What an absolute fatass I've turned into 😭😵💫 I want to spend all day on this lounge, eating and eating until I'm wedged. I can already feel my sides brushing against the edges. I wanna struggle so much to get up off it that I have to ask for help when I've eaten even a tiny bit too much. I wanna feel my belly resting on the couch between my thighs, even when I'm fully laying back.
It's getting so hard to resist giving in completely and dedicating my life to growing bigger and bigger. I want it... I shouldn't do it, I should be good, hold back, show some restraint before I'm too far gone. I know I should. But it would be so easy to give in 😳 >_>
Fuck I gotta say there’s nothing better than being near bursting, when your belly button becomes more shallow and you can feel the deep itch across your skin.
Crying and whimpering as your hand slowly pushes another crumb past your lips, curling in disgust from your lack of self control. Slowly, slowly, slowly chewing till it’s nothing but paste in your mouth and swallowing only to feel it back up near your throat. You’re just that full.
No choice but to keep it all down despite the possibility of bursting, though never actually hitting that limit. Only ever on the cusp of it before you’re out of food.
How long would it take before it’s a daily necessity to eat like that? Body feeling starved from anything less, crying out in rumbles begging to be split apart.
i need people that haven’t seen me in years (better, months) to look at me, all of me, and not know who i am.
i need them to point out how much i eat now compared to then. how gluttonous i am.
i need them to see just how much i’ve let myself go — moaning when the food is good, rubbing and jiggling my belly so i can feel my hedonism, unbuttoning my pants so i can fit more food in.
i need them to see me and wonder what the fuck happened.
In the mood to be stuffed by someone without expecting it. They don’t ask me if I want a heavy belly taut with food, they just start letting me eat and don’t let me stop. If I try to claim I’m full, suddenly they forgot about a dessert, or an appetizer or a side dish. Long after they’re finished with their seconds, maybe thirds, I’m having fourths, fifths, sixths. Suddenly, I’m rubbing my overfilled belly, panting quietly from how expanded I feel. Only for them to give puppy dog eyes, presenting more food, not giving me any space to say no before I’m eating every bite~
Lessening independence, learning to rely on nurses/careworkers to help me live at my size. Can barely lift myself anymore so it’s easier to have help! This is real death feederism💖💕
I’ve been laying in bed for 3 months with a shoulder injury. I’ve done nothing but eat and watch documentaries, my lower belly is a thick slab of fat that audibly slaps my thigh meat. It’s embarrassing what I’ve done to my body. My double chin fat sack rests against my tits that are pushed up my my poor swollen bursting stomach mass. Some days I eat until it hurts, for hours on end one thing after the other until I can barely get up after roughly 12 hours of snacks and takeout. I walk out cradling my poor overfed stomach ball, resting it on the gate, I wait for the uber eats driver to drop off my 6th meal today. I can’t hide that I look 7 months pregnant, morbidly obese with a tubby swollen face to match. It’s pathetic how desperate I am for food regardless of having just eaten.
When I go to the drs, they weigh me, they measure my stomach and arms. They gently recommend diet plans, they ask me to consider my health and that the momentary satisfaction isn’t worth being unable to stand within the next 5 years at most. I’ve been recommended dietitians and therapists.
With the results of my strength test I probably won’t be able to properly stand properly in the next 100 - 150 lbs. Not to mention my feet are basically useless from swelling and severe fluid retention. They said that could be due to the mass inflammation it can cause to guzzle 1.8L of heavy cream at least 3 - 5 days a week. I can barely walk, I already require care workers to help me with basic stuff. I’m no longer independent. I’m so proud of myself for eating myself here. I’m so close to being partially bedbound. And I want to loose all control and desire to live or go outside. I am happy when my fat is spilling onto a mattress. All I care about is eating myself immobile. It’s good for me to pack on more, I want to get fatter and prove to the Drs I’m a lost cause and will only ever eat myself into a very very early grave
Some days all I want from this fetish is to be manipulated into growing bigger than I planned. I love the feeling of losing control and feeling like weight gain is inevitable.
To have someone constantly plotting and planning behind my back all the ways they could influence my appetite and habits in order for me to fatten up for their pleasure... 😍
It could be anything from 'accidentally' ordering too much and guilting me into finishing an extra plate... or two or three with puppy dog eyes. Telling me that it would go to waste if I didn't finish it all.
Or spending the time to understand me and the kinds of food I could just eat mindlessly. Setting me up on the couch to play a game or watch a movie and constantly refilling the supply of snacks that they keep me surrounded by so I don't even notice how much I'm eating before it's too late.
Maybe Pavlov-ing me into expecting pleasure whenever I'm stuffed painfully full so as to re-wire my brain into enjoying food even more than I already do.
Perhaps cutting the size tags off my clothes and replacing them with larger sizes so I don't notice my clothes getting tighter on me. And when my belly sticks out so far that I can't even see the numbers on the scale anymore, keeping me in the dark about just how much I've grown.
Maybe even when they're honest with me about how they are fattening me up, hiding just how much of an influence they're being and obscuring their true goals for my size. Bargaining with me just to get me to gain another 20lbs. Telling me that it's only a little more until I reach a nice round number. Telling me that I'm so close to a big milestone, aren't I curious what it would be like to be so big? Rewards for reaching those milestones that just result in even more weight. Constantly shifting the goalposts and making me blow past many soft limits.
I would so enjoy seeing just how much a feeder like that was enjoying it too.
And then, when I'm way too big to do anything about it, them confessing about just how much bigger they really plan for me. Feeling an electric mix of intense pleasure and mild panic at the thought, knowing that there's nothing I could do to stop.
After what's felt like a year, you've finally snapped out of the gluttonous daze you've been in as you realize your gut has firmly pressed itself into the bed.
Just moments prior you were in your usual reluctant stupor, digesting a massive stuffing as we started fucking. It was right when I maneuvered you into doggy style, something snapped. A strange force pressing up against your distended abdomen, friction that you didn't remember.
"It touches the bed."
...
The course begins with a sharp flurry of denial.
"No no no no it's just the way...the way I'm positioned...I was just gonna gain a few pounds."
You feel me in the deepest parts of your guts as you're jostled back and forth, your massive gut smothering itself across the mattress.
"It...I can't be that big. Fuck I can't be that big."
For the appetizer, a deep sense of panic.
"No no no...that's not what this is. That's- I'm not that big- Fuck when did I get this big."
You tighten around me as you panic, pleasure dripping down your thighs.
"Fuck...FUCK....why- why didn't I stop myself."
The full meal begins with quiet sobbing, building into a crescendo of deep, chesty sobs.
By the time you let it all out, you sound like a dying creature and between gasps you mutter to yourself, to which I whisper, through gritted teeth, into your ear, demanding that you speak up.
"Fuck...you let me get so fucking fat....I told you to stop me...why didn't you stop me....please...fuck...."
A tidal wave of an unwelcome catharsis rips away any traces of denial you had left. The epistemological break, the smashing of all previous conceptions you had of yourself: reserved, intelligent, dutiful, self-aware, disciplined. The light of the sun piercing your eye as you leave the cave of your former self. Scared. This is who you are now. Fat. So fucking fat. So fucking fat and all mine.
And for dessert, one of the sloppiest and scariest orgasms you've had in your life.
Deep, guttural moans push their way out through cracks in your sobs. You're out of breath. Lightheaded. You just came all over me. An absolute, bloated mess of a person. Covered in sweat, tears, crumbs, grease, and pleasure messily dripping from your crotch, the last of your self-conception as a well put-together person fades from your mind.
I give you a deep kiss.
"I love you."
A tense pause, underscored by slowly steadying breath, only broken by a beautifully pathetic, delirious giggle.
I want to feel that overstuffed over engorged euphoric feeling. I want to already be fat so my gut can spill out on my bed while I recover. The slightest movement sending sharp pains through my body, stuck lying on my side with a pack dome of a gut spilling out. While I’d be laying there I’d be thinking, how could I have done this, how could I of let this happen. This thoughts drowned out by the feelings of ecstasy coursing throughout my body, all the junk packed inside me making me full, warm and dulled. This would become a more common and common occurrence for me until one day I’d realize I can’t sleep without a painfully large stuffing, I would of had been trained to eat and act like a hog, despite that I would love every second.
I can’t be the only one who’s addicted to fat, right? There’s just something so deliciously indulgent about it, the way it slowly creeps up on you, the way it jiggles and is able to be squeezed. The thought that an each feast will contribute to more blubber, an added bonus to doing something that everyone loves to do, eat. The day after pigging out still feeling the after effects, rubbing your hands across your body, poking and prodding your bloated fat, squeezing and watching it jiggle. Realizing how your body never used to be so sensitive, how each slight touch sends pleasure throughout your growing body, slowly rewiring your brain to love the sensation, to crave it, to want more. Before you even realize it, your pants are off, and you are craving for release. Your thoughts clouded by food and the need to be bigger. You start getting hungry at the thought, since you know the release will be even better when you are so bloated you can hardly catch your breath and barely move without your bulging belly almost in pain from food. Then before you know it you finish and it’s the best you’ve ever felt, that’s the cycle, the inescapable trap you entered, you want that feeling every second of the day, so the first thing is to get another feast to do it all over again.
Keep eating for me sweetie. Just keep stuffing more and more food in. Let your body fill up and swell with more and more fat. Keep indulging sweetie, always order more than you could possibly need, surround yourself with your favourite snacks, don't think about how much you're eating, how much you're growing. Just keep putting more in. Switch to sedentary hobbies. Anything that lets you stay on your flabby butt for as long as possible. Think of all the delicious foods. Make sure your social feeds are filled with pictures of greasy burgers, decadent cakes, the cheesiest pastas, fresh muffins and pastries. Anything to get you salivating and your stomach growling. Sign up to as many delivery apps as you can, getting discounts to encourage you to order even more food. Indulge in all of it. Never say no. Keep your bloated belly stretching out further and further. Whenever someone offers you food, always tell them you can eat. Even when you're struggling to waddle around don't slow down. Just keep eating. Keep indulging and enjoying and growing fatter and fatter. Give in to your gluttony. Keep eating sweetie. Eat for me.
i insisted so much for going on this brief vacation.
i insisted you were gonna make it, and you cautiously accepted to come to the beach with me.
we had to take two trains for arriving there, because a couple friends invited us in their city, and three more for returning home.
you were a mess of sweaty fat rolls and anxiety even before leaving home.
i saw you waddle to the taxi to the station and i observed you while you realized this was your last vacation outside of the city we live in.
you tried your best to stay calm, to comply, to not get anxious and nervous... you tried your best to huff and puff and drag your 180 kilos of tender heavy meat from a train to another.
in a station there weren't lifts.
you had to take the stairs for the first time in six years.
you barely made it out alive, and i know because i had to fan you for a while while you tried your best to not puke for the fatigue and the pain in your joints, and i tried my best to keep you awake, not fainting, talking to you and giving you an icecream and a coke because my little piggy needed a treat soooo bad...
when we went to the beach, the bottom piece of your bikini was visible only from the back; you were so busy eating treat after treat – a granita, an icecream, crisps, cokes, and so on – that you barely noticed how people looked at you...
their eyes wide, the whispers, the giggles, the disbelief on their faces...
yeah, this was your last vacation outside of our home city, and i really enjoyed taking you around like my prize pig, waddling with your loppy belly outside of clothes too little for you, panting after few steps and always asking me when we're eating again.
it's been you telling me, once we returned, "it was nice being in the water... but i'd rather not leaving the city anymore. i'm so tired, amore mio... please, let's not do this ever again".
i'll do as you ask, my lovely piggy.
you used to love the sea, going new places, visiting cultural spots...
He's standing on the scale again, the thick slab of his fat belly and sides wobbling with his labored breaths as he leans forward enough to read the number. His mouth scrunches a little. Dissatisfaction atop his oversatisfied body.
"What is it?" his feeder asks, coming up behind him and resting a comforting hand on the shelf of fat made up by his love handles. "360! Oh my god, that's great! See, I told you those shakes were making a difference, that's up twelve pounds from last month."
"It's… not enough."
"Look, you've been literally drinking down as many liquid calories as you can. Every day. Three pounds a week is a lot! I know you want to be bigger, it's just—"
"I don't just want to be bigger," he says, his hands running soothing, longing lines along the stripes formed on his belly where the skin is already struggling to stretch over the fat being packed on, pound by pound. "I need to be bigger. So much bigger."
"We can try adding more fat. Cooking things in butter and maybe fitting another shake in before bed? I know you don't sleep as well on a full stomach, but…"
"It just won't be enough," he says, more than a little crestfallen. In the last half-year, he packed on sixty pounds. Ten additional pounds of fat was finding its way onto his body every month. His belly had widened and spilled out at his sides, started hanging lower and pushing out rounder against his shirts. His chest and face were fuller, swollen with fat.
But he needed more. And his feeder knew it.
"There is one thing we could try," his feeder says. His attention perks up immediately. "You remember my college roommate, the one that does that food science stuff? There's… something sort of experimental. But it's supposed to be pretty reliable…"
Not even a full second lingered before he could blurt out, "Yes. Please!"
His feeder goes into the kitchen and brings back a vial of liquid. He looks skeptical. "What is that some magic thing to make me gain a hundred pounds in an instant? Something out of one of those stories to blow me up?" he snorts.
"No, but it… you'll gain a pound a day. Every day that we add this into your food, if you really fill yourself with enough food, it's a metabolic—it doesn't matter, but you'll gain a pound a day with this. Should we try it out?"
He grabs one of his softened pints of ice cream from the counter, peeling off the lid and offering it to his feeder to as a vessel for the compound. "A pound a day, huh? Let's try it out."
True to the claim, when he stepped onto the scale the next day, he was exactly 361 pounds. This one pound felt more exciting than any of the previous sixty; it felt like it came with a near-certain promise of more. The compound made the shake sit heavier in his belly than normal, like his belly was somehow needing to stretch a little more into discomfort to accommodate that one single drop, but the next day brought another pound. And another the day after.
For the first week, he had fun searching for the extra pound on his body with his feeder.
"I think it was a tits pound yesterday, I can feel it," he laughs, waking up bloated on the seventh day and taking the blender into his hands to chug down the new day's shake, giggling through his greedy gulps as his feeder gropes at his swollen chest.
The first month brought thirty pounds as expected, bringing him to a heavy 390. His belly was rounder, his sides were thicker, his rolls and thighs visibly puffier with the as his body tried to allocate the weight around somewhat evenly. He was laying on the couch, his hands jostling his extra fat around, feeling for himself how much more of his belly rested against his widening thighs when his feeder brought the shake in.
"Are you sure we can't try more than a drop? It feels so good being able to tell I'm getting fatter like this…" he asks.
"If we pour the whole thing in, you'll still just gain a pound today, and then we'll be out," his feeder assures him, taking his belly in their hands and coaxing his mouth open to chug down his shake, watching as the creases on his neck bulge with his every swallow. His arms rested more against the swollen bulges of fat at his sides than against his torso. New, pink stretch marks were dappling his skin everywhere from his lower belly to his arms.
"What if I ate more?" he pleads, kneading his doughy fat with such intensity that it seemed he was expecting it to rise.
"I could spoonfeed you the most fattening thing you have in the kitchen, but you'd still gain a pound a day."
Grumbling a little, his plump face in a cute, eager pout, he goes back to tipping the blender against his mouth, making sure every drop slides down his throat.
By the end of the second month, things weren't fitting him well. His underwear waistbands had gotten tight, shirts clung to the roundness of his middle belly and let the bottom hang free. The warmth of the summer demanded shorts, but his thighs could barely squeeze into his biggest pair. His feeder shifted his wardrobe, everything elastic and forgiving and oversized as they continued dropping a pound per day into his swelling form. The 400 milestone had come and gone, the next day's pound always spurring him on.
"You could just not wear anything, you know," his feeder teasees, folding all of the once-oversized shirts that were now frayed and torn at the seams where his fattest parts strained them.
"I'd bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" he grins, lifting handfuls of his belly fat to show that there wasn't much exposed at all beneath it, given how much his thighs pressed together and his underbelly sat heavy against them. His feeder's hands admired and soothed every inch of his swelling body.
"At this rate, you'll be too big for anything in your closet next month," his feeder smirks, always wanting more of him.
Halfway through the fourth month, he was starting to feel the extra weight adding up. He was breathless, panting and red in the face from carrying groceries from the car. The exertion needed to move his body these short distances was proving enticing to both of them; it didn't take long for him to be breathless and panting on the couch for entirely different reasons.
His feeder was straddling his lap, pressing against the mass of his belly, with their thumb on his chin to guide it open for his daily shake.
"It's not getting to be too much? A hundred extra pounds isn't enough for my big guy yet?" his feeder asks, dangling the first drops of shake at the blender's edge.
"More. I can take it. I want it. Please," he says, that same eagerness from when he was a meager 360 pounds holding steady in his voice and on his face, "please make me even fatter."
As he gained, every day felt like another opportunity to feel the excessive weight affecting his body in new ways. He felt huge, and knew he'd get even bigger the next day. The next week. The next month.
His feeder started to take care of some of the little things: tying his shoes; holding the blender up so his heavy arms wouldn't get tired during his daily shake; lifting his deliciously-inconvenient rolls out of the way when their mutual affection for his body demanded reaching and spreading to reward his indulgence with even more pleasure. The almost-anxious need he'd felt to push himself to grow and grow at any cost was softened into a blissful relishing of how much of his day was filled with thoughts and sensations of food and his own fat.
Five-hundred pounds seemed like a good point to reevaluate. The number seemed so far off, until it wasn't. His weight climbed by a pound a day, but the sheer size of his body was reaching the point where even a couple weeks' worth of pounds seemed to be lost in the swollen, blob-like mass of his belly or the spreading rolls of soft fat on his sides and thighs. Spaces around his body were closing rapidly: his chin brushed his chest; his side rolls folded onto his butt; his thighs pushed each other apart until his belly was resting on the couch, demanding more and more space.
The shake with the compound would earn him his pound, but he was finding more and more that his love for the immense amounts of food he could eat was retuning. Why, after all, if he was going to gain a pound anyways, wouldn't he want to cram himself full of as many sweet, greasy calories as his growing stomach could accommodate? His feeder delighted in feeding him as much as he could handle.
"You know, five-hundred pounds was last week," his feeder says, tracing small circles on his immense belly as they dipped a spoon to scoop another mouthful of ice cream-soaked cookies into his mouth.
"Really?" he says, shifting a little, his weight making the couch groan, the distance imposed by his belly between him and his feeder making his mind tingle. "How do you know? I haven't made it onto the scale recently…"
"Because I can count," his feeder says. "The number is practically tattooed on my brain, then I add one to it first thing in the morning. Plus, these are unmistakably the tits of a five-hundred pound guy," they add, lifting and letting his swollen roll of a moob flop onto his belly. "You're 506 pounds, in case you were wondering."
"Mmmm say the number again?" he says, breathing heavily as he struggled to lean forward against his own bulk for his mouth to meet the next bite.
"Five-hundred," his feeder says, tipping the shake into his mouth, listening to his growing moans as the shake filled him and his feeder's hands pressed against the bloat. "Six pounds."
Six-hundred, he admits to his feeder, was really the number he wanted to experience. Big enough that he could retain some shreds of independence and mobility, but enormous enough to struggle a little. The colder winter months were designed for him to lounge on the couch, his body swelling to take up the tiniest bit more of it each day. The warmth of blankets, baked goods, his feeder's touch, and his own soft fat keeping him happy and growing.
He didn't need the scale anymore. His feeder would write the new number on a small dry erase board on the other side of the room so he could see it ticking up. 525. 526. 527. He wondered when he would feel it again. When he would have one of those oh shit moments about how much bigger he'd gotten. But the couch's support and his feeder's care kept him growing with ease. 541. 542. 543. The holidays arrived, with many extra treats for the big guy.
Tracking his weight wasn't enough. His feeder documented the spread of his hips, the size of his arms, the weight of his moobs. He became obsessed with finding new ways to quantify his fatness, eating his way through more and more of his day, most pleased with himself when his jowls were wobbling against his chest fold mid-chew.
The food was the work and the food was the reward.
The compound upheld its part and he continued his growth into spring as the impossibly-big 600 pound milestone loomed.
The weather warmed and with his feeder's help he emerged into the blooming yard at 598 pounds, not daring to sit on any furniture that couldn't handle his weight, feeling the warm rays of sun hitting all of the new fat that had accumulated on him since hunkering down for such a cozy, caloric winter.
"There's not that much left," his feeder warns. He looks up, face smeared with frosting as he eats his "happy 600 pounds" cake by the handful. The vial had a little less than a quarter left. "I should've known you weren't going to spread this out."
He grins. "I am spreading out," he says, leaning back on the couch and letting his fat splay outwards towards the arms, hardly any room for his dedicated feeder to join him to sit without being on or tucking under his bulk.
"What if… we just used it up," he suggests. He was heavy, very heavy, but he could still manage to move. He'd get some more movement in. The depth of his belly threatened to spill past his knees when he sat, the fat folding into thick, biteable rolls for his feeder to admire and attend to.
"You know I can't say no to you," his feeder says, their mouth locking onto their favorite roll on his neck as their hands interlaced with his and they made a meal of feeding him his shake.
The days passed more quickly now, though he moved less and less. He would accept some help heaving himself up from the couch to take few wobbling, breathless steps to the other side of the room. He spent hours with his hands running across the vastness of his own fat, knowing each day and each shake meant one more pound and one fewer day remaining that he could unwaveringly count on growth.
His hips and thighs reached the sides of the couch at 640. For fun, he showed his feeder how he'd outgrown the entryway to their kitchen by 650. "I guess it's really up to you if I get fatter now, I literally can't get to the blender" he says. His feeder only grins in return and lifts the shake to his lips again, utterly devoted.
Soon he shifted to counting down the pounds he had left to gain before the vial ran out. He estimated 30 left. Then 20. Ten, probably. Was it the 697 that mattered more or the ten?
Everything about his body drove him wild. Every dimple. Every fold. Every spot his feeder touch felt electrically charged by the swelling fat expanding his area of perception. His feeder spared no teasing detail about how utterly cumbersome his body had become to navigate and the intensity of their shared pleasure at those inconveniences grew together, too.
The last drop made its way into his shake one morning, topping him out at 714 pounds. His body was enormously fat, every part of him overflowing with soft, heavy flab that cocooned him and his feeder in their embraces together.
"I'm so, so huge…" he hasps, like an exhalation from the unrelenting journey he'd taken over the last year. His soft arms rested against his front, chubby fingers kneading constantly on his belly as though he needed to physically verify the weight was still there.
"Does it feel like you'd hoped?" his feeder asks.
"Better," he admits, taking the time to feel how the weight encumbered his limbs and begged him to stay as sedentary as he and his feeder would allow. "I can't believe we used it all."
"I can," his feeder says, warmly, their hand patting the middle of his belly to ripple out across the few hundred extra pounds caked onto his increasingly-shapeless body.
"I guess this is it then…" he says, with a sigh. His eyes and hands moving along every inch of his body they could reach, trying to soak in the feeling of being this big, knowing the compound-assisted gravy train had come to an end. His feeder's hands wrapped around him, sinking into the mass of his body.
"What if you… maintained," his feeder suggests.
"You mean… stay this big?" he asks, turning over his hands to survey his arms, thinking about the potential of carrying around this weight for more time.
"Yeah," his feeder says. "It'll take a lot of eating, but I think you might just be ready for that," they said, playfully squeezing the bulk of his cheeks. "You might need to really pile on the sweets and stuff to keep the weight on, but what's a few extra desserts a day when you're seven-hundred gorgeous pounds?"
"Feed me as much as you want, being this big I don't ever need to gain another pound," he says, moving his hips to entice his feeder to return quickly with his vanilla shake, grateful for everything the compound had given him and determined with his feeder's help to sustain all the weight he'd grown during the year.
Every single pound felt like the most important one he'd gained.
~
this one goes out to the ever-inspiring @stonednsoft, whose greed for his next pound is unmatched :)
IMAGINE how hot it would be to hit a feedee from behind while they are face down in a trough full of sweets. Literally treat them like the hog they are. Eventually getting so big you don't even need to tie them to the bed, all I'd have to do is gently push them on their back as they struggle to fight gravity. Nothing would bring me more pleasure than watching them struggle against their own body 😩
stuffing in jeans is soooo… you have to undo the button and unzip almost immediately as you start to eat, with a sigh of relief and a few burps, freed from the soft gut now spilling out onto your lap. you’re still aware of the friction on your hips and thighs, that tight, snug feeling. denim just doesn’t have enough give. you keep eating, and pretty soon even the pull of the opened zipper is digging into your soft underbelly, cold and sharp, forcing you to wiggle your jeans further down your hips, exposing your underwear. maybe you discard them completely as you continue to eat, but not without the nagging thought at the back of your mind that soon you won’t be able to button those jeans ever again.
Maybe you could play off the first few pounds as an accident. Weight fluctuates, everyone knows that.
But an unwavering gain like yours? Your weight climbing pound after pound, month after month, every inch of you softening and rounding out as you ate and ate and ate yourself from chunky to chubby to fat. That paints a different picture. People tend to notice that much weight in such a short time.
Still, you could've settled into your fatness. Just been someone who "enjoyed eating" a little too much. Blamed your metabolism, chalked the pounds up to stress or work. These things happen, everyone knows that.
But you just couldn't help yourself, could you? Not when there was food around. You order more than everyone when you go out, you take a second helping at every meal. The way you eat, it doesn't exactly go unnoticed.
Somewhere along the line, everyone just decided you were a Fat Person now.
Maybe you've always been bigger, maybe this was a real surprise, but now you've been permanently classified with the irrevocable, extra-large label of fat. Showing up heavier than your last visit doesn't draw as many comments. Extra food finds its way to your plate.
Still, you can feel eyes on you when you eat. You're somewhere between a cautionary tale about what can happen if one doesn't exert total discipline over their appetites and a lost cause; a complete casualty to gluttony. You're not going to lose weight at this point, everyone knows that.
Do you think everyone can tell that all this weight wasn't exactly an accident?
That you've been regularly stuffing yourself to the point of breathlessness, gawking and grabbing at every softening inch of your body as the number on the scale grows and grows.
The countless moments you've spent with your hands on your plush belly, feeling it growing heavy and round as all the extra calories started to stick and mold this fattened, truer version of yourself. This greedy, outward manifestation of your hunger for more made unmistakable for everyone to see.
You're not fooling anyone. You're not hiding all that weight.
You're fat. You're going to get fatter. Everyone knows that.
