
The next Wednesday, Annie brought her boyfriend, George, to the office of one Doctor Emily Smith.
“Isn’t it a little weird for me to get a physical from your sister? I know it’s free, but…”
“Oh, honey, don’t worry about it. Emily is a professional. She won’t make it weird or anything.”
George nodded, still feeling a little nervous.
Soon, George is sitting in a patient examination room, waiting to go through his annual physical. He notices that there’s a bowl with various candies sitting on a side table nearby. He figures they’re probably there to keep kids calm during their appointments, but decides that taking one won’t hurt. He pops a mini Milky Way into his mouth and chews slowly, glancing around the room. It’s pretty dull. Nothing to look at or think about, really. The bowl of candy catches his eye again. He really shouldn’t--doesn’t eating during a doctor’s appointment mess things up somehow?--but it feels like he’s been waiting forever. It’s been long enough since breakfast to justify having another little something. It won’t hurt anything, right? So he unwraps another candy and pops it into his mouth.
As he chews, Emily walks in and gives him a professional smile. They have met before, but only once. “Good to see you again, George. The nurse came in and took your blood pressure and all that earlier, yes?” George nods. Emily walks over to a computer and begins looking at the medical chart that the nurse filled out. “It looks like she weighed you as well… but hold on. That number can’t be right. Come step back on the scale.”
George looks confused. The nurse hadn’t said a number that sounded all that off to him--183 pounds. It was a little higher than his normal weight, but at his height, it wasn’t anything unhealthy as far as he knew. He gets up and steps on the scale. The readout is digital and right at Emily’s eye level. Within a few seconds, it reads the same number again: 183. “Wow,” Emily says, looking… George isn’t quite sure what her expression says. Worried? Surprised?
She gestures for him to sit down on the examination table again. She pulls out her stethoscope and presses it to his chest and back, asking him to breathe deeply in and out. She puts it back around her neck. “Well, George, your vitals all seem… fine.”
“But?”
“But… you’re underweight. Significantly. For someone of your height… well, let’s just say I’m concerned.” Emily looked incredibly serious. George felt his heart catch. Underweight? He wore mediums and larges, mostly. How could he be underweight? No one had ever said anything to him about this before.
“I’m going to recommend a diet that will hopefully get you to a weight that makes more sense for your height.”
“A diet?” He almost pouted. Annie had always told him that she would never put him on a diet. And did it even make sense to put him on a diet when he was underweight? Wasn’t that counterproductive?
Emily absentmindedly offered the bowl of candy to George and he scooped out another mini chocolate bar. “Yes. It’s not a traditional diet--it will include a lot of foods that are likely richer than you’re used to. We want you eating a more balanced diet. At your weight, there are significant concerns about malnutrition. We need to make sure to head that off at the pass and get you to a place where you’re more comfortable.” The doctor rifled through some papers before finding what she was looking for. She handed it to her patient. It was a copy of a meal plan.
“Annie will be more than able to help you follow this. And if you end up needing to eat more or you want to change any part of the meal plan up, feel free to do so. The caloric goals are the most important part. So long as you’re hitting those, you have the freedom to eat as much as you want. Fruits and veggies are important, of course, but we really need to focus on getting you to a healthy weight first and foremost.”
George nodded, staring at the meal plan. This was all a little overwhelming. He looked at what he was supposed to eat for the rest of the day. This diet recommended that for lunch he consume at least 1,500 calories. He didn’t even know exactly what that meant. How much food was that, exactly? He’d never had to count calories before. But he knew Annie would handle everything for him. She always did.
In the car on the way home, he told Annie about the new diet plan as she started to drive them home. She nodded very seriously and asked him what he wanted for lunch. “Maybe we could go to Subway or something? I kind of want a sandwich.”
“Baby, you can’t just have a sandwich.” Annie’s eyes shone as if she were close to tears as she glanced at him. “If Emily said you’re underweight, we need to make more careful choices about what kind of food you’re eating. The meal plan says if you don’t put on at least ten pounds this month, we’re not doing it right.”
“Oh…”
“Why don’t we just swing by Five Guys and get you a burger and some fries while you think about what else you want, hmm?” Her voice was sugar-sweet. It was almost a purr, the same voice she used when she was trying to convince him to pause the game he was playing and come join her in the bedroom. He could feel his face heating up.
He cleared his throat. “S-sure, we can do that. I don’t know if I’ll be able to eat after that, though.”
“Honey, it’s right by the mall, there’s plenty of choices there. You can get whatever you want. Emily said eating anything helps, right?” Somehow, Annie had his favorite look on her face, her eyes wide and deeply interested in him, her full lips parted slightly.
George nodded. “I guess I can decide once we’re at the mall.”
Annie gave one quick nod and sped up a little on their way to get her squeeze the first meal he’d ever have on his new diet.
***
Two months and fifteen pounds later, George had outgrown everything except his sweatpants, and even those were tight. The bottom of his belly peeked out of all of his shirts, and the sweatshirt he wore to try and hide this fact was so tight against his belly that he could barely get it zipped. Every part of him had gotten thicker.
He felt good. Annie complimented his progress daily. “Oh, honey, you look so good in that. Your clothes all fit so much better.” He would blush a little. He felt too big, but he realized it must’ve been because he’d been so underweight for so long he didn’t know what it felt like to be a normal weight.
She would rub a hand across his belly, her hand drifting to his soft underbelly and hefting it, her nails grazing against his skin in a way that made him bite his lip. He could feel parts of himself stirring as her wide eyes looked up at him with adoration and lust. There were the usual bits, but there were new things he felt when she looked at him that way now. If she gave his belly a kiss, his stomach would rumble and he would immediately remember the night she’d stuffed him with three boxes of Girl Scout cookies. Almost without thinking, he would head towards the kitchen to look for snacks, Annie in tow, making suggestions and offering to make anything that required more effort than opening a package.
At his monthly doctor’s appointments, he would now reach continuously into the candy bowl as Emily discussed his progress with him. “Everything’s looking good. You’re finally starting to approach a good weight for your height. How is Annie taking it?”
He smiled as he sucked on a root beer barrel. “She’s really happy.” He thought of her grabbing his now much thicker ass while they showered together. “I think she’s really liking seeing me get to a healthier weight.”
There was a sparkle in Emily’s eyes. “That’s really good to hear.” Emily had heard plenty from Annie already. Annie called her sister regularly to gush over George’s progress. In their phone call the night before, Annie had lovingly described a feeding session in which George had consumed over 5,000 calories over the course of an hour and a half, and how fat he’d looked afterward. Annie had then expressed that she hoped they could keep up George’s “diet” until he hit 400 pounds.
“Once he hits 400,” Annie had said, “I think he’ll be too far gone to stop.” Emily had agreed. George had taken to eating enough calories per day for three healthy adults like a fish to water, but both Annie and Emily knew there was a possibility that he might slip back into his old ways. They had also realized that he would need to start gaining much more quickly to satisfy Annie’s desires without her having to wait too long.
“I do think we need to up your intake, though. Your gain back to normalcy has slowed down quite a bit.”
“Really? I thought I gained more weight this month than I did last month.”
“Yes, but you’re going to have to work a little harder if we’re going to keep your metabolism in check. I am going to be sending a recipe to Annie for a shake you’ll need to drink three times a day. She’ll make sure it’s all prepared for you.”
As he munched on another piece of candy, he nodded. “Whatever you think is best, doc. I really appreciate it.”
As he walked out the door, Emily took a good look at him. Annie really had picked a prizewinner to fatten up.
***
Six months and dozens of prescribed shakes later, on top of the mountains of food he was now consuming, George was hardly recognizable. By the time he woke up each morning, Annie would have enough breakfast to feed a large family sitting at the dining table for him to eat, and he would waddle in to fill his belly before going to shower and get ready for work.
To Annie’s delight, George’s weight had mostly settled in his belly. It stuck out in front of him, bulging further outward and hanging lower with every pound he gained. His arms and shoulders had grown thicker, and his double chin was impossible to hide. His hips had widened enough that Annie had needed to get rid of all the chairs with arms in the house in order to keep George from breaking them.
George, somehow, hardly seemed to notice how large he was. Doctor Emily’s constant use of the term “normal weight” and Annie’s constant fussing over him and sneaky replacement of all his outgrown clothes had influenced his perception of himself such that he couldn’t really see himself as anything but a normal man, if maybe a bit above average in the belly area. He had noticed that he was constantly hungry, though. His response to certain sounds or things that Annie said or did were practically Pavlovian. With every kiss from her, every, “Oh, honey, I made your favorite,” every slight caress of his enormous paunch, he would feel his stomach rumble. Once that happened, all willpower he had around food seemed to disappear. Just one small suggestion and he would find himself begging to be fed. Annie never said no, and would always ensure that as soon as he was packed to capacity, she gave plenty of attention to all his other desires. He was lost in the most fattening feedback loop, with no ability to see it and no desire to get out of it.
On his last visit to the good doctor, she weighed him in at 400 pounds and proclaimed that they had finally cured his weight problem. Emily told George to go home and celebrate. He could hardly waddle back to the car fast enough. All he could think about was Annie and the huge, lavish meal she’d promised to prepare that day if he had broken 400 pounds. As he sat in the car, panting and trying to catch his breath, realizing he was getting harder at the thought of eating an entire ham by himself than he was at the thought of the inevitable marathon sex session, it started to dawn on him that maybe he cared too much about food, that maybe having the steering wheel digging into his belly rolls wasn’t a sign of being a “normal” weight, that he might want to go to the gym if walking just a few feet from the doctor’s office to his car was leaving him winded....
And then he got a text from Annie saying, “Dinner’s ready when you are, sugar!” and all introspection faded. Nothing mattered but getting home and eating.
So for a long time I've had this fantasy of an athletic girl who is out of a job and living somewhere expensive like New York. She meets across a married-to-wealth trophy wife who has a unique way of dieting: hiring someone to eat for her whenever she's feeling hungry. Needing a way to make ends meet, athletic girl agrees to the job, sure she can work off any excess pounds. But the trophy wife feeds her relentlessly, forcing her to eat up to five times a day, even calling her to come eat in the middle of the night. Exercise gets harder as she is constantly full and bloated. Soon, she is spilling out of her clothes, and can barely manage to waddle down to the bus stop without huffing and sweating, but the trophy wife is only increasing her portion sizes. Finally, the formerly athletic girl is too fat and heavy to walk anymore, and the trophy wife keeps her in the penthouse as her own trophy, feeding her endlessly
Have another one, you deserve it, you've had a long week at work. That work where you sit at your desk all day every day, really putting that well padded backside to use.
Have another. What do you mean, your beer belly is starting to strain all of your shirts? Don't think about that. Just let me get you another beer to show how much I love you. I love when you drink. Not only does it fill you up with so many liquid calories. It also does the rest so much easier. Makes you inclined to munch mindlessly at the crisps I place in front of you. And what goes better with beer than big steaks paired with mountains of fries and rich heavy sauce?
Have another beer. No, it's not too much. I can't wait for you to enter that perfect foolish state where I can persuade you to do exactly what I want. That's right fatty, ask less and drink more.
what's in this: second-person bring-your-own-gender fic where ✨you✨introduce yourself to a buff girl at the gym and ask if she'd be willing to help you with your gains, and she's more than happy to assist.
you can also check this out on deviantart and ao3 if you prefer reading in either of those places since this one is a little long for tumblr.
You’d been going to the gym pretty consistently for a month—long enough to start to recognize (and crush on) the regulars, not long enough to really see any results. There was one regular in particular who caught your eye: a woman who looked like she could pick you up with one hand. You’d be lying if running into her wasn’t the best motivation you had for going to the gym.
On impulse, you decided to approach her one day. You were nervous, palms sweating even though you hadn’t even begun your workout yet. Why were you so nervous? You were just going to ask her for tips. Maybe see if she would be willing to be your workout buddy. You could use the help, after all. You were a bit of a marshmallow, with no real muscle to speak of. The best you could say about yourself was that you weren’t fat.
As you walked up, she was doing pull-ups with an ease that left you a little awed. She was hardly breaking a sweat, though you could see the muscles in her arms straining against the tight sleeves of her cropped t-shirt. A few moments later when she dropped back down to the floor, you told her how impressed you were. “I’m hoping I can do that someday, but for now I’m stuck with noodle arms.” That made her laugh. Her laugh was deep and charming, and you could feel yourself losing your cool a bit (if you’d had any around her to begin with).
You chatted a bit longer, and mentioned you wished you had a gym buddy to help keep you motivated, and did she know anyone who might be looking for the same? “Well, I think we’re both here around the same time, right?” You tried not to think too hard about what it meant that she’d paid enough attention to you to know that. “I’d be happy to help out with your gains.” Her arms were crossed, and she had a smile on her face you couldn’t quite read—almost a smirk, but not unkind.
For the next hour, she put off her own workout to be your personal trainer. She was very nice the whole time, but seemed a little amused by how much you were struggling. You’d figured a month of regular gym visits would’ve left you in better condition, but clearly you’d been training all wrong. You were just glad your overexertion hid how embarrassed you were about barely managing four push-ups, and, later, that the layer of pudge on your belly made it so difficult for you to do a sit-up that she told you, “Maybe we should modify with crunches instead?” The modification helped, but you still struggled, flopping back onto the gym mat after just a handful while she did her best to be encouraging.
Mor. Ti. Fying. You almost regretted ever approaching her. You’d wrangled this poor woman into helping you, and by the end of it all you were pretty sure you might be beyond help. It was such a poor showing you briefly considered switching gyms to escape the humiliation. But as she finally helped you off the mat after another round of brutal bodyweight exercises, her hand firmly wrapping around yours as she pulled you up, she told you you’d done a good job. Being kind of a sucker for praise, you stood there with arms akimbo, sucking in air as you asked, “Did I?”
“We all start somewhere. You’ve got a solid base, though.” She walked toward the locker rooms with you. “I need to finish up here, but I definitely worked up an appetite. Do you wanna go get something to eat?”
You must’ve looked so flabbergasted that she immediately added, “I’d love to talk more about your gym goals. Maybe help you plan a weekly routine? And I’m starving,” she added, patting her flat stomach. God, she even had abs. Even a novice like you knew how hard it was to maintain visible abs. You couldn’t even imagine being that fit.
But maybe if you accepted her invitation, someday you would be. You could dream, right? So you told her you’d go get cleaned up and then wait until she was done. You tried not to sound giddy at the thought of sitting down to a meal with her. It wasn’t a date, after all. Just something you did when you had a gym buddy. (Though, it did feel a little counterproductive to eat out right after exercising. Maybe you’d both just get salads?)
Which was how you wound up sitting in a booth at a chain restaurant known more for their massive burgers and racks of ribs than their salads. She ordered up a storm—more food than you figured someone as fit as her would eat in one sitting, until she explained how much she had to eat just to maintain her physique, and something about protein and “macros.” You’d have to look that up later. Your stomach growled loudly as you looked at the menu. You were (unfortunately, in your mind) quite hungry after your workout and everything looked beyond tempting.
“Order whatever you want. My treat,” she told you. “Besides, you gotta think about upping your calorie intake if you really want to build muscle. It takes a lot of practice to be able to eat this much.” She laughed, but you realized she was serious. Apparently this was her fourth meal of the day.
That made your order—a mere full rack of ribs with a side of fries—seem much more reasonable. The onion ring tower appetizer also seemed like an excellent choice; you could share it, especially since she’d mentioned she was so hungry.
Her first entree—a massive salad packed with chicken breast—and the onion rings arrived at the same time. She tucked into her salad happily, and ate so eagerly you couldn’t help but join her, half the tower of deep-fried onion disappearing into your stomach before you could even really think about it. You offered her some onion rings, and she did eat one, but was otherwise content with her own food. You told yourself you could always have the rest packed up to take home—but they were very tasty, and you were hungry, and a little distracted by the good company.
Your ribs arrived so quickly you didn’t have much time to consider that maybe you were already full. The waiter set down a massive slab of a steak and an overflowing plate of fries in front of your dining partner, once again lulling you into the sense that what you’d ordered was reasonable for the amount of effort you’d put in that day. Between bites of her steak, she asked you more about why you were going to the gym, and what you were hoping to get out of it.
It felt a little ridiculous to talk about how you wanted to get fit in between decadent bites of barbecued rib and mouthfuls of french fries, but that was still true. “I mean, in an ideal world, I would love a body like yours. That was part of why I wanted to talk to you.”
“Aww, that’s so cute. I’ve never been someone’s muscle mommy before.”
You nearly choked at that. You were fairly certain your definition of “muscle mommy” was a little different. (Yours was more along the lines of the phrase “break my back like a glow stick, mommy,” and less “oh my god, you’re such a fitness inspiration! Would you be my muscle mommy?”) You thought you saw a bit of a sly look in her eye, but figured maybe you were imagining it. Trick of the dim restaurant lighting.
“Well, I could definitely use a mentor, as you clearly saw tonight.” You were halfway done with your ribs, and you wished you had only ordered a half rack. You’d eaten so many fries and you’d barely made a dent. But she was still eating, and the food was good, so you ate a few more fries, one more rib, and then another… until finally you were sitting back and stifling a belch, greasy barbecue and fried food resting heavily inside you, your plate clean except for bones. Even worse, she’d put her fries in the middle of the table, saying she was happy to share if you were still hungry. Mindlessly, you’d kept eating, even though you reminded yourself you were so full you felt a little sick, and that you definitely didn’t need the extra calories, and that still eating was probably making you look like a complete pig in front of a very pretty woman you’d once hoped to impress.
When the waiter came around again and asked if either of you would like dessert, she replied with an enthusiastic yes, ordering a big brownie sundae for herself. “The chocolate lava cake is pretty good. Definitely worth it, and it’d be nice to celebrate our new gym partnership.” Which made it seem like if you didn’t order dessert (even though you felt like you might need to be rolled to your car, and like you might pop on the way) she’d consider it rude. You took her suggestion, and ordered the lava cake.
When your desserts arrived, you were surprised by how large they were. Each was clearly meant to be shared between at least two people, and honestly would’ve easily satisfied three or four people. But she dug in with gusto, which meant you needed to do the same. Your gut ached. You ate slowly, trying to focus on the conversation and not your t-shirt riding up your stomach the tiniest bit, forcing you to keep tugging it down. You’d never felt this stuffed before. Your little squishy belly—usually small enough that you could hide it behind a couple layers—was bowed out in a hard curve, hot to the touch.
You finished your whole cake, plus the additional scoops of ice cream. If you could’ve taken a deep breath then, you would have, entirely because you were so grateful you didn’t have to eat any more.
Then she pushed her dessert across the table, and your stomach rumbled, already protesting as if it knew what she was about to suggest. “Do you want to polish this off? I think I’m tapped out for the night.” She patted her abs. You almost wanted to laugh. “I mean, it’s fine if you don’t—there just isn’t much left, so I figured it was better for it to get eaten now instead of get all soggy in my fridge at home.” She nudged the massive bowl a half inch closer to you with her fingertip. “You worked so hard tonight, I know you worked up an appetite.”
Something in her voice was… unexpected. Was she flirting? No, there was no way. She was just being nice. So nice you were actually thinking about eating the rest of her dessert, which you were sure had enough calories to feed you for an entire day. You definitely couldn’t eat it anyway. You’d glutted yourself so completely there was no way you could even get a bite down.
And yet, moments later, you’d picked up your spoon once again and started eating, ploughing through fudgy brownie and caramel sauce and ice cream. Soon, it was all gone, swirling in the churn of your overfed gut.
Walking out to the parking lot was more of a trial than the workout had been. You were out of breath, mostly because your diaphragm couldn’t expand properly with how packed full of food you were. She walked you to your car, saying what a good time she’d had, and that she’d definitely like to do this again. As you said your goodbyes, she had a big, beautiful smile on her face that almost put you down on your knees right there on the asphalt. “I’m really looking forward to helping you with your gains.” You could almost swear you saw her bite her lip for a second.
“I’m looking forward to it, too,” you told her with a final wave.
***
It took another two months for you to finally get it.
She was true to her word and kept training you at the gym, building up your strength and teaching you new skills day by day. You could tell you were getting stronger, though the progress was slow and… well, honestly a little hard to see.
Because at the same time, she’d also been taking you out to eat at least once a week. Not every meal was a blowout like that first one, but you started to get comfortable with feeling uncomfortably stuffed. You were eating a little too much on your own, too—serving yourself bigger portions, eating seconds and sometimes thirds. You started drinking protein shakes, because your cursory online searches had told you that eating extra protein was integral to building muscle. All that meant you had a little extra fluff around the middle, and elsewhere. Just enough that your clothes were getting a little too tight and showing more skin than you wanted them to. Just enough that if you lifted your arms, the soft roll of your belly was exposed.
You knew you were putting on weight, but told yourself it would balance out soon. Somehow.
The whole time, she’d been nothing but nice to you. Entirely friendly. Except those rare times when she seemed into you. You were sure you were imagining it. Someone like her definitely couldn’t be interested in someone like you. She was pretty and strong and knowledgeable and strong, and did you mention that she could absolutely pick you up with zero effort even though you were starting to get a little pudgy?
Not that you thought about her picking you up. Especially not when she nudged extra food across a table to you at dinner one night and told you just how well you did during your workout, and how you’d definitely earned a treat, and you replied, “I think I might’ve had a few too many treats lately,” and you swore that made her blush.
Another night, you overdid it again. Really overdid it. You gave yourself hiccups, you were so stuffed. And she kept ordering things, not even pretending they were to share. You both knew you’d eat every bite. And why was that, exactly? The first time, it was because you hadn’t wanted to be rude. Now, you had to admit you liked it. You liked eating not only everything you wanted, but everything she wanted, too. She was pushing you, just like she pushed you at the gym. Only this felt different. Sure, her telling you to struggle your way through another minute on the treadmill was kind of hot, in a way. You liked doing what she told you. But being told to glut yourself like this? It felt so illicit. Deliciously wrong. You’d never considered yourself a particularly kinky person, but eating like this, at her urging, pushed every button you had.
You waddled out of the restaurant with her, food-drunk and beyond turned on, and still unsure she was really doing any of this on purpose.
And then she had you pressed up against the door of your car, her leg wedged between yours and teasing you with the friction, her arms on either side of your head, caging you in. You were both breathing fast. She pressed up against you, her abs meeting your bloated belly. “God, you’re killing me with that appetite,” she hissed. “I kind of figured a softie like you might like to eat, but I never could’ve expected this.”
You whimpered as she dropped her hands to your stomach, then squeaked as she pulled your shirt up a little. “We’re in public!”
“That didn’t seem to matter so much while you were stuffing your face for everyone to see.” She pinched at one of the love handles that appeared in the last couple months, your nerves lighting up. “I’m more than happy to take you home for some privacy, though.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?”
Her tongue flicked out to wet her bottom lip. “I’d like to.” She lifted your shirt up even more, exposing your whole belly to the cool night air. You squirmed with embarrassment, but you didn’t want her to stop. “Let me take you home and appreciate all your hard work.”
