“Hold still, piggy," the manager mutters, his voice as flat and clinical as the fluorescent lights overhead. He doesn't look at your face, he’s too busy assessing the fresh real estate you’ve developed since yesterday. His gloved hand glides over the soft, doughy muffin top spilling over your waistband, kneading the warm dough of your side before he presses a large, cold stamp against the skin. You shiver as the ink takes hold, leaving a perfectly centered advertisement for the Oreo McFlurry now decorating the bulge of your waist. It’s your first "contribution" of the day, and it earns you a fifty percent discount, but you know you aren't leaving until you’ve earned the whole tray.
He moves to your chest next, muttering about your growth being “impressive” under his breath as he realizes how much your cleavage has overgrown since the last session. He has to ask you for help to push your heavy breasts together, just so he can fit the "20 Pc. McNuggets" stamp across the top of your udders. You’re breathing heavy already, the scent of fryer oil and salt making your head swim while you watch him tally up the "Ad Space" on a digital tablet. You’re becoming a top-tier partner in the Rewards Program, a status that’s reflected in the way your pants are screaming at the seams, the fabric literally failing to contain the "McGriddle" deal stamped across each cheek of your ass as it spills out the back. These days you’re wondering whether you should wear fewer clothes or not, after all it’s more ad space visible and you’ll outgrow them soon enough anyway. He grabs the next stamp~
It’s time for crown jewel, the front and center ad space… the underhang. The manager has to kneel down for it, his hands bracing against your thighs as he hoists up the massive, sagging apron of your belly. It’s thick and heavy, flowing out over your waistband like a slow-motion landslide of fat. He carefully aligns the "Big Mac" logo, pressing it firmly into the center of your belly where the fat is softest and most visible. You let out a shaky breath, your legs trembling from the effort of standing as the ink bites in. It’s a foolproof business strategy really, you’re more than enough proof of that. You’ve grown so much that the ads are starting to warp, the golden arches stretching out into long, thin lines across your hips, but you don't care. You’re too addicted to the constant flow of salt and grease, too deep in the hole to ever pay for a meal with actual money again. You traded it all away for your gluttony.
"Excellent growth," he says, finally looking up with a smirk as he slides a tray across the counter. It’s stacked high with enough food to feed a family, but it’s all for you. "You've got enough room for the Premium Piggy tier today." He pulls out a set of darker, permanent-looking stamps, and your heart skips a beat. These aren't for the menu. He presses the first one into the curve of your shoulder: Body Built by McDonald's. The next one goes right on the peak of your distended gut: Property of the Golden Arches. You watch the ink settle into your stretch marks, realizing that you’ve long since left customer status and moved into the category of ‘asset’ and McDonalds wants a return on their investment~
You’re tearing into the first burger before you’ve even left the counter, your mind a hazy, sugary mess of submission. This happens more often than not, you can’t really stop yourself anymore once the food is front of you. The manager has to shoo you away to a table as you waddle past the line of waiting “billboards”. They’re all different levels of obese, some smaller and some bigger than you, but they all have the fading ink on their overfed, overgrown bodies as evidence of yesterday’s advertising efforts. Most of them are breathing heavy just from standing, but they’ll gladly wait it out for today’s ads and food. You waddle toward a table, each thudding footstep echoing through the restaurant, announcing your presence as a "Fast Food Piggy" to everyone in the booths. You know they're staring at the way the ads jiggle and warp on your flab, but the shame's been drowned in a sea of high-fructose corn syrup and a growing pool of pleasure between your thighs. You're already thinking about tomorrow, wondering if you can squeeze out a few more inches of ad space on your thighs just to see if he'll give you a second tray. It’s worth a shot you think, as you polish off your fries. Every day is a cycle of constant gluttony and anticipation for you, a permanent billboard for obesity, a loyal, branded cow who's found her purpose at the bottom of a fast food bag <3
“Hold still, piggy," the manager mutters, his voice as flat and clinical as the fluorescent lights overhead. He doesn't look at your face, he’s too busy assessing the fresh real estate you’ve developed since yesterday. His gloved hand glides over the soft, doughy muffin top spilling over your waistband, kneading the warm dough of your side before he presses a large, cold stamp against the skin. You shiver as the ink takes hold, leaving a perfectly centered advertisement for the Oreo McFlurry now decorating the bulge of your waist. It’s your first "contribution" of the day, and it earns you a fifty percent discount, but you know you aren't leaving until you’ve earned the whole tray.
He moves to your chest next, muttering about your growth being “impressive” under his breath as he realizes how much your cleavage has overgrown since the last session. He has to ask you for help to push your heavy breasts together, just so he can fit the "20 Pc. McNuggets" stamp across the top of your udders. You’re breathing heavy already, the scent of fryer oil and salt making your head swim while you watch him tally up the "Ad Space" on a digital tablet. You’re becoming a top-tier partner in the Rewards Program, a status that’s reflected in the way your pants are screaming at the seams, the fabric literally failing to contain the "McGriddle" deal stamped across each cheek of your ass as it spills out the back. These days you’re wondering whether you should wear fewer clothes or not, after all it’s more ad space visible and you’ll outgrow them soon enough anyway. He grabs the next stamp~
It’s time for crown jewel, the front and center ad space… the underhang. The manager has to kneel down for it, his hands bracing against your thighs as he hoists up the massive, sagging apron of your belly. It’s thick and heavy, flowing out over your waistband like a slow-motion landslide of fat. He carefully aligns the "Big Mac" logo, pressing it firmly into the center of your belly where the fat is softest and most visible. You let out a shaky breath, your legs trembling from the effort of standing as the ink bites in. It’s a foolproof business strategy really, you’re more than enough proof of that. You’ve grown so much that the ads are starting to warp, the golden arches stretching out into long, thin lines across your hips, but you don't care. You’re too addicted to the constant flow of salt and grease, too deep in the hole to ever pay for a meal with actual money again. You traded it all away for your gluttony.
"Excellent growth," he says, finally looking up with a smirk as he slides a tray across the counter. It’s stacked high with enough food to feed a family, but it’s all for you. "You've got enough room for the Premium Piggy tier today." He pulls out a set of darker, permanent-looking stamps, and your heart skips a beat. These aren't for the menu. He presses the first one into the curve of your shoulder: Body Built by McDonald's. The next one goes right on the peak of your distended gut: Property of the Golden Arches. You watch the ink settle into your stretch marks, realizing that you’ve long since left customer status and moved into the category of ‘asset’ and McDonalds wants a return on their investment~
You’re tearing into the first burger before you’ve even left the counter, your mind a hazy, sugary mess of submission. This happens more often than not, you can’t really stop yourself anymore once the food is front of you. The manager has to shoo you away to a table as you waddle past the line of waiting “billboards”. They’re all different levels of obese, some smaller and some bigger than you, but they all have the fading ink on their overfed, overgrown bodies as evidence of yesterday’s advertising efforts. Most of them are breathing heavy just from standing, but they’ll gladly wait it out for today’s ads and food. You waddle toward a table, each thudding footstep echoing through the restaurant, announcing your presence as a "Fast Food Piggy" to everyone in the booths. You know they're staring at the way the ads jiggle and warp on your flab, but the shame's been drowned in a sea of high-fructose corn syrup and a growing pool of pleasure between your thighs. You're already thinking about tomorrow, wondering if you can squeeze out a few more inches of ad space on your thighs just to see if he'll give you a second tray. It’s worth a shot you think, as you polish off your fries. Every day is a cycle of constant gluttony and anticipation for you, a permanent billboard for obesity, a loyal, branded cow who's found her purpose at the bottom of a fast food bag <3
Bit of a departure from my usual style, way too horny not to post it though after the fugue state I was in writing it, hope ya like it~
I love the idea of throwing you a life saver after I pushed you overboard to drown in your gluttony. Helping your flabby, jiggly body off the couch while I wipe the icing off your face telling you that I’ll help you get back on track. Lifting your belly up and dropping it back down to slap against your thighs watching you bite your lip instinctively. I tell you it doesn’t have to be this way, that I can save you from the nearly complete transformation into nothing but a mindlessly horny and greedy piggy. You’re already breathing heavy just from being helped onto your feet, but surely you can trust me again right? Even though I coated you with lard while rewiring you to get off to it, I could still be your savior after all this time. You finish the donut you were eating and nod… naïvely making your final mistake and handing me control over your waistline for the last time~
It starts believably enough as I stuff your blubbery, overfed body into the largest workout clothes money can buy and help you waddle into the gym. I’ve tailored a ‘workout’ just for you that consists of squeezing your fat while I stretch you in different positions. You thought there was more to exercising than being jiggled and fondled, but it’s been so long since you’ve exercised and you’re too hungry to remember what it really is anyway so you go along. I tell you that you have to take it easy, it’s only your first day getting back in shape after all and you’re out of breath from beginner stretches. You feel yourself getting worked up just from feeling how out of shape you are and you notice I’m visibly turned on too… that should’ve been your first warning for what you were in for. The workout goes on for a measly 15 minutes like I’m a farmer examining his most prized piggy, and in a way I am. Once I finish ‘working’ you out it’s time for the protein shake. This is where the illusion shatters and your eyes go wide realizing I never planned on helping you escape something we both want you trapped in. You were more of a dumbed down piggy than I thought for thinking I’d ever do anything but drown you in calories and build you into a perfect wobbly ball of fat. The ‘protein shake’ I pull out is an entire pitcher of what you think is melted chocolate ice cream, but I tell you it’s just a chocolate protein shake and you’re far too hungry and exhausted to protest. All you know is it looks too rich and blissful not to choke down, and choke it down you do while I tilt your head back and drain thousands of calories down your throat. “I was right”, you chirp about the melted ice cream before your words are buried under the waterfall of thick, heavy ruin~ it’s too late for you to care, all you know is it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted and you’ll never get enough of it. You surrender almost too quickly as I pour it so fast your mouth can’t even keep up and some of it spills down your front making you even more of a mess. It’s ironic that between the fat mess you are and the chocolate dripping down your rolls, you look just like a messy piggy in a pen of gluttony. Other people stare at you but you’re so irredeemably past the point of shame aside from the warmth between your thighs. You just keep swallowing down your own future like you have no other purpose besides more… and now you really don’t. When it’s done you’re a fucking mess, too heavy to move on your own, too stuffed to speak, and too horny to think. All that’s left of you is a body covered in the evidence of your own addiction whether it’s the lard or ice cream stains. I help you up, squeezing you and taking in the full size of you while I whisper into your ear what a good workout you had. You’re waddled to the car like I’m your handler as I feed you lie after lie about how you’re already looking thinner, how you seem more mobile already, how the more you give your independence to me the better you’ll feel. There’s a bit of something darker in my voice as I eat that last part, but you can barely process what I say, and what you can just makes you hornier than you’d care to admit. It’s okay though, I can recognize a piggy who’s on the brink of no return begging desperately for her final nudge into obscene, morbid, hedonistic obesity. I said I’d save you and I will… I just never said how.
You’re barely lucid in the passenger seat with your belly out and your pants as far down as they can go to relieve the aching pressure mixed with pleasure. I hit so many potholes you think it has to be on purpose while you groan and moan from the amount of jiggling your overstuffed body is forced into. You almost don’t notice me pull into the drive thru, but I can tell when you do the moment your eyes go wide with a bit of panic. I calm you down, order enough for a family, then tell you to open the glove box so you can relieve some ‘muscle fatigue’ while you eat your post workout meal. Eyes half closed you reach into the glove box and pull out a vibrator just as the scent of grease wafts into the car from the first bag of your order. You turn and feel the first fry held to your lips while your hand instinctively lowers the vibrator between your legs underneath your swollen belly. Your mind fades to relief as you think, “Finally… I lost”
When we moved in together, they told me that they wouldn’t mind cooking most of the time. I couldn’t get enough of what they made so I didn’t argue, but despite their protests I insisted that I do the dishes so I could help out a bit. They would always make way more than either of us could hope to finish in one night, always leaving leftovers for me to take for lunch the next day. Every night after dinner I would clean and they would take care of the leftovers.
Domestic bliss hit me hard. They seemed to love cooking, and I loved what they made. After every meal they would ask what I thought and do their best to encourage seconds and thirds, but no matter how much I ate there was always plenty leftover. I didn’t notice the way portions seemed to grow even as my wardrobe shrank, nor the way they learned my tastes so that I couldn’t resist another bite.
The next year passed quickly, and our little routine started to show cracks. First I would be so full after dinner that they would sit next to me and rub my belly for a few minutes before I could stand to begin cleaning. Next, standing at the sink became too much of a workout so I began to pull a chair in front of the sink every night. They made sure I never felt bad about needing extra help, always telling me how happy they were to see me enjoying their cooking, always cooing sweetly into my ear as they helped me deal with the consequences of my gluttony.
Every day there would be some new task they took over for me, soothing my anxieties and making sure I knew how much they loved to help. My weight skyrocketed under their care. Before I knew it, they were doing almost everything for me, except for the dishes.
On a night like any other, I had just come out of my feast induced daze and began the slow shuffle towards the dishes, using the chair I would need to sit in front of the sink as a walker. As I eased my bulk onto the creaking chair and tried to get into position, my belly pressed against the cabinets and my arms spilled over the countertop like normal, but no matter what I tried I couldn’t seem to reach the faucet. I could see them watching predatorily out of the corner of my eye as I desperately tried to shift and wobble my way closer, but after a few breathless attempts I felt their hand on my shoulder. “You must be so exhausted trying to do all that work by yourself tubby, why don’t you just let me take over?” They whispered in mock sympathy. They help me stand and lead me back to the table, glibly talking about how hard I’ve been working even as I barely make it back to my seat. “How about we switch things up? From now on I can do the dishes. Do you think you could take care of the leftovers for me?” They ask in the sweetest voice they can muster.
I nod and look for the Tupperware, but they just chuckle and walk to the sink, calling back over their shoulder to me. “Oh you wont be needing those, piggy.” They say with a wicked grin as they nod at the table, filled with enough food for a family. “You must be starved after all that exercise. I’ll be done in a few minutes if you need help with that too.” They say with a wink before they get to work. I stare down the plates stacked high with my favorites, and my mouth waters despite the fullness of my stomach. As I pull another place towards me and reach for my first bite, they hum in satisfaction. I could never say no to them anyway.
When we moved in together, they told me that they wouldn’t mind cooking most of the time. I couldn’t get enough of what they made so I didn’t argue, but despite their protests I insisted that I do the dishes so I could help out a bit. They would always make way more than either of us could hope to finish in one night, always leaving leftovers for me to take for lunch the next day. Every night after dinner I would clean and they would take care of the leftovers.
Domestic bliss hit me hard. They seemed to love cooking, and I loved what they made. After every meal they would ask what I thought and do their best to encourage seconds and thirds, but no matter how much I ate there was always plenty leftover. I didn’t notice the way portions seemed to grow even as my wardrobe shrank, nor the way they learned my tastes so that I couldn’t resist another bite.
The next year passed quickly, and our little routine started to show cracks. First I would be so full after dinner that they would sit next to me and rub my belly for a few minutes before I could stand to begin cleaning. Next, standing at the sink became too much of a workout so I began to pull a chair in front of the sink every night. They made sure I never felt bad about needing extra help, always telling me how happy they were to see me enjoying their cooking, always cooing sweetly into my ear as they helped me deal with the consequences of my gluttony.
Every day there would be some new task they took over for me, soothing my anxieties and making sure I knew how much they loved to help. My weight skyrocketed under their care. Before I knew it, they were doing almost everything for me, except for the dishes.
On a night like any other, I had just come out of my feast induced daze and began the slow shuffle towards the dishes, using the chair I would need to sit in front of the sink as a walker. As I eased my bulk onto the creaking chair and tried to get into position, my belly pressed against the cabinets and my arms spilled over the countertop like normal, but no matter what I tried I couldn’t seem to reach the faucet. I could see them watching predatorily out of the corner of my eye as I desperately tried to shift and wobble my way closer, but after a few breathless attempts I felt their hand on my shoulder. “You must be so exhausted trying to do all that work by yourself tubby, why don’t you just let me take over?” They whispered in mock sympathy. They help me stand and lead me back to the table, glibly talking about how hard I’ve been working even as I barely make it back to my seat. “How about we switch things up? From now on I can do the dishes. Do you think you could take care of the leftovers for me?” They ask in the sweetest voice they can muster.
I nod and look for the Tupperware, but they just chuckle and walk to the sink, calling back over their shoulder to me. “Oh you wont be needing those, piggy.” They say with a wicked grin as they nod at the table, filled with enough food for a family. “You must be starved after all that exercise. I’ll be done in a few minutes if you need help with that too.” They say with a wink before they get to work. I stare down the plates stacked high with my favorites, and my mouth waters despite the fullness of my stomach. As I pull another place towards me and reach for my first bite, they hum in satisfaction. I could never say no to them anyway.
Tell me the hottest, most embarrassing fat moment you’ve had so far
today when i tried on these size 32 dress pants. i wore them back in january and they fit perfectly. they were just tight enough my ass looked incredible. i didn't expect such a change in six months.
(wg story about being secretly turned into the office piggy)
You weren't worried about gaining weight at your new job, even if it did involve sitting behind a desk all day.
One of the first things you'd noticed when you'd come in for your interview was that everyone was in great shape.
No wonder, either, with all the ammenities the company offered. Free food - 3 meals and a day and as many snacks as you want, prepared by the in house chefs.
Fancy coffee machines, fridges stocked with kombucha and seltzer, a gym and spa on site, massages, a nap room - this place took employee wellbeing seriously.
You could already see yourself getting lean, putting on some muscle. Clearly the office culture was one of discipline, and you were ready to slot right in.
☕
Okay - maybe the first few weeks hadn't gone quite as planned. Your workload was heavier than you expected, so there was less time to hit the gym. The chef prepared meals were delicious - so delicious you found it almost impossible to opt for the healthier options over rich, indulgent dishes.
You were drinking a lot coffee to stay focused, at least the machines dispensed endless skinny cappuccinos, but even with that you found yourself craving a sugar hit for attention. The break room might be stocked with almonds and sawdust-tasting protein bars, but you found yourself grabbing a big scoop of m and ms several times a day.
The truth was, you weren't getting any fitter. Instead, you were feeling a little softer all over - especially at the top of your thighs which were spreading wider and wider in your plush office chair.
Meanwhile, your colleagues looked as good as ever. The guy in the next office keeps stopping by to see how you're settling in and every time you swear his grip is a little stronger as he jostles your shoulder.
You vow to double down on keeping in shape - though looks like you'll be working till ten tonight, so you're going to need to fuel up before then.
☕
The friday that marks six months at the company for you is also the night of the office hoilday party before you closed till new year.
Last year, you owned a cozy, baggy, oversized christmas jumper. Now, you own a just-about-covers-your-swelling-gut christmas jumper.
Still, the boss had insisted everyone wear something festive so you don't have much choice.
The party is lavish - specialty cocktails, a huge buffet and tuxedoed waiters circling with hors d'oeuvres and champagne to make sure there's always something within reach.
You mean to keep control of yourself, but all your coworkers keep pressing drinks on you, and pretty soon it's hard to say no. They keep reocmmending food as well, and then the tall girl from accounts you always though was cute is pushing a chocolate coated straberry between your lips. Soon everyone is taking it inturns to feed you, and as confused as you are you can't help but admit you're enjoying it - maybe too much.
That night, after you get home, you spend an hour touching yourself to the feeling of everyone's eyes on you as your over-tight jumper rode up over your rounded stomach.
The next morning though, you're embarassed. How can you have gotten so out of shape so fast? Sure the job is stressful, and there always seems to be food to hand, but everyone else in the office seems to have no problem.
When you're back in the office after new years you're going to turn things around. There's no point starting a diet during the holidays, but in a few weeks you're going to be on the track to dropping the pounds.
☕
Of course, it's not really your fault you can't seem to keep the weight off. Your colleagues all know a few things you don't.
They know that the coffee machine in your break room might offer sinny lattes, but they pour cream-thickened coffees filled with sugary syrups and enough caffeine to keep you craving six cups a day.
They know that the chef - infuses - certain dishes, and makes sure you grab those plates, leaving you dozing and snacking through the afternoon.
They know that your supervisor lets the canteen know to prepare extra large desserts right after assigning you a new pile of work, so you have something to help you deal with the stress.
And they know that one of the perks of the job - for them at, least - is getting to take their stress out on the office piggy. Once the workload gets too much for your struggling brain and your body is properly swollen you'll be gently offered a new role in the company, one more suited to your skill set.
You'll be so tired of the stress, and so eager to please you manager, you sign without reading the job description. That's why you're surprised when you're delivered to your new office and find nothing but a bed with thick straps at each corner and a cart loaded with food - and when your old office-neighbour comes in and grabs a box of doughnuts as he pulls down his suit pants.
I traded workouts for pig outs, abs for a gut, and chasing pumps for chasing that stuffed, heavy, can’t-move feeling. I used to flex for attention. Now I get off on watching myself soften up, thicken out, and turn into the blubbery fat boy I always wanted to be. Every binge shows. Every added pound is on purpose. Bigger belly, softer chest, heavier thighs, tighter clothes, deeper appetite. I’m not trying to get back in shape. I’m trying to outgrow the body I used to have… and most furniture. I’m just getting started. Feed me, watch me swell, and don’t expect me to stop until I’m three times this size.
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