Look at how thick my double chin has become 😵💫🐮 this cowprint looks amazing on me, doesn't it? Christ, I've gained so much weight so quickly, I'm already at 410! It's almost scaring me how quickly my body is adapting to being completely useless at everything except shoving calories into my greedy mouth and turning it into greasy, disgusting fat lard that pins me down and turns me from a barely mobile, waddling cow to a mattress sized heifer that puts on 100lbs a year. And despite that fear, I am so excited to become a medically compromised, food addicted, greasy pig with a gut that touches the floor no matter my position 🐷🐷🐷
Fantasizing and talking dirty with my feeder is amazing especially when he tells me how he's going to breed me like the blue ribbon winning cow I am and keep me fed full of greasy, fattening foods, or in his words: "full womb, full arteries."
The fattest guy in the office, or anywhere really, is used to being called “big guy” and being cast a double glance when someone first sees him. He takes it in stride—says he loves to eat—but knows he’s not anyone’s type.
So he never goes for the plunge. He never picks up any signs – not that he thinks there’s ever been any.
He’s used to girls befriending him and he expects nothing more. He has a lot of female friends.
A new worker in the office befriends him, he thinks little of it. She’s a few years younger than him, a little less experienced in this field, so she’s always turning to him for help.
Little does he know she’s obsessed with him. She sees him across the room, shimmying between desks or struggling to grab something from the floor and she’s drooling around her pen.
She unbuttons her shirt when she goes to see him. She sits on his desk as she talks with him, a shoe off when no one’s around, to run a foot up his thigh and under his massive gut.
Trying to stave off his embarrassment, he asks, “Are your feet cold?”
“So cold,” she insists and does the same with her other foot. She tries to aim for his crotch, but he corrects her direction, thinking it’s an accident.
She brings him massive drive-thru breakfast orders, and lunches and she made herself. Invites him out for drinks and even invites him back to hers on several occasions as her apartment is closer to the place they drink at.
He doesn’t make a move because he thinks all of this is innocent, even when she tries offering her bed because the couch is no place for a guy like him to crash.
She finally gets him in bed when the elevators at her apartment complex are out of order. She stays with him as he’s dangerously out of breath and sweating like crazy up the five flights of stairs, and dotes on him with such care after guiding him to the couch. She helps him unbuckle, unzip, unbutton, letting his big, handsome belly spill out freely.
She rubs warm, soft thumbs sympathetically on the angry red lines on his belly. Massages his feet after helping him get his shoes off.
He can’t lie, seeing a gorgeous woman on her knees, massaging his feet with her cleavage and bra on show for him, it’s hot as hell, but he shrugs away the feeling. He scolds himself for watching her ass as she heads to the kitchen to fix him a sandwich, because he needs his strength back. She insisted.
That night, they share the same bed, but for the first hour or two, there’s distance. Not much, because he’s taking up a full half of the bed easily. He’s nervous, too nervous to sleep, and she’s trying to lightly doze, banishing herself to the very edge of the bed just to keep that few extra inches of space.
He’s propped up a little more against the headboard than her to keep himself from snoring as bad as what he normally does, and it grands him a clear perspective of her.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Do you want to come closer? There’s not much space. I promise not to do anything.”
She takes a moment to accept. “You don’t have to promise anything,” she says, before taking her chance to tuck herself under his arm, stuffing her thigh between his thighs his gelatinous overhang, so close to everything else that it makes him gulp.
“…Okay. I won’t.”
Normally, she’s awake before him and making him breakfast to send him off when he wakes up on the couch after crashing at hers, but the following morning, he’s awake before her. She’s fastened to his side, nestled in adorably, using him like a big pillow. There’s drool all on his chest. The fresh streak is going down where his ribs used to be, under a thick layer of fat.
After that, they become closer. In the office, co-workers start to tease him about his ‘girlfriend’, which he has to dismiss to spare her her dignity. She doesn’t deserve to be teased just for being friends with the fat guy.
She invites him over for breakfast more. She even invites him to a garden party for a barbecue with her friends, and she asks him what he thinks of her new bikini.
“Yeah, it’s, um… good.” Because what else are you meant to say when an attractive woman is showing herself off in front of you, but you aren’t dating? “You look great.”
“It’s a really good material, too. Want to feel?” She presses her chest into his side and puts her arms around him.
Sometimes, they even have dinner together, and then they’ll cuddle together again when he’s too full to protest. Sometimes she rubs his belly for him when he’s exceptionally stuffed, because she has this miserable frown on her face when he leaves anything she’s made him.
He feels guilty for how expensive all this must be for her. A table full of toasted bacon sandwiches all for him one instance, a smorgasbord of breakfast menu fast food items the next, a full breakfast the time after that. He invites her over to his for a change, and orders pizza, wings, dirty fries, but takes note of how she says she’s stuffed after two slices, some fries, and a single wing, and then is working to inspire him to finish everything else.
He sees the little bloat under that black mini dress too. She’s not joking: she is full from just that. He couldn’t dream of it. It’s such a small portion to him.
He felt terribly awkward when he opened the door to find her in a pretty dress and evening makeup, hair done up and shoes sleek and elegant. She even brought a red wine. He’d answered the door with a beer in hand, in sweats and a T-shirt, assuming things would be casual, but she smiled at him like he’d just answered the door in a tux with a bouquet of roses.
“You look handsome tonight,” she’d said.
“I – um – yeah. Ditto. Beautiful, I mean. You’re– I mean, you. So.”
She giggled.
Once all the food is cleared, he’s panting heavily and sitting back. She pushes up his T-shirt without needing to be asked. She pushes the waistband of his sweatpants under his belly and starts to rub.
“You really overdid it, sweetie,” she says, as she has many times before. “But it’s okay, I’ll help you.” As usual, she starts at the sides of his belly and works her way inwards. He groans in relief from it.
She puts a knee over his thigh, precariously on the small bit of seat space his corpulence has to offer between his spread legs. His heart hammers. “What are you–?”
She straddles his thigh, perching on his knee. He can feel the heat from her– her–
“Arms up. Let’s get you comfortable.” When his arms go up, she helps pull off his massive T-shirt, squeezes one of his pecs with a tipsy giggle. “You’re so soft. So pretty.”
His brain short-circuits. “You- You know I’m not gay, right?”
She pauses. “Yeah? I’ve been flirting with you for months. You never make a move,” she sulks. “So is this okay? Can I make the move for you?”
He nods dumbly, and immediately she’s unzipping her dress and shrugging it off. He’s face to face with her bra and panty set, black lace and silk. She’s beautiful, but so tiny in comparison to him. She could wear a leg of his pants as a bodycon dress, he’s sure of it.
“The moment I saw you, I wanted you. I was obsessed with you.”
He licks his lips. “I told myself not to get my hopes up.”
A desolate expression takes over her face. She shakes her head, mostly to herself, and arches over his embonpoint to put her nose to his neck. “Your cologne’s nice.”
“Thanks…”
“I like it when you don’t shave for a while, it’s so cute.”
“N-Noted.”
“And those swimming trunks… they looked ready to burst. And these sweats are so hot. I like dressing up for you. I like that you didn’t. I want you to be comfortable. You barely look comfortable in work.”
Then it clicks for him. All that food. The takeout. The encouraging. The foot massage. “I’ve gained so much weight because of you.” He puts a hand on the crest of his belly. “Look what you’ve done.”
She kisses him with a gasp of awe. She clearly cannot help herself anymore. He can smell how wet she is, let alone feel it dripping onto his knee, through the fabric of his sweats.
“Do you think you’re too full to lie down? I was hoping you’d top, anyway. I want to feel all of you coming down on me.”
He can’t believe this is happening. Before he knows it, he’s staring at her on all fours on his bed, waiting patiently for him to lift up his gut and—jeez, he has to lift up his gut to have sex now. It’s so heavy. When was the last time he had sex? At least with a girl? Where he topped? He doesn’t know the answers to any of the three.
She whimpers when he lets his belly drop onto her back. He stresses immediately: “Are you okay? I can get off of you–”
“No,” she sighs, sweetly. “No, this is perfect. You feel so full, it’s perfect.”
Maneuvering himself to get in is difficult, but after a minute or so he succeeds, panting. His knees are twinging a bit, and the angle is hard to keep… he tries lifting her hips a bit more, but it’s a fight against gravity with his massive stomach in the way… Okay, yeah, no, he can do this. He can do this fine.
His thrusts forward are cumbersome, making him pink and sweaty and limiting friction. She rolls her hips back to meet him, pushing herself against the covers.
They find a rhythm, his belly so full and contrarian to the prospect of sex being good, sloshing and moaning with every thrust. The weight of it drags air out of his chest, and by the end, he’s ruined beside her, gasping and scarlet.
He should be– oh God– he can’t– he should be the one to wipe her down. With a cloth or something right? But he’s so… he’s so spent, he can’t imagine getting up now, trying to get his breath back before sleeping.
Beside him, she fingers herself to completion, which is embarrassing. She shows him the way she rubs his spend on her pussy, on her clit, using it as a donation, before rushing into the bathroom to pee.
When she’s back, it’s with a damp washcloth, and acting as though she didn’t just have a 400lbs man poorly fuck her, wipes him down with the cloth. Gets rid of excess sweat and cleans his fat pad up.
She kisses him sweetly, off again, only to return with a candy bar from the kitchen. “For your health,” she says, as she does when she means to get your strength back.
A candy bar for being too fat to fuck. That’s a new one.
She comes behind him and rubs his belly some more as he munches down the bar in three greedy bites, smiling at him like he’s just demonstrated an insane level of ingenuity.
You lean back on your bed, desperate to relieve some of the pressure on your overextended gut. There’s a faint hint of sugar on your lips even though you finished the donuts hours ago. You groan a little before you even realize you’re doing it.
How many calories have you crammed into your greedy mouth tonight? The donuts alone were good for a few hundred at least. Then the burgers and fries really packed it on. And the shakes. You insisted on those. There was more, right? You lost track sometime after the pizza.
Looking down, it’s easy to see where each and every calorie ended up. You gently rub your hands along your overinflated gut — if you can even still call it a gut. That word doesn’t do it justice. Round, swollen, and firm to the touch. You’ve turned it into a taut balloon. You’ve packed it so tight you can practically feel new stretchmarks forming as it stretches to accommodate the meals you’ve put it through. You slowly circle your hands against your impossible mass before resting them on your soft underbelly. Somehow, it jiggles against your touch. Maybe you’re looking for a little relief, or maybe you’re just trying to help it hold all that food in. You’ve heard of ‘being a handful’, but this is ridiculous. Ten hands couldn’t keep you covered.
You could have stopped at any time, and yet you kept wanting more. It was easy swallowing those first few bites. Even the first hundred were fine. But you couldn’t control yourself, and you’re paying for it now. You’re stuffed so full you can’t even take a deep breath without feeling like you’re about to explode. Arching your back doesn’t help, but you do it anyway, looking for more space that your stomach doesn’t have.
Just as you start to relax again, from the doorway, you hear the words you knew were coming: “Who’s ready for dessert?”
It’s going to be a long night.
person who's been trying to lose weight but stuffing is just so, so addictive.
"diet starts tomorrow.." they breathe out heavily, with their taut belly poking out from their frame. a whole cake stuffed inside among other things.
rubbing that round belly, pushing their fingers down, feeling how firm it is from all that food inside. as if they haven't conditioned themself to be aroused just by rubbing their belly, or fingering their belly button.
it starts tomorrow, right? so they may as well have some more fun before then.. they may as well get back up and shovel more food into their hungry gut while they still can? this certainly hasn't happened a bunch. this definitely isn't their 50th "starts tomorrow".
POV: Your pup treats every meal like it might be their last and every extra serving like a personal challenge
Your pup has already given up on wearing anything remotely restrictive. Their jeans were the first casualty, followed shortly by their shirt. Now they’re sprawled across the couch in nothing but their underwear, belly so swollen from their heavy greasy Mexican takeout lunch that it rises and falls with every slow, overworked breath.
You settle down beside them and immediately pull them into your arms. Your pup lets out a pathetic little whine as you drape an arm across their bulging middle.
“Goodness, sweetheart,” you murmur, rubbing slow circles over the taut curve of their stomach. “Someone’s been eating really good lately, huh?”
The belly beneath your hand answers with a long, unhappy gurgle.
Your pup just pouts.
“Oh, don’t give me that look, You stuffed your greedy little face with enough food for three people baby.”
A louder burble follows. Your pup squirms deeper into your chest, clearly hoping you’ll stop teasing them.
Instead, you lean down and kiss the top of their head.
“My poor little butterball” You murmur teasingly into their ear.
A few hours later your phone buzzes. It’s your aspiring chef friend. Apparently they’ve been recipe testing all afternoon and made far too much food. They’re dropping off several containers and don’t want anything to go to waste.
The second you mention food, your pup’s ears perk up. You stare at your big bellied pup in disbelief as you listen to their belly gurgle away angrily and say “Absolutely not.”
Another hopeful look.
“Sweetheart, you can barely breathe let alone eat even more” You say trying to reason with your spoiled pup.
Their stomach chooses that exact moment to let out a deep, watery slosh. Your pup has the decency to look embarrassed for approximately three seconds.
Then the food arrives.
Despite already looking like they swallowed a beach ball, your shameless little pup immediately claims they’re “just gonna have a “little” taste.”
A taste of course ends up becoming a plate. The plate becomes another plate. That then becomes an entire dinner.
An hour later you find them sitting on the couch with yet another container balanced in their lap.
“Puppy” You say admonishingly.
“It’s second dinner” they say as if second dinner was a normal occurrence.
“You already had dinner” You say with a mix of fondness and exasperation.
“That was regular dinner” they whine with the most duh tone ever.
You can’t even argue with their logic because they’re already stuffing another bite into their mouth. By the time the last container is empty, your pup is completely defeated.
They waddle over and collapse beside you with a groan, belly stretched impossibly round and firm beneath your hands. Every few seconds another overworked gurgle rolls through it as their poor digestive system tries to figure out what crime it committed to deserve this.
You rub the swollen mound affectionately.
“My sweet little glutton, your tummy is working overtime” You coo.
A miserable little whine is what you get in return.
“You know,” you continue thoughtfully, poking the curve of their potbelly, “at the rate your going that young pup metabolism of yours isn’t going to be able to save you.”
Your pup freezes.
“Oh yeah. Keep eating like this and this little thing?” You pat their belly like a drum. “Will become permanent.”
Their eyes widen. You immediately kiss their forehead before they can panic.
“Not that it would stop you” you tease as you smirk down at them.
Another loud gurgle answers for them.
Because honestly?
You both know that if somebody showed up with a third dinner right now, your spoiled, big-bellied pup would devour every last bite, consequences be damned.
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