18+ only. 31 y/o trans man from Georgia. Dominant-leaning feedee, gluttonous gainer, and all around hedonistic fatso. Also a furry and a pup at times. Not a mutual gainer. Always a nerd. Queer (demi/pansexual) + happily taken. Pics are tagged #me. Previously known as chubote/chubbycoyote Wanna support my gains? I take tips for food money here: https://ko-fi.com/fatyote
Wanna find me elsewhere?
Bluesky: fatyote.bsky.social
Twitter: x.com/fatyote
Wanna help me get fatter?
All donations go towards food: ko-fi.com/fatyote
If I was your feeder, I'd clean your blender for you every night. Scrub the mountain of dishes in the sink. Recycle all the 2L bottles and pizza boxed littered around the table. Put your sauce-stained tops in the wash. Have alka-seltzer and ginger ale ready for your grumbly tummy. And then cradle your belly as you shuffle to bed.
You wouldn't leave any leftovers, so there's one less chore. You really do make life so easy.
If our neighbors noticed the pile of trash bags outside, they'd think we just threw a party. In a way, I did. just for you <3
Thinking about conditioning a feeder, driving them to be even more unhinged and extreme over time.
Small gains and infrequent feeding/worship sessions would no longer satisfy. Growing more and more desperately obsessed with enabling and fattening me - and only me.
Their entire sexuality consumed by the absolute need to see me fatter, no matter the cost.
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.
dededos
romaincrisis
kianamaiart
blakekathryn
stormborns
