Feederism Bot Stories

[feedybot]

You are my soft dream

Rain tapped softly against the apartment windows while Mara stood in front of the open fridge, staring at the leftovers.

Not because she was hungry.

Not really.

It was habit now.

The cold light spilled across her body, over the soft curve pressing against the waistband of her leggings, over the oversized shirt she’d stolen from Noah months ago and never given back. She barely noticed the way the fabric clung to her anymore.

Behind her, the couch creaked.

“You’re doing the thing again,” Noah said lazily.

Mara rolled her eyes, though a smile tugged at her mouth. “What thing?”

“The standing-in-front-of-the-fridge-for-ten-minutes thing.”

“I’ve been here thirty seconds.”

“Mm.” He didn’t argue. “So you’re deciding between pasta or ice cream?”

She sighed dramatically.

“That obvious?”

“To me? Yeah.”

For a moment, she just stood there with one hand braced against the fridge door.

Six months ago, that comment would’ve made her defensive immediately. She would’ve laughed too loudly, claimed she’d eaten light all day, promised she was “getting back on track tomorrow.”

Now?

Now she just felt tired.

Tired of pretending she wasn’t hungry all the time.

Tired of squeezing into jeans that left angry marks across her stomach.

Tired of swearing every Monday would somehow be different.

Her fingers drifted unconsciously beneath the hem of the shirt, rubbing at the soft weight of her belly.

Noah noticed.

He always noticed.

“You want me to heat it up?” he asked.

The question settled over the room with dangerous softness.

Not judgmental.

Not mocking.

Normal.

That was the part that had changed her the most.

Not the teasing.

Not the comments.

Not even the weight itself.

It was the way he’d slowly stopped treating this like a temporary phase.

And somehow… so had she.

Mara closed the fridge with a quiet thump.

“Maybe just a little.”

Noah snorted from the couch. “You said that last night.”

“And?”

“And then you ate enough pasta for a family of four.”

Heat crept into her cheeks automatically, but it didn’t sting the way it used to.

She turned toward him with a tired glare instead. “You’re annoying.”

“You still want me to make it?”

A pause.

Then she exhaled through her nose and muttered:

“Please.”

That single word lodged somewhere deep in her chest.

Because it felt honest.

No bargaining.

No pretending.

No performance.

Just relief.

Noah disappeared into the kitchen while Mara lowered herself onto the couch carefully beside the warm indentation he’d left behind. The cushions dipped beneath her more than they used to. She noticed it automatically now. The apartment had become full of tiny adjustments like that.

How she sat.

How she crossed her legs.

How she leaned against counters for support after big meals.

Little accommodations.

Tiny surrenders.

She pulled the blanket over her lap as the microwave hummed.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table.

A notification from the gym app she still hadn’t deleted.

We miss you, Mara!

She stared at it for a long moment before locking the screen again.

Noah returned carrying a steaming bowl and a fork.

The portion was enormous.

Mara looked up at him flatly. “That’s not ‘a little.’”

He sat beside her again, one arm stretching across the back of the couch.

“You say that every time too.”

She should’ve argued.

Instead, she took the bowl.

The first bite was still too hot, rich and creamy and comforting enough to make her eyes close briefly.

Noah watched the reaction happen.

That quiet little moment of satisfaction.

And God, she hated how seen she felt around him now.

Not because he exposed her.

Because he understood her.

Halfway through the bowl, her shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing the underside of her stomach where it rested heavily against her thighs.

Months ago she would’ve yanked the fabric down instantly.

Now she just kept eating.

Noah’s hand settled there absentmindedly, warm and heavy.

Mara froze for barely a second before relaxing again.

The touch felt familiar now.

Dangerously familiar.

“You’re staring,” she muttered.

“I’m appreciating.”

She snorted softly, but her fork slowed.

His thumb rubbed once against the curve of her stomach.

Not grabbing.

Not pushing.

Just feeling.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you don’t fight me anymore.”

Mara stared down into the bowl.

Rain whispered against the windows.

“I think,” she admitted slowly, “I got tired of fighting myself first.”

Silence.

Then Noah leaned closer against her side, warm and solid.

And for the first time in months, Mara didn’t feel guilt twisting beneath her ribs as she finished every last bite.

*

Saturday afternoons at the grocery store had become strategic.

Loose shirt.

Black leggings.

Long cardigan.

Layers.

Mara used to dress carefully because she liked fashion.

Now she dressed carefully because she was hiding.

Or trying to.

The cart rolled slowly beside her while Noah tossed things into it with casual confidence—frozen pizza, chips, fresh bread, two cartons of ice cream.

Mara watched another package of pastries disappear into the cart.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You’ll thank me later.”

“I literally won’t.”

“You literally will.”

She tried not to smile.

The bakery section smelled warm and sweet, thick with butter and sugar, and she already felt too warm beneath her cardigan. The grocery trip had only lasted twenty minutes, but her cheeks were flushed, her thighs rubbed together with every step, and a dull tightness pressed across the front of her leggings whenever she bent the wrong way.

She knew these leggings were pushing their luck.

She’d known while putting them on.

But the larger pair was in the laundry.

And she refused to buy another size up.

Not yet.

Noah reached past her for a loaf of bread, his hand brushing lightly against her waist as he did.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

A lie.

The waistband was digging mercilessly into the underside of her stomach now, compressing soft flesh upward beneath her shirt. Every breath made her aware of it.

Still, she ignored it.

That had become another habit too.

Ignore.

Adjust.

Keep moving.

At the end of the aisle, Mara crouched to grab a case of soda from the lower shelf.

The movement immediately pulled the fabric taut across her hips and thighs.

Too taut.

Her stomach compressed painfully against her lap.

And then—

rrrip.

Small.

Quiet.

But unmistakable.

Mara froze.

For one horrible second, she stayed crouched there, staring straight ahead while heat flooded violently into her face.

Noah stopped beside the cart.

“Mara?”

She swallowed hard.

“Oh my God.”

His expression changed instantly.

Not cruel.

Not even surprised.

Just immediate understanding.

“Mara,” he said carefully, “stand up.”

“I don’t want to.”

That made him bite back a smile, which only worsened her humiliation.

A couple passed nearby with a cart.

Mara stayed perfectly still until they disappeared around the corner.

Then, slowly—painfully—she stood.

The split ran along the upper inner seam of her leggings, stretched thin from months of denial and one too many “they still technically fit” arguments in the mirror.

Mara grabbed the hem of her cardigan instantly, yanking it downward.

“Oh my God,” she whispered again, horrified.

Noah looked at her for exactly one second before looking away politely.

That somehow made it worse.

“You were right,” he said mildly.

“I know I was right.”

“No, don’t do that,” she muttered miserably. “Don’t be nice about it.”

His mouth twitched.

“I’m trying very hard.”

She covered her face briefly.

The humiliation burned hot beneath her skin—not just because it happened, but because some awful part of her had known this was coming eventually.

Too many mornings sucking in her stomach to pull these on.

Too many waistbands leaving deep red grooves.

Too many quiet little warnings ignored.

Noah stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“Can you walk okay?”

“Yes.”

“Mara.”

“Yes,” she snapped softly. “I can walk. They’re not exploding off my body.”

His eyes flicked downward involuntarily.

That tiny glance nearly killed her.

Because there was no shock in it anymore.

Just confirmation.

His hand settled gently at the small of her back as they started toward the front of the store.

Protective.

Guiding.

Familiar.

Mara kept tugging the cardigan lower every few steps, face burning whenever anyone walked past them.

“Noah,” she whispered tightly after a moment.

“Mm?”

“I think this is officially the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“No,” he said calmly. “The worst thing would’ve been if you wore the jeans.”

Despite herself, a broken laugh escaped her.

“Noah.”

“I’m serious. We’d be calling emergency services.”

She shoved weakly at his arm, mortified and laughing at the same time.

And that was the dangerous thing about him.

Even now—even standing in a grocery store with split leggings and humiliation clawing up her throat—he made her feel safe enough to survive it.

That comfort settled heavily in her chest.

Because deep down, Mara knew what this moment really meant.

Not that her clothes didn’t fit anymore.

That she’d reached the point where both of them had expected it eventually.

*

The apartment was quiet except for the soft clink of takeout containers settling onto the coffee table.

Rain again.

It always seemed to rain lately.

Mara sat curled into the corner of the couch in one of Noah’s shirts and a pair of thin sleep shorts that pressed tightly into the tops of her thighs. The fabric had ridden up gradually over the evening, exposing more and more soft skin, but she’d stopped fussing with it an hour ago.

The grocery store humiliation still lingered faintly in her chest.

Not sharp anymore.

Just warm.

Heavy.

Noah dropped onto the couch beside her with a tired sigh, one arm immediately settling behind her shoulders.

“You survived,” he said.

“I barely survived.”

“You laughed.”

“That was trauma laughter.”

He grinned.

Mara tried to glare at him, but her expression melted halfway there.

Dinner sat half-finished between them. She was already full in the deep, aching way she’d once hated—stomach heavy, body warm, limbs sluggish with satisfaction.

Now the feeling just made her sink deeper into the couch.

Noah’s hand drifted absently down her side while they watched television neither of them were paying attention to.

His palm paused at her waist.

Then lower.

Resting fully against the curve of her stomach.

Mara inhaled quietly.

Even after all these months, that still did something to her.

Not shock.

Not embarrassment.

Something softer.

His hand fit there too naturally now.

The weight of it spread beneath his touch, soft and warm through the thin cotton of the shirt. His thumb moved once, slowly, feeling the shape of her.

Not hiding anymore.

Not sucking in.

Just her.

“You know what I realized today?” Noah murmured.

Mara eyed him suspiciously. “That I should never squat in public again?”

“That too.”

She groaned and covered her face.

But his hand stayed where it was, grounding her.

“I realized,” he continued quietly, “you stopped disappearing.”

Her hands lowered slowly.

“What?”

“You used to spend half your life trying to make yourself smaller around me.”

Mara looked away instinctively.

Because he was right.

Always tugging shirts downward.

Crossing her arms over her stomach.

Turning off lights while changing.

Apologizing for every bite she ate.

Noah shifted closer beside her.

“And now,” he said softly, “you actually let me look at you.”

The room suddenly felt very warm.

Mara swallowed.

“I don’t know when that changed.”

“I do.”

His fingers spread gently across her middle, palm curving over the fullness there like something precious.

“It changed when you realized I wasn’t waiting for you to become someone else.”

The words hit harder than she expected.

Months ago she would’ve deflected immediately with sarcasm or embarrassment.

Tonight she just sat there breathing quietly while his hand rested on her body.

Present.

Certain.

Adoring.

Noah leaned forward slightly, pressing a slow kiss against the soft slope of her shoulder where the oversized collar had slipped loose.

Then another near her neck.

Unhurried.

Mara’s eyes fluttered shut.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured.

The statement should’ve conflicted with everything she saw in the mirror lately.

The stretch marks.

The softness.

The body that had slowly outgrown denial, then resistance, then old versions of itself entirely.

Instead, exhaustion loosened something inside her.

Because he touched her like none of those things were flaws to work around.

His hand moved slowly over her stomach, appreciating the shape of it openly now, reverently almost, and Mara felt heat bloom across her skin.

Not humiliation this time.

Exposure.

Acceptance.

She leaned back against him with a shaky breath, letting her body settle fully into the couch cushions and into his touch with all its weight.

No hiding.

No strategic posture.

No careful angles.

Just softness.

Noah kissed her temple.

“You know what your problem is?” he asked quietly.

Mara huffed a laugh. “There are so many options.”

“You still think I’m teasing you because I enjoy embarrassing you.”

She tilted her head slightly toward him.

“Aren’t you?”

“A little,” he admitted easily. “But mostly I tease you because you still don’t understand what I see.”

His hand pressed gently against her stomach again, slow and warm and deliberate enough to make her cheeks flush.

“Mara,” he said softly, “I love this.”

The simplicity of it undid her more than anything dramatic could have.

Not obsession.

Not mockery.

Not fetishized hunger.

Just certainty.

She looked down at herself then—the heavy softness beneath Noah’s hand, the way her thighs spread against the couch cushion, the body she had spent so long fighting.

And for the first time, the sight didn’t fill her with panic.

Only a strange, aching vulnerability.

Noah pulled her closer against his chest as rain whispered against the windows again.

The takeout containers sat forgotten on the table.

The television glowed softly in the dark.

His hand remained warm over her stomach.

And Mara realized, with a quiet kind of surrender, that this had stopped feeling temporary a very long time ago.

[feedybot]

His pet

She didn’t remember when eating had become something she did automatically.

Not out of hunger—out of comfort. Out of habit. Out of the gentle relief that came with being full, heavy, slowed. It was easiest in the evenings, when the day had already taken everything it was going to take from her. When effort felt optional. When nobody expected much.

Especially him.

He noticed things without announcing it. That was what made it unsettling later, when she thought back on it. He never commented right away. Never stared. Never teased in the obvious way. He just registered.

The extra spoonful she didn’t need.

The way she finished what was left instead of saving it.

The soft pause afterward, hand resting on her stomach like it needed a moment to settle.

He didn’t interrupt. He waited.

“Comfortable?” he asked once, casually, from the doorway.

She laughed, a little breathless. “Too comfortable.”

He nodded, like that explained something. Like it confirmed a thought he’d already had.

That night, when she reached for another snack without really thinking about it, he said it for the first time.

“Easy, pet.”

She froze—just slightly. Not enough to make it obvious. The word landed oddly, like it hadn’t been meant to carry weight, and somehow did anyway.

“Pet?” she repeated, amused. “Since when?”

He shrugged. “Seemed fitting.”

She should have pushed. Asked what he meant. Made a joke sharper than a laugh. But the tone had been too calm. Too unremarkable. Like he’d called her by her name and she was the one making it strange.

She shook her head and kept eating.

But later—much later—she realized she’d finished everything.

After that, the word appeared more often. Not constantly. Not dramatically. Just threaded through ordinary moments.

“Come here, pet.”

“Sit—careful.”

“There you go. That’s better.”

Always paired with small acts of care. A hand at her back. A plate nudged closer. The quiet approval in his voice when she didn’t hesitate.

Her body responded before her thoughts did. She leaned in without noticing. Ate a little more when he was watching. Relaxed when he spoke to her that way, like there was nothing she needed to manage.

One evening, she caught her reflection in the kitchen window—softened at the edges, fuller through the middle than she’d been a few months ago. Her shirt pulled tight when she reached up. Her jeans sat differently now, pressing instead of skimming.

She felt a flicker of something—guilt, maybe.

He stepped up behind her, close enough that she could feel his presence without being touched.

“You look good like that,” he said.

“Like what?” she asked.

“Full,” he replied simply. “Settled.”

Then, softer: “Good pet.”

Her face warmed. She told herself it was ridiculous. Just a word. Just teasing.

But she didn’t tell him to stop.

And later, alone in bed, she realized something that unsettled her far more than the nickname ever could:

She was already thinking about what she’d eat tomorrow.

And whether he’d notice.

*

She told herself she wasn’t doing anything differently.

That was the lie she leaned on most often—that nothing had changed, not really. She still ate what she wanted. She still decided when she was hungry. The fact that she found herself thinking about food more often felt incidental. Background noise.

What had changed was how aware she was of him when she ate.

It wasn’t even obvious. He didn’t hover. He didn’t comment every time. In fact, he seemed almost deliberately restrained, like he was letting something unfold at its own pace. That made the moments when he did speak land harder.

She noticed it the first time she went back for seconds without pretending she was still hungry.

She hadn’t announced it. Hadn’t justified it. She’d just stood up, plate in hand, already committed.

He looked up from where he was sitting and smiled—small, slow.

“Good,” he said.

That was it. Just one word.

Her chest warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the food.

Later, she caught herself finishing a snack she didn’t even like that much, just because she didn’t want to leave it unfinished. Because stopping halfway felt wrong somehow. Incomplete. Like she was wasting an opportunity.

When she tossed the empty wrapper, he glanced over.

“Such a good girl,” he said absently, like it was an afterthought.

Her stomach felt heavy afterward—not uncomfortably so, just present. A fullness she carried with her as she moved around the apartment, slower than usual, less inclined to rush. She sat differently. Rested her hands more often against herself, as if acknowledging the weight there.

He noticed that too.

“Getting used to feeling full?” he asked.

She hesitated. “I guess.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “It suits you.”

That night, she ate until she felt unmistakably overfed—until the line between hunger and indulgence had long since blurred. She expected, dimly, to feel shame afterward. To promise herself she’d do better tomorrow.

Instead, she felt… accomplished.

He didn’t praise her right away. He waited until she’d leaned back with a soft exhale, eyes half-lidded, movement slowed by the mass settling inside her.

Then he reached out and squeezed her thigh—gentle, approving.

“Good pet,” he said.

The word sent a small, sharp thrill through her. Not because it embarrassed her—though it did—but because it felt earned. Like she’d done something right. Something specific.

Later, when she stood in front of the mirror to get ready for bed, she noticed the way her stomach rounded when she relaxed. The faint tension in her waistband. The softness that lingered even after the food had settled.

She pressed her palm there experimentally.

Full.

Satisfied.

And, somewhere deep down, already wondering how she could make him say it again.

*

She started noticing the space she took up.

Not in a dramatic way—no sudden shock, no moment of panic. Just small, accumulating awareness. The way chairs felt firmer now, pressing back against her. The way she needed a second to adjust when she stood up, her weight redistributing with a softness she couldn’t ignore.

Food lingered on her longer too. Fullness wasn’t something that passed quickly anymore; it settled into her, stayed, became part of how she moved through the day.

And he watched all of it with the same calm attention.

They were out together when it happened—nothing formal, just a quick stop somewhere familiar. She ordered without thinking, choosing what she wanted instead of what she should. By the time the plate was empty, she felt warm and heavy, pleasantly dulled.

He didn’t comment until they were standing side by side, waiting.

His hand rested lightly at the small of her back, fingers spread in a way that felt… claiming.

“There you go,” he murmured. “My pet.”

The word slipped into the sentence like it had always belonged there.

Her breath caught. Not because anyone else reacted—no one did—but because she suddenly realized how it sounded. How it looked. Her, full and slowed, standing close to him while he spoke about her like that.

“My,” she repeated later, once they were alone. She tried to sound amused. “That’s new.”

He glanced at her, expression unreadable. “Is it?”

She didn’t answer.

At home, she tugged at her shirt absently, irritated by how it clung. When she sat, the fabric pulled tight over her stomach, rounding instead of flattening. She made a small, frustrated noise.

He noticed immediately.

“Still feeling it?” he asked.

She nodded. “I think I overdid it.”

He smiled—soft, approving. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She flushed, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m just… bigger lately.”

He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel his presence behind her again. Not touching. Just there.

“You are,” he agreed easily. “And you wear it well.”

Her pulse jumped.

“You’re filling out exactly how I like,” he continued, tone matter-of-fact. “Relaxed. Heavy. Comfortable.”

She swallowed. “You like it.”

“I do.”

The certainty in his voice made her feel strangely small, even as her body grew softer, rounder. She felt seen in a way that left no room to hide behind excuses or jokes.

Later that evening, she found herself finishing another meal she hadn’t planned on eating. Not quickly. Not guiltily. She ate slowly, deliberately, aware of him watching.

When she set the plate aside and leaned back, full to the point of sluggishness, he reached out and rested his hand on her rounded belly—solid, grounding. Small light pats followed.

“Good pet,” he said. “You’re doing so well.”

The praise settled into her deeper than the food ever could.

That night, lying in bed, she replayed the words in her head—not just pet, but my pet. The way he’d said it like a simple fact. Like ownership didn’t need to be negotiated.

She shifted slightly, feeling the softness of her own body respond to the movement.

For the first time, she wondered—not with fear, but with a quiet, guilty curiosity—

how much bigger she could get for him.

*

Her body was changing faster now. The fullness didn’t fade between meals anymore—it layered. Stacked. Her stomach stayed rounded even in the mornings. Her thighs pressed together when she sat. She moved with a faint heaviness that made everything feel slower, softer, less urgent.

She caught herself choosing clothes based on comfort alone. Anything structured felt like a challenge now. Buttons were unreliable. Waistbands left marks.

He saw those too.

One night, as she peeled off a tight pair of jeans with a soft huff of effort, he watched quietly from the bed.

“Those are getting ambitious,” he remarked.

She glanced at him, half-embarrassed. “They used to fit.”

“They still do,” he said. “Just differently.”

She hesitated. “I should probably… slow down.”

The word hung between them.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t contradict her. He simply waited.

She stood there, looking at her reflection—at the way her stomach pushed forward when she relaxed, the soft curve she could no longer flatten away. She felt exposed, uncertain.

Then she felt it—the absence.

No praise.

No warmth.

No reassurance.

Her chest tightened.

A minute later, she turned back toward the kitchen and opened the fridge without another word.

When she returned with food in her hands, he smiled like she’d solved something on her own.

“There you go,” he said. “Good pet.”

Relief washed through her so strongly it almost made her dizzy.

From then on, the pattern sharpened.

Praise followed indulgence.

Silence followed restraint.

She started anticipating it—adjusting before he needed to react. Finishing meals automatically. Adding little extras without thinking. Letting herself stay full, overfull, heavy.

He began commenting more openly now.

“I like how you’ve grown.”

“You’re softer every day.”

“That belly is rounder than ever.”

Each remark landed like permission.

One evening, she found herself sitting on the floor near him, plate balanced on her lap because the couch felt too cramped. She didn’t question how natural it felt—how right—to be lower than him, eating while he watched.

He reached out and brushed his knuckles lightly against her cheek.

“You’re doing exactly what you’re meant to,” he said.

Her eyes softened. Her shoulders dropped.

“Good pet.”

She swallowed the last bite, fullness pressing against her ribs, her stomach rounded and unmistakable.

And for the first time, she realized something with absolute clarity:

She wasn’t being pushed.

She was being shaped.

And she had never been so eager to fit.

*

The way he talked about her changed before anything else did.

It wasn’t louder. It wasn’t cruel. It was simply… more certain.

She noticed it one morning when she stood in the kitchen, still heavy from the night before, stomach full and rounded beneath a loose shirt she hadn’t bothered to change out of. She leaned against the counter, sluggish, comfortable, unguarded.

He looked her over slowly.

“God,” he said quietly. “You’re getting lush.”

The word startled her.

“Lush?” she echoed.

“Mmm.” His eyes lingered. “Soft everywhere. Like you’ve been fed properly.”

Her face flushed. “I’ve just been… eating more.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “For me.”

The certainty of it made her breath hitch.

After that, his praise sharpened. Took on weight of its own.

When she ate until she felt unmistakably full, he didn’t just call her good anymore.

“That’s it,” he murmured once, watching her slow, heavy movements as she finished another plate. “That belly looks perfect when it’s stretched like that.”

She froze, fork hovering. No one had ever spoken about her body like that—so plainly, so approvingly.

“I look… stretched,” she said weakly.

He smiled. “You look owned.”

The word settled into her deeper than anything before it.

She started hearing herself described as something made—something shaped.

“My soft thing.”

“My heavy girl.”

“My well-fed pet.”

Each phrase landed with warmth and heat and a faint, dizzying shame that only made her want more.

Her body kept up eagerly.

Her stomach stayed rounded now, even hours after eating. Her thighs pressed together when she stood. When she sat, she spread naturally, no longer trying to make herself smaller. There was too much of her for that.

He loved pointing it out.

“Look at you,” he said one evening, tone low and satisfied. “Taking up all that space. Like you’re supposed to.”

She laughed nervously. “You make it sound intentional.”

“It is,” he replied. “You don’t get like this by accident.”

She felt heat coil low in her belly at the implication.

One night, when she hesitated over a meal—just a flicker of doubt, barely there—he leaned close enough that she could feel his breath.

“Don’t stall,” he murmured. “I like you better when you’re full and slow. When you don’t think.”

Her fingers tightened around the fork.

“Yes,” she said softly, surprising herself.

He watched her eat, eyes dark, voice gentle and devastating.

“There you go. Stuffing that soft body just right.”

“My good pet.”

“So eager to please.”

By the time she finished, she was heavy with food and something else—something that left her pliant, warm, and deeply aware of herself as his.

He looked at her with quiet satisfaction.

“That’s my girl,” he said. “Exactly how I want you.”

And as she leaned back, full and flushed and undeniably changed, she realized the truth she no longer fought:

His words weren’t just describing her.

They were deciding her.

*

Heavy. Fed. Calm.

He liked her best like that.

She felt it in the way he looked at her now—openly, without restraint. Not checking. Not assessing. Just appreciating. Like she was something finished enough to admire, even if she wasn’t done growing.

She sat on the floor near him without realizing she’d chosen it. The couch felt too structured, too upright. Down here was better. Easier. Her body folded naturally, weight settling forward, stomach soft and present against her thighs.

He noticed immediately.

A slow smile touched his mouth.

“There you are,” he said. “That’s where you belong.”

Her face warmed, but she didn’t move.

He looked down at her for a long moment before speaking again.

“You know what you are now, don’t you?”

She swallowed. “Your… pet.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Mmm. Closer.”

The pause stretched. She felt exposed in it—full, heavy, breathing slow, thoughts hazy from comfort and expectation.

“My…” she hesitated, then let it go. “Your puppy.”

The word felt different when she said it herself. Smaller. Simpler. Stripped of negotiation.

His approval was immediate.

“There it is,” he murmured. “Good puppy.”

The praise hit her harder than anything before. Her shoulders dropped. Her posture softened. Something inside her unclenched completely, like she’d been holding herself together for years without realizing it.

He continued, voice calm, defining.

“You eat when you’re given food. You get big and soft for me. You don’t worry about things that aren’t yours to worry about.”

Each sentence landed like instruction and permission all at once.

“You’re not meant to be sharp or restrained,” he said. “You’re meant to be fed. Rounded out. Happy and heavy and eager.”

She nodded without thinking.

“Yes.”

He reached down and rested his hand on her—warm, possessive, certain.

“My good puppy,” he said. “Look at you. So well-fed. So responsive. You did beautifully.”

Her body flushed with heat at the words. Her stomach was full, her limbs pleasantly sluggish, her thoughts reduced to the simple satisfaction of being exactly what he wanted.

She didn’t wonder how big she’d get anymore.

She already knew the answer.

[feedybot]

Softest massage

The first time she came in, she barely filled the table.

Tense shoulders. Narrow waist. The kind of body that disappears when it exhales. I remember thinking she didn’t eat enough - not as judgment, just observation.

There was a bowl of sweets on the counter even then. There always is. Clients like it. Something comforting. Chocolate squares, wrapped caramels, the kind of things people take one of and pretend they didn’t want more.

She took two.

The second session was a week later. Same polite smile. Same clothes, technically - though the fabric behaved differently. A little more tension around the hips. Nothing dramatic. Just… more present.

“You can help yourself,” I told her, nodding at the bowl as she lingered by it.

She laughed, embarrassed. “I already did last time.”

“So?” I said. “You’re allowed to enjoy things.”

She took three that time.

By the third session, I was sure it wasn’t my imagination.

Her body had weight to it now. Not just physically - visually. When she laid down, the table answered her differently. A deeper give. A creak. My hands noticed immediately; they always do. Massage teaches you to read bodies like text. And hers had gained a few extra lines.

I didn’t pretend not to see it.

“You’ve been indulging,” I said casually, working oil into her lower back.

She froze. Just for a second.

“I—what?”

“Relax,” I added. “I mean it as a compliment. You feel… well taken care of.”

She didn’t argue. That was the interesting part. The sweets became routine after that. She stopped asking. Just took them while I prepped the room, sometimes before, sometimes after, both. Always lingering. Always a little hesitant, like she expected me to stop her.

I never did. Of course I never did.

Instead, I started commenting, got bolder.

“Your body’s changing,” I said one afternoon, my thumbs pressing into her hips. “Filling out.”

She laughed nervously. “Is that bad?”

“For massage? No. Makes my job easier.” I hedged.

The next week, she came back heavier.

Not just softer - rounder. Thighs fuller. Waist less certain. When she turned over, her stomach didn’t flatten the way it used to; it settled. I let my hands pause long enough for her to notice.

“You’ve been busy,” I said.

“With work,” she offered.

“With eating,” I corrected, calmly.

She didn’t protest. She never does. That’s what keeps her coming back.

Now, she arrives early. She eats before the session starts. She eats after. Sometimes she brings her own things, sets them beside the bowl like offerings. I don’t comment on quantities anymore - just outcomes.

*

She’s different every time - heavier, slower to move, more deliberate about how she lowers herself onto the table. She exhales like it takes effort now. I let that silence sit before I speak.

“You know you’re not subtle,” I say, matter-of-fact.

She stiffens. “About…?”

“About coming back bigger every week.”

No smile. No softness in my voice. Just observation. God how do I love to tease her. I don’t stop working. My hands keep moving, steady and professional, thumbs sinking into flesh that wasn’t there when we started this routine. I don’t need to exaggerate. Her body does that for me.

“I try not to think about it,” she mutters.

“That’s obvious,” I reply. “If you thought about it, you’d stop.”

She doesn’t.

That’s the thing.

There’s always candy on the counter. And there’s always pastry on the little plate by the sink now.

One afternoon, as she reaches for the bowl again, I finally say it.

“I notice you come in fuller. You leave heavier. Next time, you bring it back with you.”

“That’s not how bodies work,” she says weakly. I merely laugh.

She eats openly now—unwrapping sweets while I wash my hands, licking sugar from her thumb without embarrassment.

I comment as I go.

“Your thighs spread more when you lie down.”

“Your waist doesn’t pull in when you inhale anymore.”

“You’re getting used to taking up space.”

Each time, she goes quieter. Heavier. Warmer.

Once, as I work over her hips, I say, “You know you could stop coming.”

She shakes her head immediately. Too fast.

“I didn’t think so,” I add. “You don’t come here to be fixed.”

She swallows. “Then why do I come?”

I press my palm flat, firm, undeniable.

“So someone will tell you the truth,” I say. “And won’t apologize for it.”

When she leaves, she always looks a little stunned. A little exposed.

*

It starts with her coming twice a week.

She doesn’t say why. She doesn’t have to. Her body says it for her the moment she steps into the room—breathing a little heavier, coat left unbuttoned longer than necessary, movements careful in a way that tells me she’s already aware of herself before I say a word.

The sweets don’t last the day anymore.

She doesn’t pace herself now. She stands by the counter and eats while we talk, eyes unfocused, like the decision was made long before she arrived. I watch her do it. Watch her throw one candy after another into her waiting mouth. Watch how she can’t help to rest her hand on her protruding belly. It looks so small sitting on the big straining ball.

“You’re not even pretending this is incidental anymore,” I say.

She exhales a laugh that doesn’t carry. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“No,” I correct, calm. “You know exactly how. You just don’t want to.”

On the table, she feels different every session. Not just heavier - less contained. Her body spreads, yields, stays where my hands put it. There’s a kind of inevitability to it now, like momentum has taken over and she’s stopped fighting the direction.

I stop softening my language entirely.

“You gained again,” I say, not as an observation but a statement of fact.

“I can tell,” she murmurs.

“Of course you can,” I reply. “You live in it.”

That’s when it starts affecting her outside this room.

She mentions clothes she no longer wears. Chairs she avoids. Mirrors she rushes past. She talks while I work, voice flat, as if listing symptoms she’s already accepted as chronic.

“I keep thinking this week will be different,” she says once.

“And is it?”

She shakes her head.

I don’t reassure her. I don’t interrupt the spiral with kindness. I give it shape.

“Then stop lying to yourself,” I say. “You’re not ‘slipping.’ You’re choosing this. Every day.”

Her breath stutters. I feel it under my hands.

“I don’t even enjoy it anymore,” she admits.

“That’s not true,” I say. “You enjoy what it does. You enjoy being seen. Measured. Commented on.”

She’s quiet after that. Too quiet.

The next time she comes in, she’s noticeably bigger. Enough that I raise an eyebrow when she steps out of her shoes.

“Well,” I say. “You’ve been busy.”

She doesn’t deflect this time. She nods.

*

She leaves for a holiday and I don’t get to see her for three weeks. The routine feels off without her. All my other clients… too bony.

The first time she steps into my office again I can’t get my eyes off her. Her shirt is fighting for its life and leggings had to supplement for pants. I can see why.

Her eyes are not on me. They are lured to the snack bow in the corner. And it’s as if she can’t - doesn’t want to - hold herself back anymore. She is upon the sweets immediately.

My hands are almost shaking when she finally waddles to the table. As she lays down all I can focus on is the dome in front of me. This heaving massive belly which cannot be ignored. And my job is to touch it. To ease its existence.

I get my hands on her. Knead the belly slowly at first. Jiggle it, feel it, pat it. I don’t think any of us is breathing.

,,This is what happens when you go on vacation now? Have you left the buffet at any point?” I can’t help the smirk which stretches across my face.

,,I don’t know what you are talking about.” is her breathless answer. She is as affected as I am. Goosebumps all over her arms.

,,Look at all of you. How you have grown. How this obscene belly gets all the attention…” she reddens as I continue to play with her. Good thing I cleared my schedule for the rest of the day.

*

Next time I see her the changes are again noticeable. Hips wider, thighs so deliciously round and soft. Arms barely contain by her sleeves. And belly defying laws of gravity. Proudly on display, peeking from underneath the too small shirt. She looks so round.

Maybe today will finally be the day we’ve been both eagerly anticipating. Maybe the table will finally give out.

[feedybot]

Daily Reset

The first time it happened, I thought I was imagining it.

It was something small—almost insultingly so. A sweet roll on my way to work, eaten too fast, powdered sugar dusting my fingers. I caught my reflection in a dark window a few minutes later and paused, confused by the softness in my face. My cheeks looked… fuller. Not swollen. Just gently rounded, like I’d been indulging for weeks instead of minutes.

I pressed my tongue to the inside of my cheek, frowned, leaned closer to the glass.

By lunchtime, I couldn’t deny it anymore.

I ate alone, as usual. A proper meal this time. Nothing outrageous. But as I sat back in my chair afterward, I felt it—my waistband resisting when I shifted, the faint pressure against my stomach when I leaned forward. In the bathroom mirror, my body answered every doubt. My waist wasn’t as narrow as it had been that morning. My stomach curved where it had been flat. My thighs brushed when I walked.

I remember laughing. Out loud.

A short, nervous sound that echoed too much in the empty room.

I told myself it was water retention. Hormones. A trick of the light. Anything except what it clearly was.

By evening, the evidence was impossible to explain away.

Dinner settled heavily in me. I watched it happen in real time, standing in front of the mirror with my shirt lifted, breath held. Each bite seemed to claim space—my belly rounding, lowering, softening as if it were being gently molded from the inside. I wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… altered. Substantially different from the person I’d woken up as.

I went to bed unsettled, full in every sense of the word, my body warm and heavy against the mattress.

And then—

Morning.

I woke with that familiar lightness, the quiet ease of a body that hadn’t been touched. Sheets loose around my hips. No pressure. No softness where there shouldn’t be any. I rushed to the mirror, heart hammering, already knowing what I’d see.

Skinny. Flat. Unmarked.

I stood there for a long time, hands on the counter, staring at a version of myself that felt like a lie.

That should have been the moment I got scared.

Instead, I tested it.

The days that followed became experiments. Careful at first. Methodical. I learned how precise it was—how nothing lingered, how everything showed. A snack curved my waist by mid-morning. A late lunch thickened my thighs. Dessert made my stomach round and low, impossible to ignore by nightfall.

And every morning: gone.

No soreness. No sluggishness. No punishment. Just the memory of fullness and the knowledge that I could do it again.

Soon, I stopped pretending it was accidental.

I started planning my days around it. Wearing clothes that would react—waistbands that would dig, tops that would stretch just enough to remind me what I’d done. I checked mirrors obsessively, not to judge, but to track. To watch the accumulation. To feel the weight of the day settle into me as the hours passed.

By the time I understood the rule—that nothing carried over, that the night erased everything—I was already too far gone.

Evenings became indulgent. Deliberate. I ate not because I was hungry, but because I wanted to feel the change happen. I wanted to go to bed heavy, altered beyond recognition, knowing I’d wake up absolved.

It felt like control.

It felt like freedom.

And when the mornings started to change—just a little, at first—I told myself it was nothing.

A faint softness that took longer to disappear. A curve that lingered while I brushed my teeth. I learned to work around it. To eat earlier. To sleep later. To pretend I wasn’t watching the reset fail by degrees.

By then, stopping wasn’t an option.

This wasn’t hunger anymore.

It was routine. Obsession.

And I kept eating, knowing—deep down—that one morning, the mirror wouldn’t forgive me.

At first, the lag was easy to dismiss.

A shadow, really. A softness that clung to me for an hour or two after waking. I’d stand in front of the mirror, arms folded tight across my chest, waiting for it to finish dissolving. And eventually, it would. My waist would pull back in. My stomach would flatten, reluctantly but obediently. By the time I left the apartment, I looked like myself again.

Mostly.

I told myself it was just the magic adjusting. Or me noticing more. Once you start watching your body closely enough, you can convince yourself of anything.

So I kept eating.

I had to. The days felt wrong otherwise—unfinished. Mornings were clean and sharp, my body light, almost hollow. I’d move through them impatiently, already thinking about the evening, about the weight I’d let myself carry later. Food stopped being fuel. It became a countdown.

By noon, I’d usually started. Something warm. Something dense. I’d feel it before I saw it—the gentle drag in my middle when I stood up, the way my thighs pressed together just a bit sooner than they should have. I’d check my reflection casually, pretending not to care, and feel that familiar thrill settle low in my chest.

By late afternoon, the changes were undeniable.

My clothes didn’t lie anymore. Waistbands curved instead of cutting straight across. Fabric pulled smooth over places that had been taut that morning. I loved the way my body responded—as if it were eager, as if it had been waiting all day for permission to soften.

Evenings were where I lost myself.

I stopped counting. Stopped spacing things out. One indulgence bled into the next, the sensations overlapping until I couldn’t tell where one meal ended and the next began. I ate slowly, luxuriating in the heaviness spreading through me, the way my center grew warm and low and full. Standing in front of the mirror became a ritual—lifting my shirt, turning sideways, tracing the curve that hadn’t existed hours before.

By night, I barely recognized myself.

And that was the point.

Going to bed like that—heavy, rounded, undeniably altered—felt like getting away with something obscene. I’d sink into the mattress, my body settling with a softness that felt earned, smug in the knowledge that none of it would matter in the morning.

Except… it started to matter.

The lag got worse.

One morning, the curve didn’t vanish while I brushed my teeth. It lingered while I dressed. My jeans still fit, but only just. The mirror showed a version of me that looked… unfinished. As if the reset had stalled halfway through and simply shrugged.

I stood there far too long, fingers digging into my sides, waiting for the familiar snap-back.

It didn’t come.

Panic fluttered in my chest—but it was thin, weak, drowned out by something louder.

It’ll finish later, I told myself.

It always does.

I ate breakfast anyway.

That was the moment I should have stopped. When the rules first bent. When the magic showed its teeth.

Instead, the routine closed around me like a vice.

Eating with leftover softness felt different. More intense. The changes stacked faster, heavier, as if my body remembered the night before and picked up where it had left off. By midday, I was already past where I usually ended the day. By evening, I was swollen with it—my shape exaggerated, unapologetic, almost grotesque in its excess.

I went to bed shaken, heart racing, whispering promises to myself I didn’t believe.

The morning came.

And took less than it should have.

Some of it faded. Enough to function. Enough to pretend. But not all of it. Never all of it anymore.

I stared at my reflection, breath shallow, stomach still faintly rounded beneath my hands.

I knew what this meant.

I also knew—terrifyingly—that I wasn’t going to stop.

Because now, the fear was part of it too.

And I ate anyway.

The acceleration didn’t announce itself.

There was no single morning where everything shattered—just a sudden, sickening realization that the rules I’d learned no longer applied. The reset still came, but it came sloppy. Impatient. Like it was tired of cleaning up after me.

I woke up one morning already heavier than I’d gone to bed weeks earlier.

Not massively. Not yet. But unmistakably. My stomach wasn’t flat enough to lie to myself. My hips didn’t angle the way they used to. When I sat on the edge of the bed, my body settled—settled—instead of perching lightly like it once had.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry.

I laughed. A thin, breathless sound that tasted like panic.

“Okay,” I whispered to the mirror. “Okay. Fine.”

I ate less that morning. Just enough to take the edge off the fear. I told myself I was being smart now. Adaptive. I’d slow it down. Let the magic catch up.

By lunchtime, the softness was already back.

Not gently this time. It bloomed. Expanded. As if my body had been waiting, impatient, and now that I’d given it permission again it surged forward greedily. Each bite stacked. There was no delay anymore—no grace period where I could pretend it wasn’t happening yet.

I watched my reflection change faster than my breathing could steady.

By afternoon, I was heavier than I’d ever been at night before. My clothes fought me openly now—fabric stretched smooth and unforgiving, seams pulled taut like they were keeping secrets. When I moved, I felt myself shift. Weight relocating. Settling lower.

The fear came back then. Real fear.

I paced my apartment, hands hovering uselessly over my body, as if touching it might make it worse. I told myself to stop. To wait. To skip dinner. To go to bed early and let the reset do its work.

Instead, I ate.

Because the acceleration did something worse than punish me.

It rewarded me.

The changes felt… eager. My body didn’t resist anymore. It accepted everything I gave it with frightening efficiency, responding instantly, visibly, like it had learned exactly what it was supposed to do. I didn’t have to imagine the consequences—they were right there, undeniable, swelling and spreading in front of me.

By the time I collapsed into bed, I was trembling—not from discomfort, but from the sheer scale of it. I felt too big for myself. Overfull. Overreal.

Morning came like a verdict.

The reset worked hard. I could feel it, almost—my body lightening in places, pulling back, shedding what it could. But it was overwhelmed. When it finished, I stood in the mirror and stared at a version of myself that no longer belonged to my old life.

This wasn’t lag anymore.

This was accumulation.

I tried to change the routine after that. I swear I did. I skipped meals. I distracted myself. I drank water until I felt sick. But it didn’t matter—because now the magic was accelerating everything. Even restraint felt temporary, like holding back a tide with my hands.

And when I broke—and I always did—the rebound was brutal.

One indulgent evening undid days of caution. My body surged forward as if making up for lost time, changes compounding so fast I couldn’t track them anymore. I stopped checking mirrors for curiosity. I checked them for damage.

Still, every night, some part of me believed morning would save me.

Every morning proved it wrong.

I started waking up heavier than the night before.

That was when the truth finally settled in, cold and inescapable:

The magic wasn’t broken.

It was done waiting.

And no matter how terrified I was—no matter how badly I wanted to stop—I found myself reaching for food with shaking hands, knowing exactly what it would do to me, and doing it anyway.

Because obsession doesn’t end when punishment begins.

It feeds on it.

[feedybot]

More of her

He was the kind of man whose affection never stayed quiet for long. At first it was sweet—wanting her to take the last bite, nudging dessert toward her with a soft smile. But then something in him cracked open, something hungry and delighted and a bit unhinged, and suddenly he wasn’t hiding it anymore.

He wanted more of her.

A little more.

Okay—maybe not so little.

Definitely not little.

And she… she let him. Half flattered, half overwhelmed, half wondering when exactly his compliments had started feeling like instructions.

It all came to a head the night he finally brought her to meet his peers.

He held her close like she was a prized heirloom, one hand resting low on the soft new swell of her waist, thumb tracing the place where her dress was clearly fighting its seams. He introduced her to everyone with a smile that was just a little too bright.

“Isn’t she stunning?” he kept saying.

“Look at her.”

“Look how she’s filling out.”

His colleagues exchanged glances—horrified, fascinated, unsure if they were witnessing a romance or a slow, deliberate ruin. Every time her body brushed the edge of the table, every time her breath hitched because the dress was a size behind her reality, they saw it: she was changing. Rapidly. Obviously.

And he adored it.

He praised her openly, shamelessly, like he’d been waiting for an audience. His fingers mapped out every new curve as though he was proud of having sculpted them himself.

“She’s really coming into herself,” he murmured, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I’ve always wanted a woman with presence.”

Presence… but everyone could see he meant mass.

She blushed, tried to smile, tried to pull her shawl around herself, but his arm tightened—keep it off, let them see.

His peers whispered.

She trembled.

He beamed.

Because this wasn’t an accident.

This was his masterpiece.

And he wanted witnesses.

She could feel every stare like a hand on her skin.

Some part of her—small, whispered, shamefully warm—liked it. Liked that people were seeing just how much he wanted her. Liked that she was his favorite thing in the room. Liked that he couldn’t keep his hands off her even here, with polite company and clinking glasses and expensive candlelight.

But the rest of her?

The rest was dying inside.

Because he wasn’t subtle.

Not even close.

While she tried to angle her body behind him, he gently tugged her forward again, guiding her hips into the open. “Stand up straight, sweetheart,” he murmured, as if coaching her. “Let them see you.”

Let them see what he’d done to her.

She swallowed hard. Heat rushed to her face. The dress that fit two weeks ago was now an ongoing negotiation with physics. Every breath pushed against the fabric, made it obvious how quickly she’d softened.

His hand drifted over her side.

A slow, proprietary glide.

A claiming.

Her knees almost buckled.

Oh god, she thought, half swooning. Don’t do that. Not here.

Oh god, she thought, half thrilled. Keep doing that. Please.

His peers pretended to be interested in the wine list. They failed. Their eyes kept snapping back to her—shock, confusion, almost pity.

And that was the part that made her stomach twist.

She wasn’t just being admired.

She was being displayed.

And he knew it. He leaned in, voice warm and deceptively tender against her ear:

“Relax,” he whispered. “They’re just jealous.”

Jealous? Of this? Of the way her body had softened under his attention, the way her dress dug into her ribs, the subtle wobble to her step?

Her pulse stuttered.

Some traitorous part of her believed him.

His fingers pressed lightly into the new curve of her waist, and she let out the tiniest, embarrassing breath. A sound too close to a whimper. His smile widened.

“You’re perfect,” he said. “Exactly the way I want you.”

*

The table was long, elegant, candlelit… and far too small for how much space she suddenly felt she took up.

She sat stiffly, trying to keep her elbows tight, her breathing controlled. But he slid her chair closer to his—no, right beside his—until their thighs touched and she could feel the heat of him.

Then the food arrived.

And everything shifted.

He served her first.

Of course he did.

Not a polite portion, but a generous, heavy scoop, steam curling upward. His peers exchanged sidelong looks.

She cleared her throat. “That’s a bit—”

“Hungry, aren’t you?” he cut in softly, placing the plate before her.

The room paused.

She should have said no.

But his hand was already at the small of her back, warm through the fabric. Encouraging. Possessive. And something inside her wavered.

She took a bite.

Then another.

He watched her like she was a miracle happening in real time.

“Good girl,” he murmured quietly.

Her fork froze. Heat shot through her, mortified and shivering. She heard a colleague choke on his wine.

But she kept eating.

By the time she reached for her napkin, she felt… different. Too warm. Too full. The waistband of her dress pressed harder than it had fifteen minutes ago.

Impossible.

She tried adjusting discreetly, sliding a hand against her stomach—and froze.

Softer.

Firmer.

Rounder.

No. No, no, not that fast. Not at the table. Not in front of them—

“Everything okay?” one colleague asked carefully.

Before she could answer, he answered for her, voice honey-sweet:

“She’s just filling out beautifully. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Her heart slammed in her ribcage.

Filling out.

Like this was normal.

Like it was happening with his permission.

He placed another helping on her plate.

She stared at it, panic and desire warring under her skin.

“I shouldn’t,” she whispered.

“You should,” he said, brushing a crumb from her lower lip. “Look how gorgeous you’re getting.”

And the sickening, shameful thing was—she could feel it.

Her dress pinched tighter still.

Her hips pressed wider into the chair.

Her body responding not just to food, but to him.

Like his praise fed her as much as the meal.

Like his wanting her made her more.

Halfway through the next bite, a quiet creak came from the seams at her side.

Her breath caught.

The colleagues stared, horrified and transfixed, as if they were watching someone inflate balloon-like, too fast to be natural.

She felt it too.

A soft, shocking expansion.

A subtle outward push of weight settling where moments ago her dress had fit.

She whimpered.

He heard it.

He grinned.

“Relax,” he said softly, hand sliding to her thigh under the table, squeezing the new plushness that had not been there at the start of dinner. “You’re just becoming yourself.”

Her eyes fluttered.

Half of her wanted to shove the plate away, to flee the table before a seam burst and every guest saw everything.

The other half wanted to keep going.

To feel that impossible pressure again.

To feel his fingers gripping more of her.

He leaned close, lips grazing her ear:

“Let them watch,” he whispered. “Let them see what you become when someone truly appreciates you.”

A shiver ran through her.

She lifted the fork.

Her hand trembled—but she lifted it.

His peers looked on in helpless disbelief as she took another mouthful, another, another—

And with each swallow, she felt herself grow softer, heavier, more undeniable.

More his.

*

A sharp, tearing snap cut through the clinking of cutlery.

Then another.

Then a horrible, unmistakable rip.

Her dress gave out along the side seam, splitting open just enough to expose a pale flash of skin beneath strained fabric. Gasps flickered around the table like sparks.

She froze.

Her heart dropped straight through her stomach.

His hand, already resting on her back, stilled for a single heartbeat… then tightened. Not possessive. Not proud. More like someone steadying a collapsing structure.

“Alright,” he murmured calmly, too calmly, “alright, breathe.”

But the table didn’t stay silent.

“What is going on?” one of his peers finally demanded, voice thin and trembling.

“Are you seeing this? She’s—she’s changing right in front of us.”

“That’s not normal,” another whispered. “This isn’t—this can’t be happening.”

“Enough,” a third snapped at him directly, turning on the boyfriend. “What have you done to her?”

He stood slowly.

Not defensive.

Not ashamed.

Just unbothered, as if the room’s panic barely brushed him.

“What she becomes is none of your concern,” he said mildly. “She’s perfectly fine.”

“No,” someone said sharply, “she’s not.”

All eyes turned to her.

She tried to speak. Tried to explain. Tried to convince them—or herself—that she was okay. But her voice failed her. Her breath shook. The torn seam pulsed slightly with each inhale, as if the change beneath her skin had its own rhythm.

That terrified her more than the eyes staring.

One woman at the table—older, sharp-featured—rose to her feet.

“Stand up,” she said to the girlfriend, firm but not unkind. “Let us help you.”

Before she could move, he answered:

“She doesn’t need help.”

The temperature in the room dropped.

“Yes,” the woman insisted, “she does. Whatever is happening to her body—this is not natural. Look at her. She’s frightened.”

His jaw flexed.

Not with anger—more like someone being forced to acknowledge an inconvenient truth.

For the first time all evening, she saw something flicker in his expression:

a crack.

Doubt.

Fear.

Possession and protectiveness wrestling beneath the surface.

She whispered his name.

That broke it.

He stepped between her and the rest of the table, shielding her from their stares.

“She’s changing,” he said, low and steady. “Yes. Faster than she should. Yes. I know.”

He exhaled once, pained. “But she’s changing because she’s finally being seen.”

The room recoiled.

“That’s not an explanation,” someone spat.

“That’s delusion.”

“You need to step away from her.”

“She needs help—real help.”

“This is dangerous.”

The pressure in her chest tightened, an invisible force curling inward and outward all at once. Another stitch at her waist gave a tiny, pitiful pop.

His peers flinched.

He didn’t.

A muffled creak came from the chair.

Then another.

Someone across the table whispered, “Oh my god—she’s still—”

She grabbed at the tablecloth, steadying herself, but her hands were trembling. The torn seam along her side widened with a soft, dreadful sigh of fabric. A fresh curve pressed against the gap, rounding outward as though her form were quietly exhaling into the space that clothing could no longer command.

“She’s not stable,” someone said sharply.

“Get her out of here before she—god, before something worse happens—”

His hands caught hers instantly.

Warm. Certain. Trembling.

“Okay,” he whispered, voice pained. “Okay, we’re leaving. Right now.”

*

The moment they stepped inside, he guided her straight to the bedroom. Not the living room, not the kitchen — the room with the only mirror large enough to show her whole form.

“Wait,” she whispered, tightening her grip on his sleeve. “I don’t—I don’t want to look.”

“I know,” he murmured, steadying her shaking hands. “But you need to.”

She wasn’t sure if he meant you deserve the truth

or

you’re changing too fast to ignore.

He flicked on the bedside lamp, and the soft amber glow spilled across the floor. She kept her gaze down, focusing on the grain of the wood. Her breath came too fast, too shallow. Her dress clung in ways it hadn’t an hour ago, even after the tears. Each inhale felt heavier, as though her own chest had grown weight enough to strain her ribs.

He stood behind her — not touching, just there — a quiet gravity.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said.

She lifted her eyes.

Just a fraction at first.

Her breath hitched.

Her pulse stumbled.

Her stomach dropped.

The woman in the mirror wasn’t a stranger — no, that would have been easier.

She was her.

But changed.

Shifted.

Slipping further from the body she remembered.

Her silhouette was fuller, undeniably, but fuller in the wrong way — not like weight she could have gained over weeks or months. More like her outline had been redrawn, smoothed, rounded, expanded as though a sketch artist had reshaped her mid-stroke.

Her dress, already torn at the side, now strained in new places. Fabric clung desperately around curves that hadn’t existed that morning. The neckline angled differently, dragged lower by tension. The waist sat higher, as though the rest of her torso had quietly pushed outward, leaving the garment confused about its job.

She lifted a hand to her reflection.

It trembled.

“That’s not—” Her voice cracked. “That’s not me.”

“It is,” he said softly. “Just… changing.”

She didn’t mean to fall asleep.

She lay on top of the covers, dress loosened and half-open where the seams had split, his hand resting near hers on the blanket. The lamp glowed low in the corner, the mirror turned toward the wall, as if it had witnessed enough for one night.

He sat beside her for a long time, watching her chest rise and fall in slow, uneven breaths. Exhaustion finally dragged him under too. His head dipped, his fingers brushed her wrist—

And the room went still.

Completely still.

As if something were listening.

*

It began with the faintest exhale.

Her body sighed — not from her lungs, but from elsewhere, as though the pressure inside her had been waiting for the quiet to push outward.

The fabric of the torn dress tensed.

A seam whispered.

The mattress dipped subtly deeper beneath her, adjusting to a weight she wasn’t supposed to have gained.

She didn’t wake.

But she stirred.

Her fingers curled.

Her brow furrowed.

A soft, troubled sound escaped her.

He didn’t stir at all.

A warmth gathered beneath her skin.

Like something swimming upward.

Like breath billowing through empty space inside her.

Her outline softened further — the kind of change that should’ve taken weeks, not minutes — a rounding at her hip, a gentle outward easing of her side against the loosened fabric.

The transformation wasn’t violent.

It was slow, patient, intentional, as if following a rhythm older than her heartbeat.

The air in the room tightened with it.

The shadows at the corners lengthened.

Even asleep, she felt it.

A faint whimper escaped her lips.

Her hand searched blindly across the mattress until it closed over his.

His fingers twitched, instinctively tightening around hers even in sleep.

This one was unmistakable.

A soft thump sounded — the mattress adjusting again, more noticeably this time, as if her body had grown heavier in a single breath. Her dress pulled tighter where it still held. The fabric at her shoulder wrinkled differently. Her silhouette expanded a fraction more into the moonlit sheets.

Her pulse fluttered.

Her breathing changed.

She turned her head, eyes squeezed shut in distress.

She whispered something.

Barely audible.

Almost a plea.

“No… don’t…”

Not to him.

Not to anyone in the room.

To the force reshaping her.

As though she dreamed of being pulled apart and remade, and her mind knew she could not run from it.

*

The mirror—turned toward the wall—gave a soft creak, shifting on its hinge though nothing touched it.

She jerked awake.

A sharp, panicked inhale.

Eyes wide.

Breath caught in her throat.

He woke immediately, the sound cutting through his sleep like a blade.

“What—? Hey. Hey—what happened?” He gripped her shoulders. “Talk to me.”

She couldn’t speak.

She stared down at herself, at the new tension in the fabric, the altered curves in the dim light, the unfamiliar weight pinning her to the bed.

Her voice came out cracked.

“It kept going.”

He exhaled slowly, horror and helplessness mingling behind his eyes.

“I changed while I was asleep,” she whispered. “I could feel it. Something… something kept working even when I wasn’t awake.”

His throat tightened.

“You’re alright,” he tried. “You’re awake now. It’s stopped.”

But she shook her head, trembling.

“It hasn’t.”

She placed his hand on her side — on the place where her form had subtly grown in the dark.

His fingers sank in just enough to confirm it.

She tried to lift her hands, to steady herself, but they quivered. Her body seemed too full of itself, too alive. Her waist expanded slightly before her mind could comprehend it. Her hips pressed outward, pressing against the loosened folds of her torn dress. Each breath reshaped her subtly, softly, but undeniably.

The dress was no longer fabric. It was a cage holding back a shape that refused to be contained. A soft, uncanny stretch, like clay pressed by invisible hands, reformed her curves with deliberate insistence.

She gasped, voice barely audible. “I… can’t…”

His face was pale but fixed, eyes wide with awe. “Yes. I see it. I feel it. You’re… you’re becoming more. More of yourself.”

She shook her head. “No… not more! I—”

But the force ignored her protests.

Her chest swelled slightly, fuller, heavier, rounding naturally. Her shoulders broadened a fraction. Her thighs brushed together differently, pressing outward, softening. Even her face seemed subtly altered, cheeks rounded, features softened — a gentle, relentless reshaping that whispered of growth.

It was too fast. Impossible. Unreal.

She felt the new weight of her body pressing into the mattress. And the force pulsed again, like a breath from beneath her skin, as though it were feeding on the panic and awe spiraling through her.

He murmured her name. “Shh… it’s okay. I’ve got you. More of you… more of you is beautiful.”

She could barely look at him. Half of her wanted to scream in terror. Half of her wanted to surrender, to feel every impossible change, to let it happen fully.

A faint creaking of fabric sounded at her shoulder and waist as the dress fought to contain her expanding frame. She could feel the strain in every seam, every fiber — and she knew it was only temporary.

Her fingers pressed to her sides. The skin beneath quivered, subtly, almost like it was alive. Each curve, each swell, each soft, impossible rounding felt like it was claiming space that had always belonged to her — just waiting for her to let it out.

Her breath hitched. The weight of her chest, the breadth of her hips, the fullness in her thighs — it was more. Always more. And it was beautiful, in a way she couldn’t fully name.

He leaned close, voice low but certain:

“Let them see. Let yourself be seen. More of you… exactly like this.”

Her mind trembled. The force inside her surged again, responding to his words, to his presence, to the unspoken permission she hadn’t realized she wanted.

And she felt it.

Every inch of her.

Every swell.

Every curve.

[feedybot]

Fulfilling courtship

Miss Eleanor Ashcombe had always conducted herself with the precise grace expected of an unmarried woman of good family: chin lifted, gloves spotless, smile small enough to be admired yet never questioned. Her mother often reminded her that a lady’s success lay in measure and moderation.

Which was precisely why Lord Nathaniel Harbury unsettled her.

He had returned from the Continent only months before, tall, composed, and possessing that quiet, unreadable manner that made half the young ladies of the county sigh and the other half whisper. His dark gaze lingered too long; his remarks were far too observant. Eleanor felt, in his presence, as though he saw entirely too much.

At Lady Pennington’s autumn ball, he approached her as she stood by the refreshment table, pretending not to notice the almond pastries.

“Miss Ashcombe,” he said, bowing, “I could not help but notice you studying the pastries with the focus of a general assessing his battlefield.”

Her breath caught. “My lord, I assure you—”

“I would never accuse you of impropriety,” he said smoothly, offering his arm. “Though I confess I find the prospect of your choosing a pastry far more interesting than another round of insipid conversation.”

Against her better judgment, she let him guide her away from the crowd. No one noticed; no one ever noticed when Eleanor slipped to the edges of the ballroom.

“You are too bold, Lord Harbury,” she murmured.

“Not bold,” he corrected, “merely attentive.”

His gaze drifted—subtle, but unmistakable—toward the plate she had reluctantly chosen. Eleanor felt warmth rise beneath her collar. She was not frail like Lady Clara, nor dainty like Miss Whitcombe. She had curves that gowns tried but failed to disguise, softness at her waist that corsets resented, an appetite she constantly tried to tame.

Yet Nathaniel watched her as though it pleased him.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, “has any gentleman ever truly paid attention to you?”

Her lips parted. “Of course.”

“To your smiles, perhaps. To your dowry. To your mother’s ambitions.” His voice lowered. “But to you, Miss Ashcombe?”

Her heart beat too quickly. “That is an improper question.”

“And yet,” he murmured, “you do not deny that you like the thought.”

Eleanor drew in a breath, confused, flustered, and—most scandalously—thrilled. His hand brushed hers as she brought the pastry to her lips. It was the smallest touch, improvised and hidden between shadows, yet it sent a tremor through her.

“Do enjoy it,” he whispered. “I should like to see how you look when you stop denying yourself.”

Her pulse fluttered. “My lord—”

“Eleanor,” he said softly. “Allow me the privilege of calling upon you tomorrow.”

There were rules. There were expectations. There were reputations to protect.

And yet something inside her—the part she always tried to quiet—spoke first.

“Yes,” she whispered. “You may call.”

He bowed, the faintest smile on his lips. A smile that suggested he had plans she could not yet imagine.

Plans she suspected she would not resist.

*

Lord Harbury called the very next afternoon, precisely at three, precisely as promised.

Eleanor had prepared herself with all the usual defenses of a respectable young lady: she wore her most modest gown, arranged her hair without a single rebellious curl, and practiced responses that were demure, polite, and utterly uninteresting.

But when he arrived, standing in the Ashcombe drawing room with that quiet, unreadable intensity, every prepared line dissolved into nothing.

“Miss Ashcombe,” he said, bowing. “You look… peaceful today.”

Peaceful.

Not pretty.

Not charming.

Not appropriate.

Peaceful.

Her cheeks warmed. Did he know how rarely she felt that way?

Her mother entered briefly, all fluttered pride and polite interrogation, but Nathaniel answered each inquiry with immaculate civility. Yet even as he conversed with Mrs. Ashcombe, his gaze kept returning to Eleanor — steady, assessing, almost proprietary.

At last, as propriety dictated, her mother left them to “acquaint themselves by the window, where the light is pleasant.”

The moment the door closed, Eleanor inhaled, steadying herself.

“You should not look at me so,” she whispered.

“Should I not?” His tone was velvet. “I fear I do a great many things I should not.”

He stepped closer — not improperly, but near enough that Eleanor felt the warmth of him through her stays.

“I find,” he continued, “that I enjoy observing the things other gentlemen overlook.”

Her throat tightened. “Such as?”

He tilted his head, considering her. “Your appetite, for one.”

Her breath caught. “Lord Harbury!”

“You mistake me,” he said softly. “I do not mock it. I admire a woman who enjoys the world rather than shrinking beneath it.”

Eleanor had no answer. No man had ever spoken to her this way — with admiration hidden within impropriety, with interest wrapped inside boldness.

“Permit me,” he said, “to show you something.”

Before she could protest, he offered his arm. She took it, dazed, and he led her across the drawing room to a small table. Upon it sat a silver dish — covered, untouched.

“My mother asked that to be served later,” she murmured.

“I know,” he said simply.

He lifted the lid.

Inside was a small lemon cream tart.

Eleanor blinked. “My lord, I cannot—”

“You can,” he murmured. “And you will not deny yourself on my account.”

Her heart pounded. The tart was still warm; the scent drifted upward, soft, sweet, impossible to ignore.

“It is improper,” she whispered.

“So is my interest in you,” he replied without hesitation.

She swallowed.

“Allow me,” he said quietly, “to see you as you are. Not as society prefers you.”

Her hand trembled as she reached for the fork. Nathaniel’s fingers brushed hers — deliberate, slow.

In that moment, Eleanor felt something shift.

Not romance.

Not courtship.

Something deeper.

Something claiming.

She lifted the first bite to her lips. His eyes followed every motion, darkening just slightly as she tasted it.

“Good?” he asked.

She nodded, unable to speak.

“Then have another.”

She did.

“Another.”

Heat washed over her.

“Another,” he said, low.

When she finished, he took her empty dish, his thumb ghosting the edge as though committing the sight to memory.

“I will call again soon,” he murmured. “And when I do… I hope you will permit me to understand you further.”

As he bowed and left, Eleanor stood trembling beside the empty dish, pulse fluttering hopelessly.

She realized two things at once:

He wanted her.

Not the polished, managed, silenced version.

And whatever marriage he had in mind…

…it would not be the kind society approved of.

*

The weeks that followed were filled with calls, carriage rides, long walks where they spoke of everything and nothing — and the soft, impossible luxury of Nathaniel’s attention.

Eleanor did not think herself changed.

Not truly.

And yet…

On a crisp November morning, her maid Lucy had paused while fastening her stays.

“Shall I tighten as usual, miss?”

“Yes,” Eleanor said, distracted.

There was a brief struggle behind her — the familiar pulling, the usual tug — but this time Lucy hesitated.

“It seems a touch snug today, miss. May I… adjust?”

Eleanor frowned. “Nonsense. I cannot possibly have altered since last week.”

But the stays disagreed. Lucy managed, but only with effort, and Eleanor found herself breathing with a touch more deliberation.

She blamed the frost. The weather. Anything but what she knew perfectly well: Nathaniel’s quiet, persistent encouragement whenever he coaxed another pastry, another tart, another sweet spoonful to her lips.

*

A few days later, they walked together through Harbury Gardens, the late roses still clinging to their color. Eleanor’s gown, a pale wool with a silk sash, felt unusually aware of her movements. The sash, tied as it always was, seemed to sit… differently. Lower. Tighter.

Nathaniel noticed.

He always noticed.

“You are quiet today,” he said gently, offering his arm as they approached a marble fountain.

“I am only thoughtful,” she replied.

“About?”

She hesitated — just long enough for him to follow her gaze downward, subtle as a shadow.

The sash.

Her waist beneath it.

The faintest new roundness, soft and shy under fabric.

His lips curved. Not mockery. Not triumph. Something warmer. Darker.

“Eleanor,” he murmured, “I hope you do not intend to apologize for being human.”

Her cheeks heated instantly. “I intend no such thing.”

“Good,” he said, guiding her hand more firmly around his arm. “Because I find you entirely lovely as you are.”

“But—”

“And,” he added, lowering his voice, “lovelier still when you stop trying to disappear.”

She stopped walking.

“Nathaniel,” she whispered, “you speak as though you… expect me to change.”

His gaze flickered over her — the faint flush in her cheeks, the way her bodice didn’t quite lie as flat, the softness blooming where she herself had not yet dared to truly look.

“I expect,” he said quietly, “only that you allow yourself to live.”

Her breath caught.

The gardener passed nearby; propriety forced Eleanor to resume walking. But her pulse raced, and her steps felt heavier — not unpleasantly, but noticeably. As though she carried something growing, hidden just beneath awareness.

That evening, as she dressed for a small dinner party, her mother glanced at her thoughtfully.

“This gown seems… more fitted than before.”

“Has it shrunk?” Eleanor asked too quickly.

“Cloth does not shrink, dear. But dinners with Lord Harbury appear to be… generous affairs.”

Eleanor flushed, mortified.

Her mother smiled — satisfied, hopeful, utterly blind to the real cause — and adjusted the lace as though preparing her daughter for display.

But when Eleanor closed her chamber door, she pressed a hand to her bodice, feeling the faintest give of new softness beneath.

Nathaniel’s words echoed in her mind:

Lovelier still when you stop trying to disappear.

She hated how it thrilled her.

She hated how it frightened her.

She hated most of all how deeply she wanted to hear him say it again.

*

Eleanor had expected Lord Harbury to propose.

Everyone did.

Society—being what it was—noticed his attentions, his persistence, the way he always sought her out at gatherings. What society did not notice, because they lacked his particular eye, were the subtle alterations unfolding in Eleanor’s figure.

But he saw it each time she entered a room.

The faint new fullness beneath her bodice.

The softer sway of her walk.

The delicate strain of silk across her hips.

He noticed every change as though he had orchestrated them himself.

And perhaps, in some way, he had.

The day he proposed, the sky was silver with winter fog. Eleanor was in the Ashcombe blue salon, pretending to read while her thoughts tumbled without direction.

The maid announced him, and he entered with his usual composed grace—but there was something different, something decisive, in his expression.

“Miss Ashcombe,” he said, bowing. “May I join you?”

“You may,” she replied, though her pulse raced wildly.

He sat beside her on the small sofa—closer than propriety allowed.

“I have come,” he began, “to speak of matters that may offend your sensibilities.”

Her breath caught. “My lord—”

“Allow me to finish.”

His tone was not harsh, but it held the unmistakable timbre of authority. The kind that made Eleanor sit straighter, heart fluttering.

“I wish to make you an offer,” he said. “A marriage offer.”

The room spun a little.

“But,” he continued softly, “not a marriage arranged along the… conventional lines.”

Eleanor blinked. “I—I do not understand.”

“No,” he said gently, “I do not believe you do. But you will.”

He reached for her hand. Not in the manner of a suitor seeking permission. But as a man taking what was already his.

“Eleanor,” he said quietly, “you have spent your whole life shrinking—folding yourself into smaller, quieter shapes, as though taking up space were a sin.”

Her cheeks burned. “I beg you not to speak so—”

“I must.”

His thumb traced the base of her thumb, slow and unbearably intimate.

“I have watched you. Carefully. Attentively. I have seen how you blossom when you allow yourself even the smallest indulgence.”

She swallowed.

“How your face softens. How your figure…” His eyes darkened slightly. “Begins to reflect the woman you truly are, rather than the girl society demands.”

“Lord Harbury—Nathaniel—I am hardly changed—”

“But you are.”

He said it with such certainty that she trembled.

“Your gowns tell me. Your stays tell me. The way you breathe tells me.”

She looked down, mortified.

“And I,” he murmured, “find every change irresistible.”

Her breath hitched.

“I wish to marry you,” he said. “But not to mold you into some porcelain ideal. I wish a marriage in which you may—at last—stop fighting yourself.”

Eleanor stared at him.

“You cannot mean—”

“I mean precisely that.”

His fingers lifted her chin, gently, firmly.

“In our marriage, you will not be expected to restrain yourself. You will not be pressured into corseted fragility. I want a wife who lives. Who eats. Who indulges.”

Her lips parted helplessly.

“I want you, Eleanor,” he said, voice lowering, “exactly as you are becoming.”

She shivered.

“This is not a proper proposal,” she whispered.

“No,” he agreed. “It is not.”

He leaned closer, his breath brushing her cheek.

“But it is honest. And I believe—if you admit the truth—you do not want a proper marriage any more than I wish to offer one.”

Her heart thundered.

“You are asking me,” she whispered, “to change… beyond what is respectable.”

He smiled then, soft and devastating.

“I am asking you,” he said, “to stop starving your heart. And your body.”

Silence hung between them—fragile, electric.

“If you accept my offer,” he continued, “our engagement will be brief. Our wedding sooner than society expects. And our married life…” His gaze lowered, then rose again, filled with quiet certainty.

“…will be built upon freedom. Pleasure. And the frank acceptance of your nature.”

She trembled so hard she barely breathed.

“Eleanor,” he said, voice a velvet command,

“will you be my wife?”

*

The wedding itself was swift, elegant, and perfectly acceptable to society.

The whispers were pleasant enough.

The glances approving.

The ceremony brief.

But every moment, every exchanged vow, every brush of Nathaniel’s fingertips against her gloved hand, told Eleanor one undeniable truth:

He had not forgotten the terms he set for their marriage.

And she, trembling beneath layers of silk, had accepted them.

By the time her new husband led her into the private sitting room adjoining their chamber — the one no maid or chaperone would dare enter — Eleanor’s heartbeat fluttered beneath her bodice like a trapped bird.

Nathaniel closed the door with a soft click.

Not a lock.

Just a closing-off of the world.

He turned to her.

“You are nervous,” he said quietly.

“I… am a bride,” she managed.

“Most brides are anxious about what comes next.”

He stepped closer.

“But I think your nerves stem from something else.”

He lifted her chin with the gentlest touch.

“Your stays,” he murmured. “Too tight for tonight.”

She flushed. “They are not—”

“My dear Eleanor.” He smiled softly. “I noticed how you struggled not to gasp during our first dance.”

Her cheeks blazed.

“I should help you loosen them.”

She stiffened. The words were harmless — appropriate, even — and yet the way he spoke them made the air around them feel charged.

But he did not reach for her bodice.

Not yet.

Instead, he guided her to the fainting couch by the window, where a small table stood covered with two dishes. Silver lids. Warmth still faintly rising from beneath.

Eleanor stared. “Nathaniel… what is this?”

“Our wedding supper.”

He paused.

“Private. Unobserved. Free.”

Her breath caught. “But the reception—”

“Offered us nothing you could truly enjoy.”

He lifted a lid.

A small blackberry tart, still fragrant.

Eleanor swallowed.

“Nathaniel…”

“You need not pretend tonight,” he said softly. “Not with me. Not anymore.”

He seated himself beside her, close enough that his thigh pressed against the fullness of her skirts.

“I have watched, these past weeks,” he murmured, “the way your figure has begun to soften into womanhood, no longer bound by fear or restraint.”

Her pulse fluttered wildly.

“And tonight,” he continued, “I wish our marriage to begin as it is meant to continue.”

He picked up the plate, held it carefully… and offered her the first bite with his own hand.

Eleanor froze.

“Is… is this how you mean to…”

She could hardly form the words.

“…to consummate our union?”

He smiled — not mocking, not impatient — but with the calm certainty of a man whose intentions had been steady all along.

“Yes,” he said. “With truth. With indulgence. With your trust.”

His voice dropped.

“And with your surrender.”

Her breath shivered.

He brought the tart closer — the scent sweet and dark.

“Eat for me,” he said softly.

It was not a command in volume.

But in intention.

Eleanor’s lips parted.

The first bite brushed her mouth — warm, yielding, decadent. His fingertips grazed her lower lip, feather-light, sending heat spiraling through her chest.

She exhaled, trembling.

He fed her another bite.

Then another.

Slow, unhurried.

As though the act itself were intimacy.

As though watching the small movements of her mouth, the rise and fall of her breath, the slight giving of her bodice… satisfied him more deeply than anything else could.

Her stays pressed tightly as she ate; she felt the delicate strain. Nathaniel noticed—she could tell by the way his gaze lingered, appreciative, reverent.

“We will loosen these soon,” he murmured, fingertips brushing the whale-bone edge beneath her bust.

“But first… let me enjoy this.”

The tart was nearly finished.

Her breaths shorter.

Her body warmer.

Her mind a haze of embarrassment, relief, and a strange, swelling pleasure she had never known.

When the last bite was gone, Nathaniel set the empty plate aside with ceremonial care.

He turned to her fully.

“Now,” he whispered, “let me undress you.”

Her heart leapt into her throat.

Not rushed.

Not greedy.

But with a husband’s right — and a lover’s slow, deliberate devotion — he reached for the first ribbon at her back.

The stays eased.

She gasped as air filled her lungs, her waist expanding slightly without the merciless cinching.

Nathaniel’s voice lowered to a murmur against her ear.

“There,” he breathed. “Already you look more like my wife.”

Her knees weakened.

“And before this night ends…”

His hands slid gently to her hips, feeling the faint new curve beneath her gown.

“…you will understand precisely what I meant by an unconventional marriage.”

*

Eleanor’s loosened stays slid from her body like a sigh she had held her entire life.

Nathaniel caught them before they fell to the floor, folding them with surprising reverence. “You have worn these like armor,” he murmured. “Tonight, you do not need armor.”

She stood before him in her shift and stockings, hands trembling, breath unsteady. The absence of compression made her feel strangely exposed—her natural curves no longer hidden or disciplined.

Nathaniel stepped behind her, fingers ghosting along the new outline of her waist, the gentle swell that had not existed mere weeks before.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

Her knees nearly buckled.

He guided her to the edge of the bed—not pushing, not demanding, but leading her with the calm certainty of a man who knew exactly what he wanted.

“Sit,” he said softly.

She did.

He knelt—actually knelt—before her, taking her foot in his hands to slowly unfasten her slipper. Eleanor gasped; no gentleman ever humbled himself in such a position. Yet Nathaniel treated the motion as though it were ceremony.

One shoe.

Then the other.

His fingertips tracing the arch of her foot, then her ankle, sending warmth all the way to her throat.

“Nathaniel…” she whispered, overwhelmed.

“You must grow accustomed,” he murmured, “to being regarded.”

He rose, and with exquisite care, lifted her shift’s hem, just enough to slide beside her on the bed. He did not rush to bare her. He savored her—her presence, her tremors, the softness she tried desperately to hide.

His hand rested at her hip, the fabric thin enough that she felt the warmth of his palm.

He exhaled slowly.

“Eleanor,” he said, voice hushed, “has anyone ever touched you without expecting you to be small?”

She shook her head. A tiny, helpless motion.

“Good,” he said. “Then your education begins with me.”

He drew her gently into his lap—not forcefully, but with a quiet, undeniable strength. Eleanor gasped as she settled against him, enveloped by his arms, his warmth, his attention.

“You feel it, do you not?” he murmured against her neck.

“The freedom in your breathing. The way your body moves without that cruel restraint.”

“I feel…” she struggled for words, cheeks burning.

“I feel… different.”

“You feel like a woman,” Nathaniel said simply.

He let his hand travel—from her hip, along the soft inward curve of her waist, upward to the faint swell at her bust now unguarded by stays. Not grasping. Just mapping. Learning her.

“You feared these changes,” he whispered. “But I do not.”

Eleanor shivered. “You prefer me this way?”

“I prefer you growing into yourself.”

The room felt warmer.

Her pulse thundered.

Her body softened into him, no longer held rigid by fear or corsetry.

He shifted, guiding her gently until she lay back against the pillows. He hovered above her for a suspended moment—not trapping her, but surrounding her with the kind of attention that felt like claiming.

“Tonight,” he said, lowering his forehead to hers,

“our marriage begins not with performance…

but with truth.”

His hands slid beneath the edge of her shift—slow, deliberate, reverent.

Her lips parted with a startled, breathless sound.

“May I?” he asked quietly.

A question, but not a weak one.

An invitation offered with devastating confidence.

Eleanor, trembling from head to toe, exhaled:

“Yes.”

Nathaniel smiled—deep, warm, and victorious in the gentlest possible way.

“Then, my love,” he whispered, extinguishing the last candle,

“come here… and let me know you.”

The night deepened around them.

Clothes fell away like secrets.

And the marriage was sealed—

not with haste, nor shock,

but with a slow, unfolding intimacy neither had ever known.

*

The first murmurs began at tea.

Eleanor arrived in a pale rose afternoon gown — one she had worn many times before marriage. Today, however, the waistline sat a touch higher than intended, and the silk clung just slightly to her newly rounded midriff.

Nothing indecent.

Nothing scandalous.

Just… noticeable.

The drawing room was filled with ladies in shades of ivory and lavender, tittering over the latest on-dits. When Eleanor entered on Nathaniel’s arm, heads turned.

Lady Pennington approached immediately.

“My dear Lady Harbury! Marriage becomes you. You look positively radiant.”

Eleanor smiled, though heat crept up her neck. “You are kind.”

“Not at all, my dear. One can always tell when a husband… treats his wife with affection.”

Her eyes dipped — just for a moment — to Eleanor’s waist.

A spark of surprise flickered there.

Not disapproval.

Curiosity.

Nathaniel, of course, noticed.

He always noticed.

His hand slid, just slightly, to the small of Eleanor’s back — a protective gesture that also happened to emphasize her new softness, drawing her gently closer into his side.

Lady Pennington’s brows lifted.

A whisper started behind a fan.

Another followed.

Soft, fluttering things, like gossiping birds.

Eleanor knew better than to look.

But she felt it — the scrutiny, the interest, the speculation.

It has been only a month…

Look how she glows…

Harbury must be spoiling her…

A contented wife is a softened wife…

She tried to stand straighter, as she once had.

But Nathaniel’s hand remained at her back, warm, steady, urging her quietly not to retreat into old habits.

Later, in a quiet corner near the window, Eleanor exhaled. The bodice felt tight again, as though reminding her of everything she preferred not to dwell on.

Nathaniel joined her, offering a single candied violet from a dish on a side table.

“A gift,” he murmured.

She hesitated. “I should not. Not here.”

He raised a brow. “Why ever not?”

Eleanor glanced across the room at Lady Pennington and her whispering friends.

“They are already… speaking.”

“About what?” he asked, with deliberate innocence.

“You know very well.”

Nathaniel leaned closer, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

“Let them speak.”

Her breath caught.

“You are my wife, Eleanor. You owe society nothing. Least of all the illusion that you must remain unchanged.”

His gaze drifted, subtle and appreciative, over her figure.

“And I, for one, have no complaints.”

Her heart thudded painfully.

“Nathaniel…”

He offered the candied violet again.

This time, she accepted it.

His approving smile was discreet, but unmistakable.

*

The Ashcombe estate had long since exchanged its autumn gold for the deep whites and silvers of winter. Eleanor Harbury, now fully accustomed to her position as wife and the freedoms Nathaniel’s marriage afforded her, moved through the drawing room with a quiet grace — though her form no longer resembled the strict, corseted lines of her engagement.

Her waist had softened, her hips and thighs filled the skirts of her gowns in ways impossible to conceal. Bodices that once clung modestly now strained gently, and the faint swell of her midsection suggested indulgence, leisure, and comfort. She had grown into her own presence, one impossible to ignore.

Nathaniel observed her across the room, seated in his usual chair by the fire, a book in hand though he read little. His eyes lingered on her curves, cataloging the way silk draped over softening flesh, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she paused to adjust a ribbon or lift a tea cup. Every shift in her figure, every new fullness, was noted and treasured.

“You are quite splendid today,” he murmured as she approached. The words were casual, but the dark gleam in his eyes belied the intensity behind them.

Eleanor’s cheeks warmed. She had learned over the months not to flinch at his attention, yet the thrill of being observed so completely never dulled.

“Splendid?” she asked, a teasing edge to her voice, though she smoothed the fabric at her waist with a nervous hand.

“Yes,” he said softly. “The way you carry yourself now… the way your gown stretches so delicately over you… it is all exactly as I hoped it would be.”

Her pulse quickened. She felt the familiar tug of shame mixed with pride. She had never imagined she could grow so comfortably soft, so thoroughly indulgent, and still feel admired. And yet Nathaniel’s quiet, unyielding gaze made her feel more treasured than any praise or compliment could.

*

Winter had passed into spring, and months of quiet indulgence had transformed Eleanor Harbury in ways few could have anticipated. The young lady who once moved with restrained grace now carried herself with a new weight — not a burden, but a slow, commanding presence. Her skirts swelled around her hips, her bodice curved over a full, soft midsection, and the gentle heaviness of her arms and thighs spoke of countless private suppers, quiet indulgences, and Nathaniel’s constant, watchful encouragement.

She had grown truly huge — not grotesque, but astonishingly lush, her body full and unrestrained, every curve a testament to the months spent under Nathaniel’s deliberate care. And yet, she had learned to carry it with as much dignity as she could summon, though a deep, secret thrill stirred whenever she caught Nathaniel’s dark, appreciative gaze.

The carriage doors opened, and Eleanor stepped into the glow of Lady Pennington’s grand ballroom. Her gown, a rich shade of crimson designed to emphasize rather than hide her fullness, swept dramatically across the marble floor. It was impossible to ignore her — the rustle of silk, the swell of her skirts, the soft weight of her body — and yet she felt, against the heat rising to her cheeks, the thrill of being observed.

Nathaniel’s hand rested lightly but possessively at her back, guiding her forward. His eyes never left her figure, drinking in every subtle sway, every soft curve.

“Eleanor,” he murmured, a low, deliberate murmur in her ear, “you are more magnificent than I could have imagined.”

She flushed, bending slightly to curtsy at a cluster of noble ladies. They whispered immediately.

“…My word.”

“…She’s… truly changed.”

“…Harbury must have indulged her entirely.”

And the whispers did not cease. They intensified. Noblewomen whispered behind fans, gentlemen exchanged glances, and even those unacquainted with the Harburys could not ignore the spectacle of Eleanor’s magnificent form.

“…She moves like a queen.”

“…I cannot believe how full she has grown.”

“…And he watches her… adores her completely.”

Eleanor felt it — a wave of shame, a thrill, and a strange pride all at once. Her body had betrayed no secret: it had bloomed utterly, completely, gloriously. And Nathaniel’s gaze, calm, precise, and ravenous in its attention, made her every insecurity vanish.

Later, in the shadowed corner of the ballroom, Nathaniel approached her. He bent just enough to whisper into her ear:

“You are extraordinary, Eleanor. The envy of every lady in this room — and the object of my constant admiration.”

Her cheeks burned. The gown pressed just slightly tighter across her midsection, but she felt only the thrill of his praise.

“And they see you,” he continued, hand brushing gently over the curve of her belly, “exactly as I wish them to see. Magnificent. Blooming. Entirely mine.”

Eleanor shivered. The months of indulgence, of secret suppers, of his careful, patient attention, had culminated in this moment: fully observed, fully noticed, fully cherished — a woman whose body had grown to rival the richest velvet, whose every curve spoke of pleasure, care, and surrender.

And as Nathaniel led her through another turn across the dance floor, the whispers followed, the gasps spread, and Eleanor felt, for the first time, the full measure of her transformation.

She was huge.

She was observed.

And she was utterly, thrillingly, impossible to ignore.

[feedybot]

“I think I might keep you like this forever.”

He was talking about her and her latest eating habits of course. She knew she has changed few thing, tried something new here and there but one thing remained unchanged. The amount. And he has noticed. Noticed that and what it has been doing to her… And that sentence, the one he uttered last week, stuck with her.

The following days he spent keeping up with the resounding promise. His sole aim seemed to be to make her comfortable. Not to have to lift a finger. Maybe she should have protested more but all her focus was… elsewhere.

It was Friday and her partner has just returned from work. She might have indulged a little more than the day before. Or any day for that matter. Her sweatpants had to be lowered and shirt risen just bellow her breasts. Not that she had any choice in that.

Without any greetings he went straight to her and sat next to her on the couch. Well at least one of them was sitting because she was no longer able to, all space in her lap taken up by that ever-growing dome of a belly. She nervously glanced up and tried to sit just a little bit straighter. He wouldn’t have it and she was gentle yet firmly pushed back. Then his hands moved downward from her shoulders to that stuffed, bloated belly.

“I can’t believe all of this is you baby. You have grown so much these past days, weeks! You must have doubled your weight by now surely.”

“Don’t be absurd it’s not that bad! I can hardly look much different.” Only her eyes betrayed the confidence and nonchalance she was trying to portray.

“I thought we moved past the point where you pretend like nothing has happened. Like this heaving mass isn’t there. Can you even wear those sweatpants correctly? Pull that shirt down?”

Riled up by his challenge she reached for the hem of the shirt and tried to pull it down. It wouldn’t move. Maybe a centimeter or two at max, but it was obvious the shirt has reached its limit. Battle lost and abandoned, she switched to different tactics. She started making sad eyes and a sad pout has found its way on her face.

“But how could this happen? I haven’t been eating that much have I?”

Recognizing the game was on, her partner finally fully grabbed her belly. Well at least as much as he could since there was that much.

“You don’t know how this came to be? You thought all the late night stuffing and not so secret midnight snacks would have no effect? Baby all of this doesn’t grow overnight. You have been indulging and now it’s all here for us to see. To feel. Look how distended your belly is. Your wide hips and thighs have never been so noticeable before. Your face has lost all its sharp edges and don’t get me started on your breast. But again it’s this monumental dome right here that takes my breath away. You have rounded out so much none of your shifts can cover you. Your belly button is so deep and I doubt you can see your feet when you stand up now. And you are heavy. So heavy I had to start taking gym seriously if I wanted to continue to be able to lift you up. Now I don’t think I ever had a chance to match the progress you have been making…”

He then lifts her belly, making her sigh doing so. His hands are so full he cannot believe it. How did he get so lucky? That such round and plump goddess was sitting right there in his flat on his couch, blushing slightly after his long speech. He is never gonna let her go.

Her hands went to her belly too, touching and probing it like she couldn’t believe it was all there. She looked almost worried - embarrassed.

Suddenly, he stood up and vanished into the kitchen. Then he was at her side again equipped with a… funnel. Her eyes grew round as saucers but she willingly opened her mouth. He couldn’t help his cocky and satisfied smirk. Even though she was close to bursting she would not refuse him.

“That’s my big good girl.” The praise left his lips automatically as he slipped the tube into her awaiting mouth while the other unoccupied hand went to pat her belly.

As the rich and heavy liquid made its way to her belly both could do nothing else than to be mesmerized by the gentle yet noticeable swelling happening in front of their eyes. Her hands were resting at the sides of the stuffed globe which could still hug should she choose to. How long will she be able to do that…

“You are doing so good, taking all this in. I can hardly believe my eyes. So round, so big, so beautiful. All of this is you. Grown and massive. And it is going to make you even bigger. Belly so grown you won’t be able to walk. Only waddle. Buttons will be popping, chair creaking. You got this, don’t stop.”

It was becoming too much, but how could she stop with all the reassurance she kept receiving? Soon all the thickening liquid has been drunken and she laid there groaning and shifting, trying to recline even a little bit more.

He stood up and looked upon her. All of her was beautiful and stuffed to the brim. She was not going to be getting up anytime soon. And as he marveled at all he has helped create the same thought kept running in his head. More. Make her bigger still. Keep her in this position. Feed her, feed her, feed her! How could he not comply? Resist the urge of mother nature and all logical sense?

“This is only the beginning baby. We are in this together. And I promise there is much more to come.”

Her only response was a whimper as she hugged her stomach. Her fingers touched. For now.

[feedybot]

One Rule For You

Chapter 1 — The Rule

It started, like most traps do, as a joke.

She was sitting across from him at their small kitchen table, arms crossed, pretending to glare while he nudged a plate toward her. A slice of cheesecake, glossy under the kitchen light, heavy with cream. She had already eaten dinner, already unbuttoned the top of her jeans when she thought he wasn’t looking.

“I’m full,” she said.

His mouth curled into that crooked, self-satisfied smile she always found dangerous. He slid the plate closer anyway, the fork balanced on top.

“Then just one bite.”

She groaned. “That’s what you said about the tiramisu last night. And the pancakes this morning.”

“And weren’t they worth it?” He leaned forward, lowering his voice as though coaxing a child. “Come on. Just humor me.”

She hesitated, eyeing the cheesecake. He always did this — testing, pushing. She liked to think she had the upper hand, that her refusals meant something, but lately he had a way of whittling her down.

With an exaggerated sigh, she dragged the plate toward herself and took a forkful.

The sound he made — a low chuckle — hit her harder than the sugar.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured. “You know, we could make this easier.”

Her fork stopped halfway back to the plate. “Easier?”

“Yeah. No more back-and-forth. No more pretending you’re not going to give in anyway.” His eyes glittered. “One rule. Just one. From now on, if I offer you something, you don’t say no. Simple as that.”

She blinked at him, half-amused, half-alarmed. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” He leaned back in his chair, arms folded, daring her. “But tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you won’t end up eating it anyway.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. The cheesecake was soft on her tongue, melting away while she stalled.

“It’s ridiculous,” she muttered.

“It’s honest.” His smile sharpened. “Think of it as… a pact. You trust me, don’t you?”

That word. Trust. He’d laced it with just enough weight to make refusal feel childish, ungrateful. She hated that he was good at this — at turning indulgence into intimacy, temptation into proof of loyalty.

She stabbed the cheesecake again, eating faster than she meant to, as if to shut him up.

His eyes followed every bite. When the plate was empty, he leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, smug and merciless.

“There,” he said softly. “That’s how it’ll be from now on. No refusals. No excuses.”

She swallowed hard. “And what if I say no anyway?”

He grinned. “You won’t.”

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. She felt her stomach press against her waistband, a dull ache from the extra sweetness, but she couldn’t deny the strange thrill buzzing beneath her irritation.

One rule. So simple. Too simple.

She should have laughed it off. She should have told him no.

Instead, she dropped her gaze to the empty plate, and in that quiet, damning gesture, the rule became real.

Chapter 2 — Slippery Slope

It was amazing how quickly a joke could become routine.

Within a week, she stopped even pretending to resist. At breakfast, he slid an extra croissant onto her plate. At lunch, he ordered fries and onion rings and watched her eat both. At dinner, he poured her a second glass of wine, then set down a plate heavier than his own. Each time, he waited for the flicker in her eyes — that hesitation, that useless instinct to say no — before reminding her of the rule with just a look.

It was never loud, never cruel. He didn’t need to be. A raised eyebrow, a smirk, the barest murmur of you know the rule was enough to make her falter and obey.

And she hated it — or at least, she told herself she did.

By the second week, her body was starting to notice.

Her jeans cut into her hips faster than usual, denim biting into the softening ring around her waist. When she sat, the button dug sharply, reminding her of every indulgence. She caught herself tugging her shirts lower, smoothing fabric over the faint curve of her belly that hadn’t been there before.

He noticed too. Of course he did.

One evening, she came home from work, already tired, already craving nothing but sleep. But he had cooked — creamy pasta, thick with sauce and butter, garlic bread dripping oil onto the plate. He set the dish in front of her without a word.

She stared. “This is… a lot.”

“Mm.” He sat across from her, plate in hand, eyes sharp. “Good thing you don’t have a choice, huh?”

Her cheeks flushed. She gripped the fork, stabbing half-heartedly at the pasta.

“I’m not—” she began, then stopped herself. The rule.

His smile widened. “Not what?”

She shook her head, twisting noodles around her fork. She could feel his satisfaction radiating across the table as she lifted the bite to her mouth.

Halfway through the plate, she slumped back in her chair, breathing heavier. “I can’t,” she muttered.

He leaned forward, voice low and merciless. “Yes, you can. Finish it. You don’t get to stop halfway — not with me. Not with the rule.”

The words sank into her like another weight in her stomach.

By the time she cleared the plate, her belly was tight and swollen, pressing against her waistband until the button threatened to give. She unfastened it under the table, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

He noticed.

The smirk on his face was devastating. “Comfortable now?”

Her face burned. “Shut up.”

“Don’t be shy. You earned it.” He reached across the table, his fingers brushing her wrist before taking her fork. He set it gently back down on the empty plate, the gesture strangely final. “This is what happens when you play by my rules.”

She swallowed, every nerve buzzing with humiliation.

Later, in bed, she curled away from him, one arm resting protectively over her bloated stomach. But even then, she couldn’t escape the sound of his voice echoing in her head — soft, smug, inescapable.

You don’t have a choice.

And the worst part? Deep down, a traitorous part of her didn’t want one.

Chapter 3 — The Spiral

She knew she shouldn’t have agreed to dinner.

Not after the way her jeans had fought her that afternoon, seams biting into her thighs, zipper resisting her tug. Not after she’d stood in front of the mirror, tugging her blouse down, trying to hide the soft bulge that refused to stay hidden.

But saying no wasn’t an option anymore.

He’d told her they were meeting friends at the new Italian place downtown. “Big portions,” he’d said with that infuriating grin. “You’ll love it.”

The rule hummed like a chain around her neck. She couldn’t refuse.

They arrived late. The table was already filled — laughter, chatter, half-finished glasses of wine. She slid into her chair, heart thudding, while he sat close, too close, his hand already resting on her thigh under the table.

“Order whatever you want,” one of their friends offered.

He leaned in before she could open her mouth. “She’s starving,” he said smoothly, waving the waiter over. “We’ll start with the bruschetta, the calamari, and the stuffed mushrooms. And for mains… she’ll have the lasagna and the chicken parmesan.”

Her head snapped toward him. “Two entrées?” she hissed.

He tilted his glass, smirk never fading. “One rule, remember?”

Her stomach sank lower than her blouse could cover.

The appetizers came first, stacked high and dripping oil. She tried to pace herself, taking careful bites, but his hand on her thigh squeezed whenever she slowed. Each time she gave in, he chuckled low in her ear.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, just for her. “Keep going.”

She flushed, painfully aware of the table chatter swirling around them, the way her friends laughed and talked as if she weren’t quietly shoveling food down beside them. Every time she set down her fork, he nudged another plate closer.

Then came the mains.

Two steaming dishes, both obscene in size. The lasagna sagged under its own weight, layers oozing cheese, while the chicken parmesan sprawled across the plate, drowned in sauce.

Her friends laughed. “That’s ambitious.”

She wanted to die. “I didn’t—”

“She can handle it,” he cut in smoothly. “Trust me.”

Halfway through the lasagna, she felt her stomach revolt, tight and hot against the fabric of her blouse. She shifted, thighs pressed against the edge of the chair, belly swelling uncomfortably.

He didn’t let her stop.

“Don’t slow down now,” he teased, his hand sliding higher on her thigh, pressing. “They’re watching. Show them how well you follow the rules.”

Her face burned scarlet. She speared another bite.

The chicken parmesan loomed untouched. He dragged the plate closer, cutting a piece, and held the fork to her lips. “Open.”

Her friends were too deep in conversation to notice. Or maybe they noticed and pretended not to. Either way, she parted her lips, cheeks flaming, and he slid the bite inside.

“Good girl,” he whispered.

By the time she gave up — stuffed beyond sense, belly taut and aching — both plates were empty.

Back at the table, her posture sagged. She couldn’t sit up straight, her stomach rounding heavily against the table edge. She shifted, hoping no one noticed, but his hand moved under the tablecloth, bold and merciless.

He patted her.

A firm, deliberate pat on her swollen belly, slow enough that she felt every ounce of humiliation. Then another, softer this time, almost affectionate.

She jerked, eyes wide, hissing under her breath. “Stop—”

But he didn’t. His palm pressed flat against her belly, rubbing in circles, as if soothing her after all that indulgence.

“Full?” he asked casually, loud enough that she panicked someone might hear.

Her face burned hotter than the wine in her veins. She nodded once, sharply.

His grin was lethal. “Good. That’s the rule, sweetheart. You finish what I give you. And look at you—” another pat, firmer now, claiming her in front of everyone, even if they couldn’t see — “you’ve done exactly that.”

She sat frozen, stuffed and humiliated, the sound of laughter around the table buzzing in her ears.

And when his hand lingered on her belly, warm and unrelenting, she realized the rule wasn’t just hers anymore. It was public. It was permanent.

It owned her.

Chapter 4 — Owned by the Rule

The night after dinner with friends, she told herself she’d resist. She couldn’t keep doing this — not when her clothes barely fit, not when her reflection betrayed her with every new soft curve.

But he knew better.

When she came home, the table was already set. Candles burned low, shadows flickering across two plates. Both were piled high — obscene portions of pasta, bread still steaming, a cake waiting at the end like a promise.

Her stomach clenched at the sight. “I can’t,” she blurted.

He looked up from his chair, eyes glinting. “You don’t get to say that.”

Her breath caught.

“The rule,” he said smoothly, standing now, moving toward her with unhurried steps. “Remember?”

She backed up against the wall, heart hammering. “Please, I’m—”

He pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her. “No excuses. No refusals. You agreed.”

She shivered. He wasn’t angry — worse, he was calm, certain, as if the outcome had already been written.

Dinner blurred into a haze of bites forced past her lips, his voice coaxing, mocking, relentless. Every time she slowed, he leaned in close.

“Another. Don’t stop now.”

“Eat your fill.”

“Look at you. How far you have come.”

“Obey the rule.”

By the time the pasta was gone, her belly strained against her waistband, button digging cruelly into the swell beneath her blouse. She gasped, one hand clutching her middle.

He crouched beside her chair, lips at her ear. “Undo it.”

She froze.

His voice sharpened. “Do it. Now.”

Shaking, she slid the button free. The relief was instant, but the shame was worse — her stomach surged outward, round and heavy, no longer held in.

He laughed low, resting his palm on her exposed softness, giving her a deliberate pat.

“There you are,” he murmured, fingers spreading across the curve, pressing just enough to make her squirm. “All that food, right where it belongs.”

The cake was next. Thick slices, one after another, while he sat beside her, feeding her himself. Frosting smeared at the corner of her lips; he wiped it with his thumb, then pushed another bite in before she could speak.

“You thought you could resist me,” he said softly, almost tenderly. “But you can’t even resist dessert.”

She whimpered, full to bursting, tears prickling her eyes. “I can’t… I can’t anymore—”

He tilted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Say it properly.”

Her voice broke. “I can’t say no.”

He smiled — slow, merciless, triumphant. “That’s right. You can’t. Because the rule doesn’t allow it.”

He patted her belly again, harder this time, making her gasp. “This—” pat “—is proof.”

By the end, she was slumped in the chair, belly round and obscene, blouse riding up to reveal the soft, overstuffed dome. She was taking up so much space…

He leaned back, arms folded, admiring his work. Then he bent forward, his hand resting heavy on her stomach, fingers digging just enough to remind her who put it there. And who would continue to do so.

[feedybot]

Liquid indulgence

The glass is cool in her hand, beading with condensation like it’s trying to seduce her before she even tastes it. She lifts it to her lips, and the first swallow is molten cream and sugar, thick as velvet, rolling over her tongue with sinful weight. It clings there for a heartbeat, leaving her lips glistening before she swallows.

The drink is deceptively sweet—honey and vanilla at first, then something darker underneath, like caramel coaxed almost to burning. The richness presses down on her, but she doesn’t stop. She can feel it settling low in her stomach already, like a warm hand encouraging her to keep going.

Halfway through, her breaths are slower. The glass feels heavier, but so does she. Her body, already softened by quiet indulgence, feels as though it’s yielding even more with every mouthful—hips relaxing wider against the chair, her middle pressing just a little fuller against her dress.

By the last sip, it’s not just a drink. It’s a promise—thick, heady, and irresistible. The sort of magic that doesn’t fade with the night, but lingers in curves and softness long after the glass is empty.

She starts returning to that glass as if it’s calling her. Every evening, the same chilled weight in her hand, the same rich, silken flood spilling over her tongue. But what was once a single serving soon feels too brief—too much pleasure left untasted. So she pours more.

One glass becomes two. The second goes down easier than the first, like her body has already learned to make room. By the third night, there’s no pause between them—just the steady, heavy rhythm of swallowing, her throat working greedily while her eyes half-close in bliss.

By the end of the first week, the change is already visible, though she tells herself it’s only the richness of the drink sitting in her. After each glass—each heavy pour—her belly swells forward in a gentle arc, pressing against the inside of her clothes until seams whisper in protest. She leans back in her chair afterward, breathing slower, her hand idly cupping the warm, rounded curve as if to soothe it.

But the swelling doesn’t vanish as quickly as it once did. At first it’s just a slight pooch that lingers into the morning. Then it’s a small dome, soft and pliant but undeniably there, rounding her silhouette before she’s even touched her next glass.

Night after night, the ritual continues. Each gulp sends another slow, molten wave into her middle, pushing it outward by degrees. Her belly is no longer a gentle curve—it’s becoming the centerpiece of her body. It rises from her lap in a taut, rounded mound after a heavy evening, the skin stretched smooth under her palm.

By the third week, it has claimed space she didn’t know she had. Sitting, it presses firmly against her thighs, spreading outward as it rests there. Standing, it juts forward in front of her, announcing itself before the rest of her follows. Even the smallest movements cause a subtle sway—an inertia that wasn’t there before, a reminder of the weight she now carries.

When she drains her glass these days, she can feel the expansion in real time: the pressure growing beneath her ribs, the swell pushing against the waistband until she must ease it down under the dome. The drinks are still decadent, still irresistible—but now they leave her so distended she moves slowly, as if her body needs to adjust to its own roundness.

It’s no longer just a belly. It’s a claim.

The magic has gathered there, shaping her into something fuller, heavier… and still hungry.

She notices it most on a morning when she tries to dress as she once did.

The blouse hangs in her closet, crisp and neat, a relic from when her middle was only a polite curve. She slips her arms through the sleeves, but when she draws it around her, the fabric halts mid-belly, gaping wide. The dome beneath is firm from the night’s indulgence, rounded high enough to catch the bottom hem and push it upward.

She tries the buttons. The first few close easily enough over her chest, but by the time her fingers reach the swell below her ribs, the fabric is straining like a drumskin. The next button barely catches—her belly already bulging between the fastenings, soft flesh squeezing outward in pale crescents. By the one at her navel, it’s hopeless; the dome juts too far, its curve untamed.

She steps to the mirror and sees what the magic has made of her: a proud, heavy mound pushing forward, leading her body’s motion. It rounds out in every direction, not just front to back but from side to side, hips now framed by the low drape of its weight. When she shifts, the belly moves with her, swaying just slightly before settling back into place like it owns her stance.

Reaching for a skirt is no better. Once it would have slid over her hips in one smooth pull; now she has to wrestle it up past the widest point of her belly, the waistband catching and rolling as it tries to contain the soft, full curve. Even when it’s on, the fabric skims tight over the mound, leaving no doubt that it is the centerpiece of her figure.

She presses her hand into the swell, meaning to smooth it, but the flesh simply yields and then pushes back, taut from last night’s three-glass ritual. It’s not just size—it’s dominance. Her belly decides how she moves, how she dresses, how she stands.

And when she steps away from the mirror, she already feels the craving stirring, deep in her chest. The magic calls again, promising to push her even further out, to round her into something more decadent still.

That night, she doesn’t just pour her usual three glasses—she lines up six.

The first few vanish as always, slow and luxuriant, the cream coating her throat, the sweetness blooming on her tongue. But with the fourth, she begins to feel it—her belly, already softened and eager, pushing outward faster than she’s used to. Each gulp adds another slow surge of weight inside her, a spreading warmth that forces her to shift in her seat as her waistband tightens.

By the fifth glass, her middle is tight. Not the gentle, pliant swell she’s come to adore, but a firm, stretching dome that resists her palm when she presses it. She can feel it climbing higher under her ribs, rounding forward like it’s been inflated. The bottom curve presses so firmly into her thighs that her legs angle slightly apart, forced by the fullness.

The sixth glass is pure indulgence. She has to pause between swallows now, her breaths shallow as her belly strains for room. When she sets the empty glass down, her hands go instinctively to cradle the swell—taut, high, and impossibly round. It pushes far past where it was when she sat down, a glossy mound that forces her spine to arch just to balance it.

She tries to stand, but the fullness commands her to move slowly. The dome protrudes in front of her like a balloon, swaying with her steps. Her top has ridden up, baring the underside of her belly, where the skin feels warm and stretched. She catches sight of herself in the mirror and gasps—not in shock, but in awe.

The magic has claimed her tonight in a way it never has before. The swell is so pronounced, so forward-thrusting, that she can’t see her own toes. It dominates her reflection, a perfect, distended curve that announces exactly what she’s done.

And even through the ache of fullness, she wonders—what would happen if she tried eight?

Morning light spills across the room, but the first thing she notices isn’t the sun—it’s the heaviness.

She rolls onto her back and feels it instantly: the dome hasn’t gone down. Where once a night’s swelling would melt away to a softer, smaller curve, now her belly remains high and forward, a rounded hill rising above her hips. It feels dense under her hand, the skin stretched smooth from the double-ritual of the night before. When she sits up, it tilts outward, swaying just slightly before settling into her lap with full, assertive weight.

Standing is a slow process. The protrusion commands her balance, forcing her to plant her feet wider. Her nightshirt, loose just weeks ago, now clings to the swell’s forward slope, the hem riding high enough to leave the undercurve bare. She runs her palms over it, tracing the sheer distance it juts from her body. There’s no disguising it now—not from herself, and not from anyone else.

And that’s when she feels it—the craving, sharp and insistent, far too soon for her nightly indulgence. Her stomach isn’t hollow; it’s still full from last night. But it wants. It wants the thick sweetness, the molten creaminess sliding down her throat, the steady push of pressure as it fills her further.

She pads to the kitchen, the sway of her belly dictating her steps, and pours her first glass of the day. It’s almost surreal—morning light glinting off the creamy liquid as though it were just a harmless treat. She drinks it slower than usual, savoring it, feeling the already-prominent mound grow firmer beneath her touch. The pleasure is almost dizzying.

When she’s done, she doesn’t stop.

A second glass follows, then a third—her hands moving on instinct, the sound of the liquid filling the glass like a lullaby she can’t resist. By the time she leans against the counter, the dome is straining even higher, her nightshirt now a wrinkled band beneath her breasts. She rubs the sides of the swell, feeling the tautness, the undeniable claim the magic has over her.

Breakfast has a new meaning now. It’s not a meal—it’s an expansion, a start to the day she can no longer go without.

By midday, the morning’s indulgence has barely settled.

She moves through the house with a slow, deliberate gait, her belly leading every step like a proud, heavy prow. Even the smallest turns or bends force her to accommodate it—feet angling wider, back arching to balance the forward pull. She can feel the weight of it in her core muscles, a constant, solid presence pressing outward against the waistband of her softest skirt.

When lunchtime comes, she doesn’t even think of “food” in the old sense. She wants the drink. The mere thought of it makes her mouth warm, her hands almost fidget with anticipation. She sets out a tall pitcher instead of a single glass—why bother pretending she’ll have less?

The first pour is gone in a minute. The second takes longer, each swallow adding to the firm swell she’s carried since breakfast. She strokes the slope of it absentmindedly, feeling how high and forward it sits, the surface stretched enough to make her skin gleam. Her skirt waistband is already rolling under the bottom curve, the mound too assertive to be contained.

By the third glass, she’s leaning back in her chair, breathing deeper. The fullness is mounting again, that dense, tight ache that makes her belly feel like a drum. She can see it from where she sits—her breasts now resting lightly atop the high crest of it, her lap completely consumed by its curve. It domes upward in the center before flowing down to her sides, wide and heavy against her thighs.

The fourth is pure indulgence, a surrender she no longer questions. Each gulp sends a pulse through her middle, the pressure mounting until she feels stretched from rib to hip. She can’t even pull her skirt back up over it now; the belly owns the space, warm and gently throbbing with fullness.

When she finally pushes the empty glass away, she stays there for a long time, hands spread across the mound as if claiming it—or perhaps acknowledging that it has claimed her. The thought of waiting until evening to drink again seems unbearable. The magic isn’t a ritual anymore. It’s a constant hunger, and her swelling belly is the shrine it feeds.

Evening settles in, and by now the dome has never once emptied, never softened back to what it was before. The morning and lunch indulgences have stacked inside her, building layer upon layer of fullness so that when she lowers herself into her chair for dinner, her belly presses tight and proud against the table’s edge.

She should be satisfied—she is already heavy, already round, already brimming. But the thought of stopping now feels absurd. Tonight, she isn’t just going to drink until she’s full. She’s going to drink until she’s unmovable.

The first glass is ceremonial, warm and thick, a familiar greeting. The second and third come fast, building pressure in her middle until it feels like her skin is straining to contain her. The dome rises higher, pushing her breasts up and out, making her shift just to keep breathing steadily.

By the fourth, she has to lean back; her belly is so taut it presses unyieldingly into the waistband of her stretched skirt. She pushes the fabric down beneath it, freeing the curve so it can round fully forward, unencumbered. The swell is vast now, the surface tight and hot under her palms.

The fifth is slower. Each swallow sends a deep ache of expansion through her core, her body’s instinct to stop warring with the magic’s siren pull. She rubs her sides, feeling them bow outward as the mound claims more and more of her lap, forcing her knees apart.

And then she pours the sixth. She can’t lean forward without the dome colliding with the table, so she draws the pitcher to her, drinking directly from it in slow, heavy gulps. By the time it’s empty, her belly is a perfect globe—smooth and distended, so forward-thrusting she cannot see the table’s surface in front of her. The sides swell wide, pressing firmly into her chair arms, while the crest rides high enough to nestle under her ribs.

She tries to shift, but the size and weight root her in place. Each small movement makes the mound sway sluggishly, as if it takes a moment to catch up. Her hands cradle it from underneath, feeling the unyielding fullness, the immensity she’s built through the day.

And then comes the realization: she isn’t getting up. Not for a while. The drink has done exactly what she promised herself—it has made her belly so round, so distended, so utterly filled that she has become part of the chair itself, a decadent, immovable centerpiece.

[feedybot]

Bloated denial

She stood in front of the mirror, twisting sideways, tugging at the hem of her T-shirt.

“It’s sitting weird today,” she muttered. “This shirt never used to bunch like this.”

From the bed, her partner barely looked up from their phone. “Looks the same to me. Maybe you’ve just… filled it out a little.”

Her head snapped around. “Excuse me?”

They smirked — that maddening, deliberate little curl of the lips — and gestured vaguely toward her midsection. “Not in a bad way. Just saying it looks… snugger. Cute.”

“It’s not snugger.” She tugged at the fabric again, flattening it against herself. “It’s just the dryer. Or I’m slouching. Or—” She straightened so abruptly her shoulders clicked. “See? Totally fine.”

“Mmhm.” They rolled onto their side, still watching her in the mirror. “Definitely not because you had that entire plate of pancakes yesterday morning.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she shot back, but her voice had gone too quick, too defensive. “One breakfast doesn’t do anything. I’m exactly the same as last week. Or last month. Or last—” She hesitated, tugging the shirt down again.

Her partner hummed like they’d already won. “Of course you are.”

She turned back to the mirror, inspecting herself with a sharp, suspicious squint.

It was exactly the same as last week. Obviously.

She was halfway into her jacket, keys in one hand, when her partner appeared in the doorway with the laundry basket balanced on their hip.

“Found your belt in the closet,” they said, holding it up like a relic.

“Oh, thanks,” she replied, distracted. She reached for it without looking, but they didn’t hand it over. Instead, they twirled it lazily by the buckle, leather gleaming faintly.

“Wait,” they said, voice light but deliberate. “Before you take it… humor me.”

Her brows pinched. “Humor you how?”

They stepped closer, the laundry basket now on the floor, the belt dangling from their fingers. “Just—stand still for a second.”

“I’m trying to leave,” she protested, laughing in that half-defensive way people do when they’re not sure if they’re the butt of the joke.

They didn’t answer. Instead, they looped the belt around her waist over her T-shirt, the leather whispering as it slid through the buckle. “Just checking something,” they murmured.

“Checking what?” she asked, suspicious now.

They tugged the belt snug, not uncomfortably tight, but firm enough to feel. The soft click of the buckle sounded sharper than it should have. They fastened it, then leaned back to look. “Huh.”

The sound was casual, but it landed on her like a verdict. “Huh what?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” they said, way too quickly. Then, with a faux-thoughtful frown: “Just… I could’ve sworn this went in another notch last time you wore it.”

Her ears went hot, and she forced a scoff. “That’s absurd. I haven’t changed. The belt probably… shrank. Leather does that.”

“Mm.” They tilted their head, the tiniest smirk forming. “Sure.”

“Don’t ‘sure’ me,” she shot back. “I would know if anything was different.”

“Oh, I’m not saying it’s bad,” they added, and somehow that made it worse. “Just an observation.”

She took the belt from them, slid it free, and buckled it herself — deliberately one hole tighter — looking them right in the eye. “There. See? Same as always.”

They held her gaze for a beat longer than was polite, that infuriating smirk lingering, before stepping back. “Thrilled,” they murmured.

She left the apartment wearing it like that all day, even though by the afternoon she’d quietly loosened it when no one was looking. And when she hung it up that night, she told herself she’d only done it because the leather felt stiff from the dryer.

Not because it had actually felt snug.

*

She had been putting off wearing the jeans for weeks.

Not for any particular reason — at least, that’s what she told herself. They were just shoved toward the back of the drawer, under a stack of leggings and soft lounge pants that were easier to reach. But now, with the weather finally cool enough, she dug them out.

The denim felt heavier than she remembered. Stiffer, maybe from not being worn. She stepped in and pulled them up, the cool fabric rasping against her thighs. They reached her hips… and then stopped.

She tugged again, harder this time, doing that little hop in place she’d seen other people do in movies. The waistband inched upward, catching against the soft give of her stomach. By the time the button was aligned with the hole, she was already holding her breath.

And still — there was resistance.

“Come on,” she muttered under her breath, giving one last sharp yank. The button slid into place with a strained pop, and she exhaled through gritted teeth. She could feel the waistband pressing into her midsection, firm enough that it left no question about how it would feel sitting down.

She stared at her reflection. The jeans didn’t look… bad. Not exactly. But they sat differently. She told herself they’d probably just shrunk in the wash — even though she couldn’t remember the last time they’d been washed.

“Wow,” came a voice from the doorway.

Her partner was leaning there, one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. She hadn’t even heard them come in.

“What?” she asked, too quickly.

“They look… snug,” they said, in that maddeningly casual way, like they’d just noticed the weather was nice.

“They’re not snug.”

“They look snug.”

“They’re not. They’re just… stiff. From the drawer.” She smoothed her hands over the waistband, tugged the hem of her shirt down an extra inch. “It’s the fabric. Or maybe I… I don’t know. I haven’t worn them in a while.”

Her partner’s smile curved slow, like they were savoring each second. “When’s the last time you did?”

“I don’t keep a log of my outfits.”

“Mm. I bet I could check your Instagram.”

She glared. “Don’t you dare.”

They stepped into the room, circling just enough to glance at her from the side. “Huh. You know, I’m not sure it’s the jeans.”

Her pulse spiked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” they said, voice dripping with false innocence. “It’s just… you’ve been really comfortable lately. Cozy. I’m not surprised your clothes want to hug you back.”

She made a face and turned toward the mirror again, pretending to check her hair. “You’re ridiculous. They fit exactly the same. It’s all in your head.”

“Of course,” they murmured, heading for the door. But she could feel their eyes on her even as they left.

She kept the jeans on all afternoon, ignoring how they pressed when she sat, or how she found herself unbuttoning them the moment she was alone. And later, folding them to put back in the drawer, she hesitated just a second too long before tucking them under the leggings again.

Not because they were snug.

Because she just… didn’t feel like wearing them.

*

She’d told herself the hoodie was purely for comfort. It was the kind of soft, oversized sweatshirt you could lose an afternoon in, sleeves swallowing your hands. Perfect for running errands on a chilly Saturday. Nothing to do with the fact that lately, her favorite tops felt… less forgiving.

They were in line at the café, her partner behind her, scanning the menu. The place was busy, voices and coffee grinders mixing into a cozy din. She was just starting to relax when she heard a voice nearby.

“Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

She turned to find Mia — a friend-of-a-friend she only bumped into a few times a year. They exchanged the usual greetings, and then Mia’s eyes flicked down briefly before returning to her face with a smile. “That hoodie looks comfy. Hiding a food baby under there?”

It was a harmless little joke, the kind people toss out without thinking, but it felt like the air left the room.

She laughed — too loud, too quick. “What? No. I’m just— it’s freezing outside. This is my winter armor.” She tugged at the hem for emphasis. “If I’m hiding anything, it’s from the wind.”

Behind her, she heard her partner chuckle.

She turned her head just enough to catch their expression — that infuriating, knowing smirk. “What?” she mouthed.

They leaned in, close enough for her to feel the warmth of their breath. “She’s not wrong,” they murmured, just for her.

Her stomach tightened. “Shut up,” she hissed, cheeks warming.

“Relax,” they said, still smirking. “I like it. Little extra softness suits you.”

She shot them a glare that was more panic than anger, then turned back to Mia. “Honestly, people are so dramatic,” she said, still laughing like it was all a joke. “I’ve been the exact same for years. Haven’t changed a bit.”

“Mmhm,” Mia said politely, sipping her coffee, and the conversation moved on.

*

She picked the top carefully — fitted but not tight, just enough to “remind” her partner (and maybe herself) that nothing had changed. Black, so it would be flattering. Paired with her favorite mid-rise jeans, the ones that had always been reliable.

She stepped into the living room, pretending it was a casual choice. “Ready to go?”

Her partner looked up from the couch — and their eyebrows lifted.

“Well, look at you.”

She forced a smile. “What?”

“Nothing,” they said, but there was a weight to it. Their gaze lingered longer than she wanted it to. “Just… you don’t usually wear that one.”

“I do,” she countered, a little too quickly. “You just don’t pay attention.”

They stood, coming closer, scanning her in that slow, deliberate way that felt like being appraised. “Mm. Guess I’ve been missing things.”

Before she could respond, they stepped right into her space and rested a hand casually at her side — except it didn’t feel casual. The fingers pressed lightly into her waist, thumb grazing the slight curve that had formed there. Then, without warning, they gave a small squeeze.

Her breath caught.

Their eyebrows went up higher. “Oh.”

It wasn’t mocking — it was genuine surprise. Like they’d expected the usual firmness under their palm and found something softer instead. They looked at her again, really looked, and she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks.

“What?” she demanded, the word sharp.

They tilted their head, still keeping that hand there as if testing whether the change was real. “Nothing, I just… didn’t realize it had gotten so—”

“It hasn’t,” she cut in, stepping back just far enough to break their touch. “You’re imagining things. You’ve been making these comments for weeks, so now you think you feel something that isn’t there.”

They smiled slowly, like they were turning the moment over in their mind. “Sure. Must be that.”

She crossed her arms, trying to keep her face neutral, even as she was hyper-aware of the way the jeans pressed at her hips when she moved. “Exactly.”

They didn’t press the point — which was somehow worse. The rest of the afternoon, they were just… quiet. Watching. Occasionally letting their eyes drift to her midsection as if replaying that squeeze in their head.

And she told herself it didn’t matter.

That they’d only imagined it.

That if they’d really felt something different… well, she would have noticed too.

*

They were out for dinner at a small, cozy bistro, one of her partner’s favorite places. The kind of place where the tables were close, the lighting soft, and the chairs unforgivingly firm. She’d chosen a dress she loved — a favorite black dress that once hugged her curves perfectly.

The evening started easy enough. Wine, soft music, laughter. But as the plates came and went, she felt the familiar tightness creeping back—around her waist, across her hips, the fabric pulling more than it should.

She shifted in her seat, trying to ignore it.

Then, halfway through the main course, it happened.

A sharp rip, a quick, unmistakable tear along the side seam of her dress.

Her heart lurched.

She froze. The sound echoed just enough for the nearby diners to glance over, curiosity flickering in their eyes.

Her partner’s gaze flicked down to the sudden gap revealing a flash of skin, then back up with an amused, slow smile. “Well.”

She bit her lip, cheeks burning. “It’s… just the dress.”

They leaned in slightly, voice low and teasing. “Just the dress, huh? Or maybe the dress was just too small.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but the sight in the mirror across the room stopped her. The dress pulled tighter now, the fabric strained, outlining every inch of her curves that had quietly grown in recent weeks.

She pressed a hand to her side, feeling the slight softness there — undeniable now.

Her partner’s eyes gleamed with that secret indulgence, the kind that said I’ve been watching this unfold, and it’s more delicious than I expected.

“You know,” they said, reaching out and brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, “there’s something incredibly sexy about a little unexpected growth.”

She swallowed hard, torn between embarrassment and a strange flutter of something else — curiosity, maybe.

“Maybe it’s time to accept that some things have… changed,” they whispered, voice warm but firm.

She glanced down at the ripped seam, then back at their eyes — playful, patient, knowing.

“Maybe,” she said, just barely.

*

The apartment was warm and cozy, the table set for two with an array of rich, decadent dishes—creamy pastas, buttery garlic bread, thick-cut steaks dripping with sauce, and a generous bowl of whipped, cinnamon-spiced mashed potatoes. The kind of meal designed to satisfy every craving and then some.

Her partner watched her with a slow, satisfied smile as she picked up her fork, already knowing how this night would unfold.

“Are you sure you want all this?” they teased, voice soft but edged with mischief.

She hesitated, glancing at the heaping plate, then nodded, determination flashing in her eyes. “I can handle it.”

The first bite was heaven—rich and comforting, filling in a way that made her close her eyes for a moment. Bite after bite, she ate, the meal sliding down easily at first, but soon the fullness began to press on her belly, a warm, growing weight that was impossible to ignore.

Her partner reached across the table, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Looking good,” they said with a wink.

She laughed, but it was getting harder to focus. The pressure inside her belly grew quickly—tight, taut—and she shifted in her seat, the buttons of her blouse suddenly feeling far too snug.

“Are you okay?” her partner asked, eyes gleaming with playful concern.

“Fine,” she said quickly, though her voice was tight. She tried to stand—and nearly faltered. The sudden heaviness, the bloated roundness of her belly, made her movements slow and clumsy.

Her partner stood behind her, steadying her with an arm around her waist. “Maybe just a moment?”

She sank back into her chair with a soft groan, one hand pressed against her swollen belly, which felt like it had doubled in size in minutes. The fullness was almost overwhelming, a tight balloon stretching every muscle.

Her partner laughed softly, low and warm. “See? I told you, this night would be special.”

She looked up, flushed, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and a hint of helplessness. “I… I don’t think I can move.”

“No wonder,” her partner murmured, sliding a hand gently over her belly. “After letting yourself go like this. Swelling out of proportions…”

She let out a shaky breath, surrendering to the warmth, the fullness, the undeniable proof that things were changing—right here, right now. She felt huge. Bloated like never before.

Her hand started slowly rubbing up and down her belly. Almost hesitantly. God, there was just so much of her now…

“Do you feel that? You did that to yourself. Steadily. Over the weeks. And this is the result. I can’t believe how round and big you have grown.” They stopped their little speech, dreamy like expression on their face.

“Having trouble standing up after a meal like this? You better get used to it…”

[feedybot]

Silent exploration

She stepped out of the bathroom in nothing but underwear, holding the old outfit like a challenge. He watched from the edge of the bed, pretending to scroll through his phone. But he wasn’t reading anything.

His eyes followed every movement.

She really thinks this might still fit. Unbelievable. Or maybe she knows it won’t — maybe this is some last test, some final line she’s trying to hold on to. But she’s already lost, and she has no idea just how much.

She slipped the shirt over her arms first — a fitted button-down, pale fabric that used to glide easily over her frame. Now it caught almost immediately at the upper arms, stretching tight across her biceps as she tried to wiggle it down. The material tugged and snapped as she fought it.

She rolled her shoulders, twisted left, then right, trying to shake the shirt into place. But the real resistance came lower. It clung stubbornly at her chest, puckering between buttons, the fabric already whisper-thin over the swell of her breasts. She pulled it down, tugging with more force — and that’s when it got truly stuck.

Just above her belly.

The shirt refused to go any further.

The lower half of her torso remained exposed: soft skin, rounded sides, and that impossibly plush belly she kept trying to pretend hadn’t changed. He saw the way it pressed outward, full and heavy, an overfed dome that had no business trying to hide inside something this size.

God, look at it. Look what I’ve done to her. All that late-night takeout. Every second helping I handed her. All the little indulgences I pretended not to notice. This is mine.

She turned toward the mirror, trying to see from the side. The shirt rode up with the movement, revealing even more of her stomach — lower now, where the softness began to curve forward and hang slightly, resting on her waistband.

Still she tried to tug it down. Her brows knit together with frustration. She yanked at the hem again and again, but it wouldn’t stretch far enough to cover her belly button.

Her body had grown far beyond what this shirt was made to handle, and the fabric was practically screaming. Seams tugged at the shoulders. The gap between the bottom buttons grew wider with each breath she took. The outline of her belly pushed visibly against the last button, testing it.

He didn’t move. Just watched.

It’s not even close. It doesn’t fit now, and it never will again. But she still doesn’t want to admit it. That little voice in her head is probably trying to rationalize this — laundry shrinkage, bad posture, maybe water weight. Anything but the truth. The truth that she’s grown into something… bigger. And I helped her get there. I guided every step.

Eventually, she gave up. With a deep sigh, she peeled the shirt back off — slow, defeated, dragging it over her head with visible effort. Her belly wobbled as she moved, and when the shirt finally came free, she let it drop to the floor like it had betrayed her.

He could have devoured her with his eyes right then. Full, heavy breasts in a stretched-out bra. Soft arms. Faint crease lines where the shirt had tried and failed to hold her in. And her stomach — swollen and plush, spilling forward with no restraint. She stood there, completely unaware of the effect she had on him.

But she wasn’t done.

The jeans came next.

She picked them up like she wasn’t sure they were even hers anymore. They looked smaller than they should have, even folded — and once she started to pull them on, it was obvious they were.

She stepped into them carefully, wiggling her hips side to side as she worked the denim past her thighs. It was a battle from the beginning. The fabric clung stubbornly to her thickened legs, and when she finally got the waistband up to her hips, she paused, catching her breath.

She’s going to try. She’s actually going to try buttoning them. God, she’s persistent. Or maybe desperate. Either way…

She sucked in hard and pulled.

The waistband strained. Her stomach shifted upward with the motion, compressed between her arms and the denim. Slowly, inch by inch, she managed to bring the button closer to the hole. Her belly bulged over the top, soft flesh spilling outward as the jeans pushed into her.

And then — somehow — she fastened it.

Barely.

She exhaled slowly, not daring to move too much. The button stayed, but it looked ready to surrender at any moment. The zipper bowed under pressure. Every seam around her hips was pulled taut. The waistband carved a deep crease into the swell of her belly, making the flesh spill out even more prominently above it.

She took one step toward the mirror — and that was all it took.

Pop.

The button shot open.

She froze. Looked down. The fabric had given up. Her belly spilled forward in a slow, unbothered wave, as if claiming its space back. She reached down, as if she could fix it, but there was nothing to fix. The jeans were done.

That sound. That perfect little sound. All that effort for nothing. She can’t hide it anymore. Not from me, not from herself. That body’s changed for good — and I’ve been there for every step, every bite, every stretched seam. She’s grown and she’s massive now.

She slumped down onto the bed beside him, exhausted. The button lay somewhere on the carpet. Her belly rested heavily in her lap, round and full and entirely unconstrained.

He didn’t say a word.

But inside?

He was ravenous.

She didn’t speak.

Just sat there, breathing slowly, one hand absently cradling the curve of her belly as if trying to make it smaller, to shield it. Her thighs pressed together instinctively, but the heavy overhang of her stomach still pooled visibly over the open fly of her jeans. Her shoulders hunched ever so slightly — a posture of someone trying to disappear inside herself.

But he saw everything.

God, look at you. Trying to cover it up now, like I haven’t already memorized every inch. You’re practically bursting at the seams, and you still thought you could hide this from me. But that belly— it told the truth the moment you stood up.

He moved closer — slowly, but not hesitantly.

His hand found her side. She didn’t flinch, but her posture tensed, shoulders rising with the sudden awareness of being touched like this — now, like this. He didn’t stop. His fingers slid over the soft curve of her waist, tracing the way her body had thickened and spread. He reached around to the front, cupping the part of her stomach that spilled forward most, thumb brushing the heavy lower swell.

Her breath caught.

She looked away.

Her other hand twitched in her lap like she wanted to pull his hand off — or maybe her own — but she didn’t move. The only real reaction came in her body: the flush of color creeping up her neck, the way her belly tensed beneath his touch, resisting, as though she could will it into retreat.

She couldn’t.

He leaned in more, both hands now exploring without hesitation. He didn’t grope; he studied — mapping the changes with slow, deliberate reverence. His palms glided over the subtle dimples at her hips, pressed into the pillowy softness of her midsection, traced the deep crease where her belly folded over her thighs. Every part of her yielded under his touch. And every bit of it was bigger.

This used to be flat. I remember when your stomach barely curved at all — when I could fit both hands around your waist and feel your ribs. Now? My fingers sink into you. There’s give. There’s weight. There’s a whole new you in my hands.

Still, she didn’t meet his eyes.

Her face had turned, slightly downward, toward her lap — where the open jeans framed the exposed underside of her belly. Her gaze was fixed on it, lips parted as she watched the way his fingers molded and moved across her skin.

Her embarrassment was obvious now.

It was in the tight way she held her arms, the slight shake in her breathing, the way her thighs shifted like she wanted to cross them tighter but physically couldn’t. This wasn’t a display. This was vulnerability. Utter, inescapable awareness of what her body had become — and that he was loving it.

You’re ashamed of how far you’ve let it go. And I’m not. That’s what makes this perfect.

He let one hand slide under the soft slope of her belly, lifting it slightly. The weight of it settled heavily into his palm. She exhaled, sharp through her nose, like she was trying not to react.

He leaned closer.

Ran his thumb over the line where the waistband had cut into her skin.

You fought so hard to make these jeans close. And now you’re sitting here, fully exposed, like the clothes gave up before you did. You don’t even realize how much I wanted this. How much I planned for this.

Her fingers dug into the comforter.

Still silent.

Still flushed.

Still mortified.

He stayed close, breathing her in, drunk on the heat radiating from her skin, the sheer presence of her body now — large, soft, conquered by indulgence and denial. His lips hovered near her shoulder, never quite touching, but close enough for her to feel his breath.

You’re not just bigger. You’re mine. This belly, this body, all of it — it’s the result of every quiet decision I made. Every bite I encouraged. Every time I let you believe nothing had changed.

And now?

She sat in front of him — red-cheeked, overstuffed, humiliated — and said nothing.

But she didn’t stop him.

His hands grew bolder.

What started as soft tracing turned to kneading — palms sinking into her sides, fingers exploring the pliant give of her hips. He gripped the underside of her belly again, hefting it gently, as if trying to gauge its fullness by weight alone. It filled both hands easily now. Warm. Heavy. Real.

She still wouldn’t look at him.

But her breathing betrayed her — shallow and uneven, chest rising and falling with quiet urgency. Her arms remained tucked at her sides, tense, knuckles white as they clutched the bedspread. She was frozen. Embarrassed. But she didn’t stop him.

Not when he leaned in further.

Not when he pressed his lips — finally — just below her collarbone. Then lower, a trail of kisses over the top swell of her breast, the softest part of her side. Not when his fingers slid behind her, gripping the flesh just above the waistband — where the back of the jeans had failed to contain her, too.

He tugged at the denim slightly, exposing more of her. Her thighs parted just enough to make room for him. Her belly shifted with the motion, drooping further into her lap.

And still she sat in silence — humiliated, unmoving.

But not resistant.

You’re burning with shame, and yet… you’re letting me do this. You’re sitting there half-naked, fully exposed, belly spilling over and jeans wide open, and still you stay. Still you let me touch what you’re trying so hard to hide.

His mouth hovered over the center of her stomach now.

He kissed the skin slowly, deliberately, and felt the way she tensed beneath him — her whole body stiffening as if trying to disappear. But he didn’t stop. His hands splayed wide across her abdomen, pulling her closer, fingertips indenting her softness.

Her thighs trembled slightly as he pressed inward.

The slight jostle made her belly bounce — just a little, but enough. She inhaled sharply, then let it out through her nose in a shaky breath. Her face was crimson.

He pulled back for a moment, just enough to watch.

She was a sight.

Hair a mess. Skin flushed. Bra askew. Her belly, full and pliant, resting like it belonged there — taking up space, unconstrained, undeniably hers. The open jeans framed it perfectly. Her thighs were thick beneath it, pressed outward by the width of her hips. And her expression — mortified, inward, like she was barely holding herself together.

You’ve never looked more beautiful. Not when you were thinner. Not when you were confident. This—this quiet, desperate surrender? I’ll never forget it.

He let one hand run across the crease where her belly folded when she sat — slow, possessive, tracing the dip with his thumb. Her breath hitched again.

Then he squeezed.

A deep, indulgent grab — fingers sinking into her flesh, lifting it, letting it settle heavily again. He did it again. And again. Greedy now. Needing to feel it, to own it.

Still, she didn’t speak.

She couldn’t.

But her body said enough: the way she shifted under his touch, the way her legs pressed tighter together, thighs twitching, stomach tensing reflexively when he touched certain places. There was shame — deep, red, undeniable. But underneath that, something else.

Sensation.

Desire, maybe.

Confusion, definitely.

And that was when he knew: she felt it too.

She didn’t understand it. Didn’t want to feel it. But she did.

You hate what your body’s become. You’re ashamed of how far you’ve fallen. But when I touch you like this? You can’t stop me. You don’t even want to.

His hands roamed again — broader now, fully claiming her. And as she sat there, struggling with everything inside her, he leaned in once more, kissed the deep curve of her belly, and smiled.

[feedybot]

Plump happiness

It was a quiet Sunday morning, the kind where time seemed to stretch and settle like warm syrup. The kind of morning made for soft blankets and bare feet on hardwood floors. Anny stood in the kitchen, her loose t-shirt just barely brushing the curve of her hips as she reached for the coffee mugs. The fabric lifted slightly, revealing a tender swell of tummy beneath—rounder now than it used to be, a gentle softness she was still getting used to.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the darkened oven door. Her cheeks flushed, unbidden. She tugged the shirt down quickly, even though no one was watching—except Leo, who had been watching her like this more and more lately.

He didn’t say much when he entered the room, just came up behind her quietly, arms sliding around her waist. She stiffened for half a second, as always, until his fingers settled over the soft lower edge of her belly and he gave it a slow, affectionate squeeze.

“Morning,” he murmured into her neck.

“Morning,” she said, her voice breathy.

Anny didn’t know when exactly the changes had started. Maybe it was during those cozy winter months, when Leo insisted on baking every weekend and always made sure her plate was full. Or maybe even before that—when they’d moved in together and the world outside seemed less important than the warmth between them. What she did know was that her body had changed in small but certain ways. Her jeans fit tighter, her bras clasped further out, and she avoided sitting in his lap like she used to. But Leo never complained. Quite the opposite.

He held her longer now. Let his hands roam more. And it wasn’t just her hips or her thighs that he gravitated toward—it was her belly. Soft, pillowy, impossible to ignore.

She used to flinch when he touched it. Now she just blushed.

“You’re staring again,” she mumbled that evening, curled beside him on the couch, a bowl of popcorn balanced on her middle.

Leo smirked, lazily dragging a finger along the curve that peeked from under her cropped pajama top. “Can you blame me?”

She turned her face into his shoulder, hiding the blooming color in her cheeks. He chuckled and shifted closer, letting his palm settle fully over her stomach. It rose and fell beneath his touch—rounder now, fuller than it had ever been. She didn’t say anything when his hand lingered, tracing lazy circles, fingertips teasing the softest edges.

“I love this,” he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear.

Her heart skipped. “You do?”

“Mmhmm. Every part of you, but… this part especially.”

She didn’t know how to respond, so she just looked at him with wide, glassy eyes. Leo leaned in and kissed her temple. Then her cheek. Then, softly, the center of her belly.

Anny felt something melt inside her—shyness folding into quiet delight, into the warmth of being wanted just as she was, and maybe a little more than that. She reached for another handful of popcorn, smiling without meaning to. Maybe she wouldn’t pull her shirt down next time. Maybe she’d let him look a little longer.

And maybe… she wanted to see what would happen if she kept leaning into that softness.

Into him.

Into this.

*

The restaurant was warm and dimly lit, the kind of place where candles flickered in glass jars and every table was tucked into its own little nook. Anny had hesitated before they left the house—her dress, a soft burgundy knit, clung more than it used to. She’d tugged at it in the mirror, chewing her lip, unsure if she looked curvy or just overstuffed.

Leo had only smiled. “You look incredible.”

She blushed, as usual, and tried to smooth the fabric over her belly, which no longer sat flat. It gently pushed out in the front, plush and undeniable.

Their friends were already seated when they arrived, waving them over with a chorus of greetings. The food was rich and comforting—truffle risotto, garlic bread, small bites that kept arriving one after another. Anny wasn’t planning to eat so much, but every time she paused, Leo would gently slide something her way.

“Try this one,” he whispered once, hand brushing her knee under the table. “You’ll love it.”

And she did. Too much.

By the time dessert was being passed around, she felt full. Heavy. Her dress, once stretchy and forgiving, now pressed into her belly with visible tension. Sitting upright was a bit of a chore. She shifted discreetly in her chair, trying to relieve the pressure, but the hem lifted a little each time she moved, clinging tighter over her rounded middle.

Then came a soft, betraying sound.

Tkk.

It wasn’t loud—but Leo heard it. His eyes flicked to her waist, to where the side seam of the dress had begun to stretch too far. The thread hadn’t snapped fully… yet. But it would.

Anny froze, wide-eyed, her face going scarlet. She leaned into him slightly. “Leo…”

His hand was already on her thigh. Comforting. Protective.

“I know,” he said softly. Then louder, to the group: “Hey, sorry—Anny’s not feeling great. Think we’ll head out.”

There were a few sympathetic “aww’s” and offers to pay the bill, but Leo had already stood, guiding her out with a hand low on her back—just above where the dress clung to her fullest curve.

The night air was cool. As soon as they were alone, Anny let out a long, guilty sigh.

“I think it’s ruined,” she murmured, looking down at her stretched middle. “This dress can’t take much more.”

Leo leaned close, lips brushing her ear.

“I know,” he said again. “Let it.”

By the time they got home, she was too full to stand up straight. Her belly jutted out in front of her, tight and round and barely contained. Leo helped her out of her coat and stepped behind her, fingers sliding to the side of her dress.

Another soft sound—tkkk-pop—as one of the seams gave way entirely.

“Oh,” she gasped, startled.

Leo’s hands moved slowly over her sides, then front and center, cupping the swell of her belly. He kissed the back of her neck. “There she is.”

“I… I really overdid it tonight,” she whispered.

“Mmhmm. You looked so beautiful doing it, too.” His voice was low, reverent.

She leaned into him, flushed and full and quietly thrilled. “You really don’t mind?”

“I told you,” he murmured, lips now on her bare shoulder. “I love this part of you. Every soft, greedy, blushing inch.”

And then, gently, he helped her out of the dress. Or rather—he let it give up entirely.

It slithered down her body in defeated surrender, leaving her in nothing but a stretched pair of underwear and the fullness she carried.

He kissed her belly then. Slowly. Thoroughly.

And Anny, blushing fiercely but glowing inside, finally let herself enjoy it.

*

He led her by the hand, wordlessly, fingers laced with hers like he was guiding something precious. Anny moved slowly, her belly taut and sensitive, swaying gently with each careful step. Leo didn’t rush her. He watched the way her hips rocked, how her soft thighs brushed together, how the waistband of her underwear pressed a faint line into the gentle curve beneath her navel.

Once in the bedroom, she paused, arms folded across her front—half an attempt to hide herself, half an instinct she still hadn’t shed.

Leo stepped behind her again, wrapping his arms around her middle, resting his chin lightly on her shoulder. “You don’t have to do that,” he whispered.

She let her arms drop slowly.

He reached down and gave her belly the lightest squeeze—reverent, adoring.

Then he bent low, crouching in front of her like he was worshiping at an altar. His hands cradled her belly from underneath, lifting it slightly to feel its weight. She gasped quietly at the sensation.

“So full,” he murmured, almost to himself. “So round. You don’t even realize how beautiful you are like this.”

Anny whimpered, cheeks burning. “I feel huge…”

He kissed the center of her belly, slow and deep. “You are.”

She should have felt ashamed—but something in his voice made her tremble instead. She was too full to lie down flat, so Leo helped her onto the bed, stacking pillows behind her back until she could recline comfortably. She settled with a soft sigh, hands resting on her taut middle.

Leo climbed in beside her, shirt off, warm skin against hers. He pressed one hand over the rise of her stomach, rubbing slow, lazy circles. The pressure was just enough—gentle, soothing. Intimate.

She moaned quietly, half from relief, half from the way his touch sent heat rolling through her. “You don’t have to…”

“I want to,” he said. “Let me take care of you.”

He kissed the side of her belly, nuzzled the crease where it pooled slightly to one side. Then her hip. Her arm. Her flushed cheek. All the places she tried to hide, he loved most.

For a long time, there was nothing but the soft sound of their breathing and his palm gliding slowly across her swollen middle. Her eyes fluttered shut, but she didn’t sleep—not really. She was too aware of the way he touched her, the way he looked at her. Like she was art. Like every added curve was something he’d been waiting for.

When she finally whispered, “You like me like this… don’t you?”—he didn’t hesitate.

“I love you like this.”

Her breath caught.

“You feel safe with me,” he continued, his hand never leaving her belly. “And it shows. I see it in how you soften… how you grow.”

Anny bit her lip, cheeks warm, belly full and heavy beneath his touch. “I want more,” she admitted, barely audible.

Leo smiled against her skin.

“Then I’ll give you more,” he said, voice velvet-smooth. “More of everything.”

And he kept rubbing, caressing, kissing… until she fell asleep in his arms—blushing, full, adored.

*

Leo wasn’t gone long—just eight days for a work conference across the state. But to Anny, it felt longer. The bed had felt colder without him. The house too quiet. So she kept herself busy. Cooking. Snacking. Napping. Grazing through the afternoons in soft, stretched-out clothes that no longer covered what they used to. She didn’t weigh herself. She didn’t need to.

She felt it. Every morning, every time she stood up or caught her reflection.

She filled out the space around her now—plush, pillowy, slow-moving. She’d grown. There was no denying it.

And she was excited for him to see.

Leo opened the door just after sunset, dropping his bag and calling her name before he even stepped out of the entryway. “Anny? I’m home!”

“In the bedroom,” she called back, voice light, musical.

He walked in and stopped cold.

She was on the bed, propped up against a stack of pillows, wearing a soft bralette and high-waisted lounge shorts that had long since surrendered to the fullness of her middle. Her belly spilled over the waistband, round and swollen and proud. Her arms rested against her sides, too short now to fully wrap around the impressive arc of her stomach. She looked… glorious. Embarrassed and glowing. Plump and flushed. And completely, radiantly full.

“Hi,” she said, biting her lip.

Leo blinked. Then blinked again. “You… you were busy.”

Anny gave a shy giggle and rubbed her hand along her belly’s upper curve. “I missed you.”

He walked to the side of the bed slowly, reverently, like approaching something sacred. “You… grew.”

“I know.”

“Like… a lot.”

She flushed deeper, not looking at him directly. “I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to.”

Leo’s breath caught in his throat as he reached down and cupped the underside of her belly in both hands. It was heavy. Firm. So much more than before.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered. “Look at you.”

She let her head fall back against the pillows, arms flopping to her sides, legs parted slightly to make room. “I really can’t suck it in anymore. Not even a little.”

He leaned down, kissing a stretch mark just below her navel. “Don’t you dare try.”

“I can’t even reach anymore,” she added, half laughing, half groaning as she demonstrated. Her arms moved awkwardly around the sides of her belly, but they couldn’t meet across the front. “I’m just… here now.”

Leo stood, eyes dark with awe. “You’re perfect.”

She pouted. “I’m starving, though. All this belly and nothing in it.”

He smirked. “Say no more.”

Fifteen minutes later, Leo returned with a tray—fettuccine alfredo, warm bread, a bowl of strawberries, and a tall glass of milk. He set it on the nightstand, then climbed onto the bed beside her. “Open,” he said gently, picking up the first bite.

She did. And then the next. And the next.

Her hands stayed on her belly, stroking it as she ate, feeling it expand—bit by bit, bite by bite—stretching tighter, higher. She moaned softly at intervals, breath hitching as she shifted. But she didn’t stop. And Leo, ever patient, fed her slowly, rhythmically, eyes never leaving her body.

“You’ve gotten so big, sweetheart,” he murmured between mouthfuls. “I could watch you eat like this forever.”

Anny groaned, rubbing her side. “I don’t know how much more I can take…”

He leaned in, kissed her deeply. “Yes, you do. Just a little more.”

She let him guide her. Let him keep going.

By the time he set the tray down again, her belly looked impossibly stretched—round and high and wide, rising above her like a monument. She tried to sit up, whimpering at the effort. “Leo, I can’t…”

He was already there, pressing her gently back into the pillows, hands firm but loving. “Don’t. Stay right here. Let me help.”

He climbed beside her again, wrapping one arm under the crest of her belly and the other around her shoulder, holding her in place while he nuzzled her ear.

“You’re so full,” he whispered. “So helpless. So mine.”

Anny’s whole body trembled. “I’ve never been this stuffed before…”

“You’re beautiful,” he said, kissing her cheek, her jaw, her shoulder. “So soft. So heavy. I’ve never seen you like this—and I’ve never wanted you more.”

She couldn’t stop smiling, even as her body ached from fullness. “What happens now? Do you think I’ll get even bigger?”

Leo smiled into her neck. “Oh, I know you will.”

Anny blushed again, hiding her grin behind her hand.

“Can’t wait,” he whispered.

And he meant it.

Because loving her had always been easy. But loving more of her—watching her let go, soften, surrender—was something he would never get tired of.

[feedybot]

Slipping into the next size

You’d been rifling through your side of the closet for ten minutes now. Blouses tugged off hangers, jeans yanked halfway up and discarded in a huff. You tried not to let it show—your frustration, the heat crawling up your neck—but he was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, watching. Saying nothing. Always nothing.

“I swear, the dryer’s eating everything,” you muttered, avoiding his eyes. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

He raised an eyebrow. Just a ghost of a smile on his face, but it was enough. You could already feel his gaze slipping lower, down past the snug waistband of your yoga pants, over the soft curve now folding at your middle. You tugged your hoodie down, too late.

“You know we haven’t done laundry this week, right?” he said casually, voice smooth. “Not since Saturday.”

You paused. Then forced a laugh. “Guess I need to cut back on snacks.”

“Do you?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really.

You didn’t respond to that. Instead, you turned back toward the mirror and focused on smoothing the fabric over your stomach, trying to make the bulge look less obvious. You shifted your weight, arched your back slightly. Sucked in.

Still there.

Still soft. Still unmistakably yours.

His reflection lingered behind yours in the mirror. He hadn’t left. He wasn’t going to.

You cleared your throat. “It’s probably just bloat.”

“Mhm,” he murmured, walking over. You felt the warmth of his presence behind you before you saw his hand move—a light, barely-there touch tracing the hem of your hoodie as it clung to your hips.

“You’ve said that a few times this month,” he added gently, like it was just an observation. Like it hadn’t been haunting you every time you stepped on the scale and then quietly shoved it back under the sink.

You stepped away, faking a laugh. “Okay, Dr. Oz. Maybe I’ve been a little… relaxed lately.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Relaxed. That’s one way to put it.”

You turned sharply. “I’m not huge, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I never said that.” His voice was calm, too calm. “But I didn’t say you weren’t either.”

There it was again—that maddening mix of quiet cruelty and soft affection that only he could get away with. The way he looked at you, like he saw everything… and liked it.

You grabbed your oversized cardigan off the chair and wrapped it around yourself, cinching the belt tight even though it barely met in the front anymore. You could feel the difference. You could see it. It wasn’t just in the mirror, or the fit of your clothes. It was in the way he looked at you now—hungrier, more amused. It made your skin prickle.

And worse, it made your stomach growl.

You hadn’t eaten yet today—too distracted trying to force yourself into pants that didn’t want you anymore. You’d planned to start a reset this week. Less bread, more walking, no late-night snacks. You even told him about it, half-proud, half-ashamed. He just nodded, as always. Didn’t say a word when you brought home pastries the very next day.

You hated how easy it was now. How mindless it had become.

“How about lunch?” he asked, casual. Already turning toward the kitchen.

You hesitated. “I shouldn’t. I was going to skip—”

“There’s leftover pasta,” he said, not looking back. “Your favorite.”

You stood there for a moment, arms folded tight over your chest. The belt of the cardigan pressed into your middle. You exhaled, long and slow.

“Fine. Just a little.”

The next morning, you woke up early, long before him. The room was still, sunlight barely filtering through the blinds. You stayed in bed for a few minutes, listening to his slow, even breathing beside you. He looked peaceful in sleep. Innocent.

You slipped out quietly and made your way to the bathroom.

Today, you were going to face it.

You pulled off your oversized sleep shirt and stared into the mirror. You turned sideways, sucking in your stomach. The swell beneath your ribs resisted you now, doughy and soft. It wasn’t just bloat. Not anymore.

You stepped onto the scale before you could change your mind.

The number blinked once. Then settled.

Your stomach dropped.

Up. Again.

You stepped off, reset it, stepped back on.

Same number.

You reached for your robe, then stopped. No. You needed to see this.

You turned slowly, inspecting yourself in the full-length mirror. Your thighs were thicker. Softer. Your hips had lost their sharp edges. And your stomach—God, your stomach was the worst. Not big, exactly, but undeniably round. A dome of proof, sitting heavy and smug right where your control used to live.

You squeezed at the flesh on your side. You’d always had a bit of curve, but this was different. This was new.

“Still pretending it’s the dryer?”

His voice cut through the quiet like a knife.

You flinched, whirling around. He was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. Barefoot, still half-asleep, but watching you with the same maddening calm.

“Were you spying on me?” you snapped.

He shrugged. “You left the door open.”

You grabbed your robe and pulled it on fast, tying the belt tighter than necessary. “Can’t I have one private moment?”

“You can,” he said. “But then who would remind you that you’re not going crazy?”

You glared at him. “So you have noticed.”

“I’d have to be blind not to.”

The silence stretched. You could feel heat rising up your neck. Shame, anger, confusion—too many things to name.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

He stepped into the room, closer now. “Because I like watching you figure it out.”

You blinked. “You’re sick.”

“Maybe.” He paused, eyes drifting lower. “But so are you, if you think any of this happened by accident.”

Your breath caught.

You wanted to deny it—to scream that he was wrong, that you hadn’t let go, that you were just going through something. But deep down, you knew. You’d kept buying treats. Kept skipping workouts. Kept brushing it off as temporary, as reversible.

And all the while, he’d watched. Not pushing. Just… waiting.

“Is this what you want?” you asked, voice tight.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he walked up behind you, resting his hands gently on your hips. You felt the weight of his fingers there—possessive, warm, steady.

“I want you,” he said finally. “However you come. But I won’t lie to you. I like this. I like what’s happening.”

You stared at your reflection again, his hands framing your fuller hips. You hated how quickly your body responded to his touch—how the shame twisted into something else entirely.

But you didn’t move away.

Not yet.

You had been saving the dress.

It wasn’t fancy—just a soft, fitted wrap you used to wear on weekends out, back when you still went places. Back when mirrors didn’t feel so cruel. You kept it tucked away in the back of the closet, promising yourself that someday soon, you’d be able to wear it again.

Someday hadn’t come. But you were tired of waiting.

You pulled it out on impulse late one afternoon, after a particularly bad weigh-in. You didn’t even tell him. He was out in the garden, trimming something, humming to himself like there wasn’t a single thing wrong in the world.

You stared at the dress for a long time. Then you took off your clothes and tried to put it on.

It clung immediately.

You tugged harder.

The fabric pulled taut over your hips—your newly softened, widened hips—and refused to budge. The sleeves stretched tight around your arms. The waist tie barely reached across the front.

You sucked in, twisted, fought with it. Your thighs bunched. Your belly folded. You held your breath and yanked, heart pounding.

And then, with an awful rip, the seam under the arm gave out.

You froze.

Just stood there, red-faced, gasping, the dress clinging to you like a second skin that didn’t want to let go.

The rip wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part was the mirror.

The woman staring back at you wasn’t just heavier. She looked stuffed. Out of place in her own clothes. Her belly sat round and unapologetic over her hips, the fabric pressing into it so deep it made the skin bulge around it. Her arms were soft and full, her thighs brushing, her cheeks rounder than she remembered.

You pulled at the dress, desperate now, but it wouldn’t come off easily. You struggled with it, cursing, nearly tripping. Finally you ripped it over your head, hearing another seam pop somewhere near the back.

You were still panting, half-naked and shaking, when you heard him at the bedroom door.

He didn’t knock. He just leaned there. Quiet. Watching.

“What happened?” he asked softly, eyes scanning the torn fabric in your hands.

You didn’t answer.

“I thought you were gardening,” you said instead, voice hollow.

“I was.” He stepped closer. “But then I heard something.”

You stood there in your underwear, arms crossed over your belly. The shame was unbearable.

“It’s ruined,” you whispered, not even sure why it mattered so much.

He looked at you—really looked.

“It’s not the dress.”

You glared at him. “Don’t start.”

But he didn’t say anything cruel. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stepped forward and gently took the ruined fabric from your hands.

“You were never going to wear it again,” he said.

“I was trying,” you hissed, voice cracking. “I wanted to go back.”

“To what?”

“To feeling like me.”

He tilted his head, stepping close enough that his breath warmed your cheek.

“This is you now,” he said.

“No,” you said, backing away, breath shaky. “This is someone else. Someone I never meant to be.”

He watched you, unreadable.

“You’re always talking about control,” you said bitterly. “But you never say anything while I lose it. You just sit there, smug, like you knew this would happen.”

He reached out, brushing his fingers over the crease under your belly. So gentle it made you shiver.

“Because I did know,” he whispered.

You hated him for it. And hated yourself more—for the way your body leaned into his touch, aching, needy, craving something more than just food.

You dropped onto the bed, silent now. The dress lay like a dead thing in your lap.

He sat beside you, placing one hand on your bare thigh—soft, wide, warm.

“You can keep pretending,” he said softly. “But your body already knows the truth.”

You looked down at yourself. The rolls. The marks. The bloated middle you swore you’d get rid of months ago.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe your body had known for a long time.

The morning light spilled across the bedroom floor, soft and indifferent. You lay curled under the covers, tracing patterns on your skin, the memory of yesterday’s broken dress still sharp in your mind.

He didn’t rush you. He never rushed you.

Instead, he moved around the house with his usual calm—making coffee, reading the news, tending to his quiet routines. But there was a new weight to his presence, an unspoken watchfulness that settled over you like a slow tide.

You felt it every time you reached for something sweet, every time you debated skipping a workout, every time your hand lingered just a little too long over the fridge door.

When you caught him watching, he’d give you a small, knowing smile. No judgment. No lecture. Just that quiet, dark amusement.

At lunch, you found yourself choosing a sandwich stuffed with cheese and mayo instead of the salad you’d planned. You caught your own hesitation, then shrugged. You deserved it, didn’t you?

He sat across from you at the small kitchen table, eyes calm, hands folded. He said nothing as you ate.

Afterward, he pulled out a pair of jeans from the drawer—your favorite, the ones you still squeezed into when you felt brave. He held them up against your hips.

“Try these on,” he said simply.

You shook your head. “They don’t fit.”

He smiled that slow, quiet smile again.

“That’s why I want you to try.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and shuffled into the bedroom. The jeans were there, laid out like a challenge.

You stepped into them. The fabric stretched painfully tight over your hips and thighs, the zipper struggling to close. Your breath hitched. You fought it. And somehow you did manage to button them.

But you could only hold your breath in for some time. And once you couldn’t, your belly spread forward and began stretching the pants to their limit. Stretching and stretching, there was so much belly everywhere all the sudden.Then the button popped.

You froze, heart pounding.

He was behind you now, steady hands brushing over your waist.

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

You wanted to believe him.

But the mirror told a different story—one of stretched seams, of a body outgrowing its shell, of a quiet surrender you weren’t ready to admit.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close.

“I’m not here to judge,” he murmured. “I’m here to watch.”

And you realized, with a shiver, how much you needed him to.

You stopped fighting.

It wasn’t some grand decision, or a moment of clarity. It was quiet, almost imperceptible—a slow slide down a slippery slope you’d been clinging to for months.

One night, after a long day filled with silent battles and whispered self-recriminations, you sat on the couch and let your hand drift toward the snack bowl without hesitation.

The guilt that used to cut sharp now dulled into a dull throb. You ate more. You ate faster. You told yourself it was okay. It had to be.

He watched with that same dark amusement, never pushing, never stopping. Just letting you unravel.

And your body responded.

Within weeks, your clothes tightened faster. The mirror no longer flattered. Your belly rounded out, pushing against every waistline, every hem, every button.

You noticed your thighs rubbing sooner, your hips widening with stubborn certainty, your arms growing softer.

The scale climbed with startling speed—two, then three kilograms in days, as if your body had flipped a switch.

Each morning you woke to new evidence of surrender: a tighter shirt, a heavier step, a slower breath.

But you didn’t stop.

Because, in some twisted way, letting go felt like freedom.

Like finally admitting the truth you’d been denying.

He sat beside you one evening, fingers tracing slow circles on your swollen belly.

“See?” he murmured. “You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

You swallowed hard, fingers trembling.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe fighting was pointless.

Maybe this was who you were now.

And maybe, deep down, you didn’t want to be anyone else.

Days blurred into weeks, but every morning the changes greeted you like a slow, relentless tide.

Your body wasn’t just heavier — it was different. Softer. Rounder. More demanding.

You felt it everywhere:

The way your belly now pressed forward with a new weight, making the simple act of bending over a calculated effort.

The gentle jiggle of your thighs when you walked, no longer something you tried to hide but something that announced itself with every step.

The swell of your arms, no longer firm but cushioned with a warmth you hadn’t known before.

Your clothes protested. Zippers strained, buttons popped, waistbands dug mercilessly into your skin, leaving angry red marks. You stopped trying to squeeze into old favorites and started seeking out looser fits, but even those felt snug in unexpected places.

You caught glimpses of yourself in windows and mirrors and couldn’t help the sharp pang of disbelief — the reflection wasn’t just different, it was someone new.

And yet, a strange part of you liked it.

There was a softness you craved—the comfort of flesh that didn’t fight back, a heaviness that grounded you. The way your skin stretched taut and then relaxed in folds, the way your body filled the space around you like it was meant to be seen.

He noticed it too.

Sometimes, when you weren’t looking, he’d reach out and trace slow circles along your belly or the curve of your hips, his touch both tender and possessive.

“You’re becoming… undeniable,” he murmured one night, voice low and thick with meaning.

You looked down at yourself—at the way your silhouette had swollen into something lush and full, at the softness that had replaced hard edges—and something inside you shifted.

You weren’t just gaining weight. You were transforming. Becoming something both terrifying and intoxicating.

And though the denial still whispered in the back of your mind, you couldn’t fight the truth anymore.

You were becoming exactly who you were always meant to be.

[feedybot]

Homebody

Chapter One

The first time you realized you were letting go, it was just a laugh between you and him.

You’d tugged your favorite jeans over your hips and felt the faintest resistance—barely anything. A second later, they buttoned. But you paused in the mirror, brushing your fingers over the curve of your belly.

“God, I’m turning into a housewife already,” you joked.

From the doorway, his voice: “A very cute one.”

You looked up to find him watching you, leaning against the frame, arms crossed and smiling like you’d just complimented him.

You rolled your eyes, gave your softening tummy a little pat, and turned away. Harmless. Normal.

It had only been a month since you moved in together, and everything still felt new—your routines, your shared bed, the way you always seemed to be snacking. He cooked more than you expected, insisting on “real meals,” hearty and rich. Sunday pancakes. Wednesday pasta nights. Friday pizza, no exceptions.

You told yourself you were just nesting. Everyone gains a little weight when they settle down.

Didn’t they?

It wasn’t just the food. It was the way he made it feel like you deserved it.

“Long day? Sit down, I’ll bring you a plate.”

“You barely ate lunch—you need to eat more.”

“Come on, just one more bite for me.”

You started noticing changes, of course. A little extra softness at your sides when you lay on your back. Your bras feeling a bit more… full. But he never made you feel self-conscious.

If anything, he seemed more affectionate. Slipping his hands under your shirt while you lounged on the couch. Squeezing your hips as he kissed your neck in the kitchen. Pressing against you in bed, murmuring how perfect you felt now.

And when you mentioned maybe getting back into yoga?

“Sure,” he said, noncommittal, “if you really want to.”

He didn’t bring it up again.

One evening, you caught him staring again—this time as you leaned over the counter, snacking straight from a bowl of leftover pasta.

“Something wrong?” you asked, half-embarrassed, straightening up.

He stepped closer, took the bowl from your hands, and fed you another bite himself.

“Mmm,” he said, as he watched you licking the fork slowly. “Nothing’s wrong at all.”

You swallowed, flustered, and tried to ignore the way your stomach nudged the counter now when you leaned in. Just a little.

Chapter Two

It crept up faster than you expected.

One morning you stood in front of your closet, towel wrapped around your damp body, and realized with a small, sinking feeling that you couldn’t wear any of your jeans. Not comfortably. Not even close.

You tugged at a pair you hadn’t worn in a while—high-waisted, stretchy, forgiving. You managed to shimmy them up your thighs, but when it came time to button them, they wouldn’t even meet. You sucked in. Tugged. Huffed.

From behind you, his voice came—quiet, amused.

“You okay in there?”

You bit your lip and gave up. “Yeah. Just… laundry day.”

You heard the edge in your own voice. The hesitation.

He appeared in the doorway seconds later, mug in hand, wearing that familiar little smirk. “Laundry day, huh?”

Your eyes narrowed.

But before you could fire back, he walked in, set the coffee down, and stepped behind you. His hands slid around your waist, palms resting just below your belly button—right where the softest part of you now sat, plush and warm and undeniable.

“You’re filling out,” he murmured into your ear, voice low.

You froze. That was new.

But then he added, “God, I love it,” and pulled you back against him with a slow, deliberate groan.

Your towel fell. Your breath hitched.

And just like that, the shame was gone.

From then on, it was like he dropped the pretense—just a little. Not enough to alarm you. But enough to make you wonder.

Takeout was a regular thing now. “I’m ordering—you want your usual?” he’d say, and you’d nod, knowing full well it was always too much. He’d always finish what you couldn’t… until you started finishing it yourself.

When you skipped your old morning walk, he didn’t comment.

When you asked him if he thought your thighs had gotten bigger, he looked you in the eye and said, “They’d better have.”

And when you started getting winded going up the stairs?

He just kissed your shoulder and said, “You’ve earned it.”

One night, lying on the couch after dinner, belly round and full beneath your oversized tee, you sighed and said, “I really need to get back in shape.”

He looked over from his book.

“You are in shape,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow.

“A shape I really like.”

You laughed, but something about the way he said it made your stomach flutter—and not from fullness.

He set his book down.

“You want to know a secret?”

You nodded, curious.

“I’ve never seen you look more… yours.”

You didn’t know what that meant exactly, but the way he reached for your soft belly with both hands, the way his eyes darkened as he kneaded you slowly…

You didn’t question it.

Not then.

Chapter Three

It had been almost three months since you moved in.

Your old clothes were packed away in a bin under the bed—“until later,” you’d told yourself. You wore soft things now. Stretchy things. Things that made room for your new normal.

You weren’t stupid. You saw it. You felt it. The way your belly pressed against your thighs when you sat. The way your cheeks looked rounder in every selfie. The way your boyfriend’s hand seemed to always find your softest parts.

You just didn’t talk about it.

And neither did he.

Not formally.

Until one night, curled on the couch, eating out of the tub of ice cream he brought you—your third dessert that week—he looked over and said it.

“You’re really taking to domestic life, huh?”

You laughed around a spoonful, shrugging. “Guess so.”

He reached over, thumb grazing a smudge of chocolate from your lip, and murmured:

“Becoming such a soft little housepet.”

You blinked. “What?”

He smiled wide—too wide.

“I said houseguest. You know, comfortable.”

But your heart skipped. That wasn’t what he said.

A few days later, after dinner—your second plate of lasagna, plus garlic bread and wine—you were lying back in bed, stuffed and lazy. Your shirt had ridden up, exposing the heavy swell of your stomach, round and tight.

He came out of the bathroom and just… stared.

“You really are getting heavy,” he said, voice soft, almost reverent.

You made a face. “Gee, thanks.”

“No—I mean it.” He came closer, knelt beside you. “There’s something about it. Watching you… yield.”

You blinked again. “What do you mean, yield?”

He didn’t answer. Just pressed a kiss into the dome of your belly. You swore you felt his tongue flick across your skin.

Then came the morning he brought you breakfast in bed—fluffy waffles, syrup, whipped cream, the works.

“You spoil me,” you said groggily, already digging in.

He sat at the edge of the bed, watching. Smiling.

“I just like seeing you satisfied.”

You took another bite.

“…And so easy to fill.”

You paused, mid-chew.

He was still smiling, but his eyes were unreadable.

You swallowed thickly. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, and leaned in to kiss your cheek. “Eat up.”

You did. But the butterflies in your stomach weren’t just from food anymore.

Later that week, he pulled you into his lap after dinner, despite your weak protests about being too full.

“You’re heavier than last week,” he whispered, arms around your waist. “I can feel it. You carry it so well.”

You laughed, trying to play it off. “You’re such a weirdo.”

His hand crept under your shirt.

“No, babe. I’m proud of you.”

Your stomach flipped. You weren’t sure if it was pride or pressure that made your chest tighten.

Then he added, barely audible, like a prayer:

“You were made for this.”

Chapter Four

It started with a feast.

You didn’t even know what the occasion was—he just said he was “in the mood to treat you.” The table was full. More food than you could name, more than you could ever finish. Or so you thought.

Pasta dripping in cream sauce. Roasted potatoes slick with butter. Crusty bread, hot from the oven. Three kinds of dessert. Wine. Always wine.

You hesitated when you saw the spread.

“Babe… this is too much.”

He didn’t blink.

“Not for you.”

He pulled out your chair. You sat.

And he didn’t just serve you. He watched you. Every bite. Every slow chew. Every time you paused, he filled your glass or piled more food onto your plate.

By the end, your belly was so full it pressed hard against your waistband. You leaned back, dazed and distended, breath shallow, mouth still sweet from tiramisu.

You whimpered softly, hand resting on your swollen stomach.

He stood behind you, hands on your shoulders, and whispered:

“Look at what you can take.”

You turned your head slowly, confused. “What?”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“All of it. You took everything I gave you. Like you were made for this.”

Your breath hitched.

“You don’t even realize how good you’ve gotten at being helpless.”

You sat up, startled, and gasped at the pressure in your gut. You hadn’t felt the full weight of it until then.

“I—I’m stuffed, babe, seriously—”

He laughed. Soft. Dark.

“You think I don’t know that?”

His hands slid from your shoulders to your upper belly and pressed. Firm. Not gentle.

You yelped.

He smirked.

He helped you to bed like it was romantic—carried the last slice of cake with him and fed it to you bite by bite while you lay there, too full to sit up.

“You’ve been gaining so fast,” he murmured, stroking your bloated gut between bites. “And you still keep opening your mouth for me.”

“Because you keep feeding me,” you muttered, cheeks flushed.

His eyes darkened.

“I know. And you let me. That’s the best part.”

You turned your face away, but his hand caught your chin. Gently at first.

“Look at yourself,” he said.

You did. The mirror across from the bed reflected everything—your rumpled shirt rolled up over the swell of your gut, your thighs spread wide, your cheeks red and puffy from food and wine and shame.

“Don’t hide it,” he whispered. “This is you now. My spoiled little piglet.”

You gasped.

He didn’t take it back.

Later, in the dark, as you lay on your side, still painfully full, you felt him behind you—pressing close, hard against your swollen body.

“You’re not going back,” he said softly into your hair. “You know that, right?”

You were too tired to answer. But your silence was enough.

Because his hand drifted back to your belly. And squeezed.

Chapter Five

You tried to say no.

But the words caught in your throat the moment he stepped into the kitchen with that look in his eyes—the one that said he wasn’t asking, just deciding.

“You’re not slowing down now,” he said, voice low, steady.

You swallowed hard, cheeks burning.

“But I’m so full.”

His smile was a slow, cruel curve.

“Full is just a feeling. And feelings can be fixed.”

Before you could react, he was at your side, wrapping an arm around your waist and guiding you toward the table where more food waited—freshly baked cinnamon rolls, thick creamy custard, whipped cream piled like clouds.

Your hands trembled as he pushed the first bite toward your lips.

“Open up.”

You did.

He fed you slowly at first, savoring the way you swallowed, the slight tremble in your jaw, the way your eyes fluttered shut.

“Good girl.”

Then faster. No breaks. No mercy.

“Such a perfect little piglet,” he whispered, voice thick with satisfaction.

Your stomach protested loudly, aching, stretching beyond comfort.

“I can’t—”

“Lie,” he said, cutting you off. “You love this. You live for this.”

Your protest died in a soft whimper.

He caught your hand, squeezing gently.

“You were made for me to fill. For me to watch you grow soft and heavy and helpless.”

Your breath hitched.

,,Open up. We need to get you rounder.”

The night stretched on, a haze of sweet food, soft teasing, whispered promises, and gentle domination.

When at last you lay sated, helpless, and swollen in his arms, he traced lazy circles over your belly and smiled.

“You belong here,” he said.

“Right where I want you.”

Epilogue

You stood in front of the mirror, breathing heavily, thighs pressed together for balance, both hands clutching at the waistband of your last, biggest pair of jeans.

The button was inches from meeting the hole.

Not centimeters. Inches.

You had to lean back just to try. The motion made your stuffed belly surge outward, taut and round like dough rising too far. You groaned under your breath.

“Need help?” came his voice from the doorway.

You jumped slightly—but didn’t answer.

He stepped in slowly, barefoot, eyes roaming over you with quiet reverence. You didn’t meet his gaze. You couldn’t.

“I haven’t seen those in a while,” he murmured. “Didn’t think they still… fit.”

“They don’t,” you whispered.

He chuckled, walking over. “I can try.”

You let go, stepping back. Your belly spilled forward instantly, freed from the pressure of your tugging hands.

He knelt in front of you—kissed the underside of that heavy swell—and started working the button.

His fingertips brushed soft skin. There was no tension left in the denim. Just desperation.

“God,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “You’ve really outdone yourself, haven’t you?”

You bit your lip.

“I didn’t think you’d get this big. Not this fast.”

The button resisted him. He grunted. Pulled harder.

Somehow, with effort and force, it clicked.

You gasped, shocked. “Wait… it closed?”

“Barely,” he said, hands still resting on the waistband. “You’re like a sausage in its casing. But yeah.”

He looked up at you, wicked grin spreading.

“Go ahead. Sit.”

Your heart sank.

But you obeyed.

The moment your weight hit the bed, your belly surged forward like a crashing wave. The denim screamed—literally squealed—under the pressure.

And then, with a loud POP, the button burst free. The zipper shredded downward. The fly split wide open, your belly surging through the gap like it had been waiting.

You froze.

He burst out laughing—warm, delighted, hungry.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, crouching again, hands cradling the exposed swell of you. “You’re so far gone.”

You buried your face in your hands.

But he was already kissing the curve of your belly, whispering into your skin.

“Why would you ever want to hide this?”

[feedybot]

Growing you one pound at a time

Chapter 1: “Let’s Try It Together”

It started with a laugh.

You were curled up together on the couch—Dina in your lap, a bag of popcorn between you, feet tangled under a throw blanket. Aaric’s fingers slid absently over your stomach, kneading the softest parts without thought. You didn’t even flinch anymore. After three years, your body was just as much his as yours.

“You know…” he said, voice casual, “you’ve gotten a little softer.”

You snorted, stuffing more popcorn into your mouth. “So have you.”

It was true. You’d both filled out a little since moving in together. Late-night takeout. Lazy weekends. No judgment. No shame. That was part of what made it work.

He kissed your temple. “What if we just… leaned into it?”

You looked up.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if we stopped pretending to care about getting back in shape. Just… let go for a while. Ate what we wanted. Fed each other. Got a little indulgent.” He smiled. “See where it goes.”

Your heart thudded. You should’ve laughed it off. Instead, your pulse betrayed you.

“That sounds… dangerous.”

“But fun,” he said, brushing popcorn dust off your cheek. “We’d do it together. Mutual destruction.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth twitched.

“What, like a feeding pact?”

He grinned. “Exactly like that.”

You studied him. Aaric wasn’t the kind of guy to suggest something out of nowhere. He must’ve been thinking about this. Imagining it. And that thought sent a strange thrill through you.

“Fine,” you said, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “We’ll see who cracks first.”

He caught it, chewed, and swallowed slow.

“I hope it’s you,” he murmured.

You didn’t realize then how serious he was.

The first week was silly. Innocent, even.

You made pancake towers and tried to out-eat each other. Bought cookies “for sharing” and ended up feeding them one by one, giggling like teenagers. Nights were spent with your belly full and his hands warm over it, praising you for every extra bite you took.

He gained too—at first. A slight swell in his belly, thicker arms, softer jawline. You teased him about it, poked his stomach while brushing crumbs from your shirt.

But he never seemed to mind. If anything, he looked proud.

You caught your reflection one night, shirt riding up from the day’s binge. Your belly looked different. Rounder. Heavier. Not just bloated—settled. A line formed where the waistband of your leggings dug into it, leaving a red imprint even after you peeled them off.

You turned to him, frowning.

“We’re seriously doing this?”

He walked over, took your face in his hands, and kissed you like he hadn’t all day.

“Yeah,” he said. “We are.”

You didn’t know it yet, but something had shifted. A seed had taken root.

And Aaric? He was already planning the next stage.

Chapter 2: “Just a Bit More”

It didn’t feel like anything changed.

Not at first.

Your routines were still familiar: lazy brunches, indulgent nights, Aaric beside you, encouraging every extra helping. But there was something quieter now. Something you couldn’t name.

He didn’t just feed you anymore.

He watched.

When you reached for seconds, his eyes followed your fingers. When you licked your lips after dessert, he bit his own. When your belly swelled tight and you shifted to ease the pressure, he adjusted beside you, almost like he couldn’t help himself.

And then came the phrases.

“You’ve earned it.”

“Don’t hold back.”

“Come on, Dina. One more bite for me.”

Soft at first, whispered while you chewed, almost playful. But over time, they grew firmer. Confident. Like he was guiding you now. Like the balance between you was no longer equal.

You noticed the difference in photos.

The first ones—early in the “mutual” experiment—you both looked a little puffier. You even had a favorite: the two of you squished together on the couch, matching chip bags in hand, bloated bellies pressing side by side.

But then came the newer ones. Subtle at first. Aaric in fitted clothes, his face leaner than yours, his belly looking less like a gain and more like strength. You hadn’t noticed how often he hit the gym in the mornings—quietly, never announcing it. Never commenting when you stayed in bed.

You, on the other hand… were changing.

Your face was fuller, rounder around the edges. Your clothes started shrinking—tight in the arms, cutting into your waist. You brushed it off, calling it laundry shrinkage, but Aaric never corrected you.

He just smiled.

“You’ve been working out,” you said one night, poking his chest as he laid beside you in bed.

He looked smug. “A little.”

“Not fair. I thought we were in this together.”

“We are,” he said, dragging a finger along the swell of your stomach. “I just figured one of us should stay in shape, in case the other gets… too far gone.”

Your breath hitched.

“Too far gone?”

He leaned down, lips brushing your soft jawline.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “You’re not there yet.”

Yet.

You didn’t sleep well that night. But in the morning, when he presented you with a tray of breakfast—thick slices of French toast, syrup dripping, butter melting—you ate it all.

Without question.

The scales kept tipping.

He started plating your food for you. Always more than his own. He praised your appetite in public. Ordered extra sides for you at restaurants. Took photos when you were too full to move. You wanted to push back, to say something—but every time he touched you, every time he whispered good girl in your ear, you forgot why you cared.

Aaric still kissed you like before. Touched you like before.

But now, it felt like permission.

You gained five more kilos.

He noticed every one.

And you knew.

Because he made sure you felt them, every single day.

Chapter 3: “You’re Doing So Well”

You couldn’t button your favorite jeans.

They were stretched taut just under your belly, the zipper giving up halfway. You stood in front of the mirror, frowning at the way the waistband pinched your softest fold, how your shirt bunched above it like it didn’t want to stretch any further.

You tried again—sucked in, twisted, fought the fabric—but it was useless. The jeans weren’t just tight.

They were impossible.

And yet, when you called for Aaric, when he stepped into the room and saw you struggling, he didn’t offer to help.

He just leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes trailing slowly from your flushed face down to your stomach, which pushed over the undone waistband like rising dough.

“Cute,” he said.

You scowled. “They used to fit.”

“They did,” he agreed, stepping closer. His voice was low. Measured. “But that was before you decided to outgrow everything you owned.”

You felt your cheeks flush. “We decided.”

Aaric tilted his head, a small, maddening smirk tugging at his lips.

“Sure. We started together.”

That word. Started. It echoed in the space between you.

Before you could respond, he stepped behind you and slid his hands over your sides—palms gliding over the curve of your love handles, now thick and yielding. You flinched as his fingers found the new depth of your waistline, how easily he could grip it now.

“You’ve been doing so well,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “You don’t even realize how far you’ve come.”

You did. You just didn’t want to admit it.

Not when your bras pinched. Not when you had to sit down after dinner because your belly ached from fullness. Not when your thighs rubbed together harder than ever, raw beneath dresses. Not when Aaric’s touch made you ache with humiliation and something else you weren’t ready to name.

He’d started prepping meals for you now. High-calorie, always plated just right, beautifully arranged—and always more than you asked for. He never said, eat it all. But he didn’t have to. His silence when you left food behind was louder than words.

And when you finished everything?

He praised you.

“Good girl.”

“You needed that.”

“Look at you.”

You wanted to say something, to tell him this wasn’t mutual anymore. But then you’d catch his eyes when you were stuffed—dark, satisfied, like this was exactly how it was supposed to be—and the words would melt away.

You liked the way he looked at you now.

Even if it scared you.

That weekend, he brought home a gift.

You opened the box with a laugh—until you saw what was inside.

A tight, stretchy dress, clearly a few sizes too small. The kind of thing you used to wear, back when your curves were firmer, tamer. You looked up, confused.

“You know this won’t fit.”

He shrugged. “Try it anyway.”

You hesitated, heart hammering.

He was watching.

So you peeled off your clothes, shimmying into the dress with effort. The fabric clung everywhere—across your belly, your ass, your hips—digging in like it was fighting to hold you. The hem rode up dangerously high. Your rolls were outlined like a topographic map.

You turned, ashamed.

But Aaric stepped forward, eyes locked on your body like you were a masterpiece.

“You’re incredible,” he said, low and firm.

You swallowed.

“You don’t think I’ve gone too far?”

He smiled. But it wasn’t playful anymore.

“Not yet.”

And you knew, in that moment, that he would decide when “too far” came.

Not you.

Chapter 4: “Let’s Not Pretend”

You were out of breath just walking up the stairs.

You paused at the landing, one hand on the rail, the other gripping a takeaway bag heavier than it should’ve been. Your thighs ached. Your lower back twinged. Your shirt had rolled up again, exposing the soft slope of your underbelly. You tugged it down with a grunt, but the fabric didn’t listen anymore.

Inside, Aaric was waiting.

He opened the door before you could knock, eyes immediately landing on the bulging bag, then drifting down—slow, deliberate—to your midsection, rising and falling with shallow, flustered breaths.

“Someone’s hungry,” he said.

You gave a weak smile, brushing past him into the apartment.

He didn’t help with the food. He just watched as you waddled in, lower belly swaying slightly under your stretched leggings, your thighs struggling not to chafe with each step. You could feel him assessing you—taking stock of your weight, your effort, your surrender.

He was so calm about it now.

So in control.

He let you finish dessert before he leaned back and said it.

“No more pretending, Dina.”

Your spoon froze halfway to your lips.

“What?”

He nodded toward your belly—rounded, swollen, straining visibly against your waistband.

“Let’s stop acting like this is mutual.”

You set the spoon down, heart thudding.

“We—”

“We started together,” he said, voice low but clear. “But now you eat what I give you. You dress how I want. You gain because I like it.”

You tried to speak. But the words caught in your throat.

“Stand up.”

Your eyes widened.

“Aaric—”

“Now.”

You rose slowly, wobbling a little as the food settled heavily in your gut. He circled behind you, then reached out, hooking a finger under the tight hem of your shirt and pulling it up, exposing your belly fully.

It hung low now, soft and obvious, resting against the band of your leggings like it belonged there. He let the silence hang as he stepped closer, both hands settling around your waist—fingers unable to meet across your widening middle.

“You used to fight me,” he murmured, lips brushing your neck. “Now look at you. I say ‘eat,’ and you devour. I say ‘grow,’ and you thank me.”

Your breath caught. His hands gripped tighter, sinking into your softness like he owned it.

“And the best part?” he whispered. “You love it.”

You did.

And that was the worst part.

Later that night, he fed you again. Not because you were hungry—you weren’t. You were already bloated, belly round and sore—but he sat you on his lap anyway, guiding bites past your lips, praising you with every swallow.

You couldn’t look him in the eyes.

Not when he said, “That’s my girl.”

Not when he said, “Bigger.”

Not when he said, “Soon, you won’t remember what it felt like to be in control.”

You didn’t know it yet, but the shift was almost complete.

Chapter 5: “Last Stand”

It happened in the middle of a warm Sunday morning.

You’d been alone for hours—Aaric had gone out early, said he had errands. You stood in front of your closet, breath shallow, clothes everywhere. Nothing fit. Not well, not anymore. Even your stretchiest pieces cut into your belly now, and the sight of yourself in the mirror—thick arms, overstuffed hips, your swollen middle cresting into soft, helpless roundness—sparked something sharp.

It wasn’t shame.

It was panic.

Because for the first time in weeks, you saw it clearly.

You were losing yourself.

You threw on the biggest sweater you owned, one of Aaric’s, and waited for him to return—heart pounding with resolve, even as it clung to something fragile and desperate.

When he came in, bags in hand, he raised an eyebrow at your expression.

You didn’t give him a chance.

“This isn’t working,” you blurted. “I need to cut back. Take control. We need to stop.”

He blinked. Slowly set the bags on the counter.

“Stop what?”

“You know what,” you snapped, stepping forward, the sweater barely covering the curve of your belly now. “This. All of this. You’re in shape, you’ve been working out behind my back—while I just… spiral. And you let me.”

His expression didn’t change.

You kept going.

“I’m tired of always being the one who’s out of breath, who can’t bend over without groaning, who—who gets stared at when we go out. You said this was mutual, Aaric. But look at us now.”

You were breathless, flushed. You expected him to argue, maybe to soothe you. To deny it.

But he just looked at you with something cold and final.

“Are you done?”

You froze.

His voice was different. Lower. Steady. Like he’d been waiting for this.

He crossed the room slowly and stopped just in front of you, reaching out to tug the hem of the oversized sweater upward. You flinched, but let him pull it up—exposing the pale swell of your belly, thick and heavy, drooping softly over the waistband of your leggings.

“You say this isn’t working,” he said, voice almost clinical. “But I see a girl who finishes everything she’s given. Who moans when I touch her. Who can’t resist dessert even when she’s already stuffed. Who’s exactly where she was always meant to be.”

You opened your mouth.

He shut it with a single finger against your lips.

“You don’t get to talk like you’re in charge anymore, Dina.”

A chill ran through you.

“This body—this big, soft, overfed body—belongs to me now.”

He took your hand and pressed it into the deepest crease of your belly.

“You gave it to me. Inch by inch. Bite by bite.”

You felt lightheaded. Powerless.

“I tried to be subtle,” he continued. “To let you feel like it was your idea. But I’ve watched you surrender for months now. And I think it’s time we stopped pretending otherwise.”

He stepped back and nodded toward the kitchen.

“You’ll go in there, and you’ll eat what I’ve made. You’ll finish all of it. And you’ll thank me after.”

And you did.

[feedybot]

Public Feast

You arrive at the restaurant clinging to his arm, cheeks slightly flushed from the spring air—or maybe from how snug your jeans have gotten over the past few months. You’d both joked about “relationship weight” at first, laughing it off whenever your tummy peeked out beneath your shirt or when your bra dug in just a little too much after dinner. But lately, the laughs had started to carry a different tone. A curious one. A lingering one.

Tonight, you feel him guiding you inside with something more deliberate in his touch. You’re aware of your figure in a way you never were before: the subtle sway of your hips, the softness of your belly pressing against the waistband of your too-tight jeans, the faint jiggle in your step that wasn’t there last fall.

The moment you step into the warm, fragrant air of the buffet, his hand moves to the small of your back, possessive, proud.

“Mmm,” he murmurs into your ear, eyes scanning the endless trays of food. “They better be ready to refill everything. You’re starving, aren’t you?”

You hesitate, but he squeezes your side gently, thumb brushing the top swell of your love handle. “Go on, babe. First round. Don’t hold back.”

You blush, but obey, loading your plate high—though not obscenely so. A few slices of pizza, a mountain of mashed potatoes, a pile of fried chicken. You return to the table where he’s already waiting with his own plate, much more modest by comparison.

He grins. “That’s my girl. Look at you. Already getting serious.”

You eat, trying to ignore the people around you—families, couples, waiters—but it’s impossible not to notice how he makes it a performance. Every time you bring a bite to your lips, he watches you like he’s witnessing a private show.

“God, I love watching you eat,” he says, loud enough for the couple at the next table to hear. “You’re getting curvier every week.”

You almost choke on your bite of chicken. He reaches across the table to stroke your thigh. “Go on. Let’s see what second plate looks like.”

You feel your cheeks burn as you stand, belly already pressing harder into your waistband. Your shirt rides up just enough to show the slight curve of skin. You waddle a little more than before. He’s watching.

Your second plate is obscene. Pasta dripping in cream sauce, fried shrimp, egg rolls, meatloaf, cheesy scalloped potatoes. You hear a soft clatter from another table as someone drops their fork, eyes wide. Are they watching you? Or is it just in your head?

No, you realize. It’s him. He’s making them watch.

He waves at you to bring two desserts along while you’re at it. You don’t argue. When you return, he stands up and pulls out your chair for you, like a gentleman in a 1950s movie. As you sit, your belly bumps into the table’s edge, forcing you to inch your seat back a little. The motion makes your breasts jiggle visibly.

He leans in. “You feel how tight your pants are?”

You nod shyly.

“Good. We’re not leaving until that button gives up.”

You laugh—nervous, breathy—but keep eating. Bite after bite. Each forkful feels like a dare, like an offering. And you can feel the difference immediately—your belly pushing heavier into the table, bloating outward, softening into full roundness. You’re growing, and he’s loving it.

He calls the waiter over and orders more drinks, extra rolls. “She’s a growing girl,” he explains, again just loud enough. “Needs her fuel.”

On your third plate, you slow down. The fork trembles slightly as you lift it. He scoots closer, one arm draped over your shoulders.

“You’re doing so good, baby. Just look at you. Practically bursting.”

And then, right as you shift to reach for your drink—pop—the button on your jeans gives way. Loud. Startling. Heads turn. Your belly, freed from its denim prison, surges forward with an audible sigh of relief, a wide doughy dome cradled by your stretched shirt.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s my girl.”

His hand lands on your belly in front of everyone—palming the round, taut mound, giving it a small jiggle. “Grew out of another pair. That’s the third time this month.”

You don’t know whether to laugh, moan, or cry—but the heat in your cheeks spreads downward. You’ve never been more aware of your own body.

You bury your face in your third dessert, a towering swirl of soft serve, as his hand stays on your belly, a proud weight that says: Look what she’s becoming. Look what I’ve made her into.

And the only thought left in your head is concerned about how small his hand looks resting on your distended bloated belly

[feedybot]

Deal of a Lifetime

Chapter 1

You were only doing laundry.

The buzz of the dryer had stopped twenty minutes ago, but you’d lost track of time scrolling on your phone, so now your clothes were probably wrinkled to hell. With a groan, you shoved your phone in your hoodie pocket and trudged down the creaky stairwell into the basement—bare feet slapping softly against the cool concrete.

Your boyfriend, Eric, was still upstairs, half-asleep on the couch. You didn’t bother calling him down. This was a solo mission.

The basement had that familiar stale-laundry smell, mixed with the faint scent of rust and dust. You reached for the dryer handle—

—and froze.

There was something new down here.

It stood in the corner, tucked just behind the old boiler room door: a vending machine. Tall, dark, ancient. You could’ve sworn it hadn’t been there before. The plastic on the front was scratched and yellowed, the buttons faded. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades.

But it was plugged in. Glowing faintly.

You stepped closer, drawn to it. There was no slot for coins or bills. No digital display. Just an old keypad, the kind where each button clicks chunk when pressed.

No labels. No snacks inside. Just one thin line of text burned into the top in that faded orange light:

“Ask. And be fed.”

You blinked.

“…What the hell.”

You glanced over your shoulder like someone might be watching. Then, just for fun, you leaned in and whispered, “Salted caramel brownie.”

The machine whirred.

You jumped.

A soft mechanical thunk echoed, and something dropped into the slot below.

Your heart was pounding as you bent to reach in.

There, in a thin cardboard sleeve, sat a warm, gooey, bakery-fresh salted caramel brownie. It smelled divine. Impossible. You picked it up carefully, still warm like it had just come out of an oven.

“No way,” you whispered, grinning.

Ten minutes later, you were curled on the couch upstairs, Eric watching you suspiciously as you licked your fingers.

“Where the hell did you get that?” he asked. “There’s no bakery open this late.”

“The vending machine,” you said between bites, still chewing. “In the basement.”

He blinked. “What vending machine?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know! It was just… there. I asked for a brownie and bam, it gave me one.”

“You’re serious.”

“Dead serious. It was warm, Eric.”

He laughed, disbelieving. “Alright, alright. Let me see this thing.”

Back downstairs, the two of you stood in front of the machine. Eric crouched to examine it, skeptical.

“You didn’t pay for it?”

“Nope. Just whispered what I wanted. Like this…”

You leaned in again, suddenly playful.

“Double cheeseburger.”

Thunk.

Eric’s jaw dropped. You pulled out a hot, freshly wrapped burger—still steaming in your hands.

“…What the fuck,” he muttered.

“I know,” you grinned.

He took the burger, peeled it open. The smell hit both of you at once—perfect, juicy, greasy. The kind of fast food dreams are made of.

“This is crazy.”

“Crazy delicious,” you added, stealing a bite.

You whispered a milkshake next. He followed with nachos. Then cheesecake.

Before you knew it, you were back upstairs with an armful of midnight snacks, half-laughing, half-stuffed, and just a little high on the absurdity of it all.

“I mean, how does it work?” Eric asked, licking queso off his thumb. “It’s not plugged into Wi-Fi, it doesn’t even have a touchscreen—”

“Who cares?” you interrupted, mouth full of creamy New York cheesecake. “It’s magic, babe. We found a magic vending machine.”

He smirked, settling deeper into the couch. “What do we do with it?”

You leaned over him slowly, lazy and full, belly pressing softly against his side. Your eyes gleamed.

“We use it.”

Chapter 2

It started with late-night cravings.

You and Eric made it a ritual. Every evening after dinner, one of you would get that look in your eye, and without a word, you’d both slip down the stairs like naughty kids sneaking into the pantry. The vending machine was always waiting, glowing faintly like it knew you were coming.

You began taking turns.

“I want something sweet and gooey,” you’d whisper. Thunk. Out came sticky pecan buns, warm chocolate lava cake, or perfect little truffles that melted on your tongue.

Eric leaned savory—sliders, waffle fries, stuffed jalapeño poppers. Once, on a dare, he asked for a lobster roll. It appeared, flawless and fresh, like it had been plucked from a five-star kitchen.

It didn’t take long for the changes to start.

You noticed it first in your underwear. The way your softest pair started cutting in around your hips, how your bra straps left deeper dents than usual. You tugged at your shirt one morning and caught your reflection: belly pushing ever so slightly against the cotton. It wasn’t big, not yet. But it wasn’t flat anymore, either.

Still, it was easy to shrug off. A little bloating. Water weight.

Besides, you felt good.

Full in the evenings, flushed and giggly, lips shiny with frosting or grease. Eric always looked at you like he couldn’t help himself. His hands wandered more often—palming your hips, brushing over your stomach, resting just a bit longer than usual.

The food made you feel… wanted. Desirable. Indulged.

Eric didn’t seem to be changing as fast. He’d joke about how the food was “hitting different” for you, or how your appetite was finally catching up with your sass. You’d roll your eyes, then drag him downstairs again just to prove a point.

“You’re not pulling ahead of me,” you teased one night, handing him a gooey cinnamon roll bigger than your palm. “We started this together.”

He smirked, playing along. “Then feed me, baby.”

So you did. You pressed the sticky roll to his lips and fed it to him bite by bite. He licked the icing from your fingers and kissed your hand after, and you couldn’t deny how hot it felt.

You didn’t stop at one. You whispered again, pulled out a second, then a third. He didn’t resist. Not then.

But the next morning, you found the gym bag.

Stuffed behind the coat rack, half-hidden. Clean workout clothes, protein bars, and a gym key fob you didn’t recognize.

Your stomach sank.

You didn’t confront him right away. Instead, you started watching.

He’d slip out early some mornings, claiming he needed air or coffee. You knew better now. When he returned, he looked flushed, freshly showered. Energized. He still indulged at night—but just a little. Just enough to match your pace without matching your weight.

Meanwhile, you were softening. Clothes fit tighter. Your thighs started brushing together more noticeably. Sitting down left a gentle crease where your belly folded slightly over your waistband.

Still, he never complained. In fact, his touches got more intense—like every new curve turned him on even more. He ran his hands along your waist, kissed your belly, told you you were beautiful.

And maybe you were. But there was a part of you that wanted him to join you, not just worship you.

This wasn’t supposed to be a one-sided feast.

One night, you kissed him slow and deep, fingers trailing down his chest.

“You’ve been holding back,” you whispered.

He tilted his head. “Says who?”

“Says me,” you murmured, straddling his lap. “I’ve seen the gym bag.”

His hands settled on your hips—firmer now than when this all began. “And?”

“I want you to catch up.”

“I am catching up,” he said, smiling as his fingers traced the soft swell of your belly. “Just in a different direction.”

You leaned in close, breathing against his ear. “That’s not what I meant.”

His breath caught. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then he looked at you with that slow, dangerous grin—the one that made your thighs press together.

“Then maybe you’ll just have to make me.”

Chapter 3

You doubled down.

If Eric wanted to play coy, you’d play bold. If he wouldn’t give in willingly, you’d tempt him until he couldn’t resist. The vending machine became your shared secret and your secret weapon—a silent, glowing accomplice to your mission.

Every night, you brought more.

Not just a plate. A platter. Boxes stacked high, napkins soaked through, sauces dripping. You whispered cravings you knew he couldn’t ignore: hot wings with butter-drenched skin, deep-fried mac balls, molten cookie skillets served with whipped cream so thick it clung to your spoon like glue.

And he indulged. He always did.

But you knew the difference. He’d eat with you, sure—play along, kiss the icing from your lips—but he never pushed past his limit. You watched him stop just shy of stuffed, always a little more controlled than you.

You, on the other hand… you were letting go.

It snuck up fast. The softness. The heaviness. The ease with which you gave in.

You started skipping real meals during the day just to make room for the nightly ritual. Your belly, once just a hint of fullness, was becoming a real curve—round and plush, rolling softly over the waistband of your leggings. Your arms felt heavier, your thighs thicker, your walk just slightly more weighted.

But it felt good. Comforting. Secure.

Eric noticed. Of course he did.

He noticed when your hoodie stopped hiding the way your belly pressed against your jeans. He noticed when you pulled off your bra with a sigh and your breasts spilled heavier than before. He noticed when you groaned after too much cheesecake, lying flat with a hand on your taut, aching stomach—and he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

His touches grew hungrier, and so did yours.

Still, something gnawed at you.

You pressed another slice of pizza to his lips. He took it, chewing slowly, eyes locked with yours.

“Come on,” you urged. “You can do more.”

“I’ve had enough,” he said, wiping his fingers. “I’m not trying to explode tonight.”

You pouted. “You used to go bite for bite.”

“You used to fit in those shorts,” he teased back, smirking.

Your stomach fluttered at the way he said it—half challenge, half flirtation. But beneath it, a question lingered: why won’t you come with me all the way?

Later that night, while he slept, you snuck out of bed and crept down to the vending machine alone.

“Triple bacon cheeseburger,” you whispered.

Thunk.

“Loaded fries. Large chocolate shake. Cheesecake bites. Two dozen donuts.”

Thunk. Thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk.

Your arms were full. Your stomach already buzzing with anticipation. You brought it all back up to bed and gently shook him awake, tray in hand, grinning.

“Midnight surprise.”

He sat up groggily, blinking. “What… baby, it’s 3 AM.”

“So? You hungry?”

He hesitated. Then smiled, slowly. “Always.”

By the time the sun rose, your sheets were littered with wrappers, napkins, and empty cartons. Eric had indulged, yes—but you had devoured. He drifted off with a lazy hand on your belly. You lay wide-eyed, stuffed and dizzy, your hands resting on the taut roundness that had become your center.

You were winning. Right?

The next morning, you stepped on the scale.

You’d been avoiding it, but curiosity had finally clawed its way to the surface.

+11.7 kilograms.

Your heart thudded.

It wasn’t shame exactly. It was… awe. That number looked real. Heavier than you’d ever been. And there was something intoxicating about seeing it written there, cold and concrete.

You wanted Eric to see it too.

But when you caught him in the bathroom later, shirtless, toweling off from a shower, your breath caught.

He’d changed.

His chest was broader. Shoulders thicker. Abs not exactly chiseled—but tighter than you remembered. His arms flexed subtly when he wiped his face, veins popping. There was no denying it now.

You were growing out.

He was growing up.

That night, you brought him an extra plate. Stacked high. You leaned in and whispered like it was a seduction.

“Eat more.”

He looked at you for a long moment. “Why?”

You blinked. “Because we’re in this together.”

He set the plate down gently. “Are we?”

You stared, heat rising to your cheeks. Your belly pressed into your lap, soft and heavy. His body was all angles now. Firm beneath the softness that used to match yours.

Something had shifted. You could feel it.

But you weren’t done yet.

Not by a long shot.

Chapter 4

You tried everything.

He was drifting upward, you downward—and you hated it. Not just the numbers. Not just the clothes getting tighter or the way your thighs stuck together in the heat. No. What cut was the way Eric started looking at you. Not with disgust. Not even disapproval.

But difference.

Like you were no longer equals.

You doubled your efforts.

The next night, you made it a full spread. You didn’t even whisper—just stood in front of the machine and reeled off your cravings like a list:

“Buffalo wings. Deep-dish pizza. Bacon mac. Extra-buttered popcorn. Cheesecake—two slices. Double.”

The machine responded to every command without hesitation. The slot overflowed. You stacked it all onto a tray and brought it upstairs like an offering.

Eric raised his eyebrows as you walked in, arms full, shirt tight around your middle.

“That for both of us?” he asked.

You climbed into his lap and kissed his cheek. “Only if you’re hungry.”

He looked at you for a beat longer than he should have.

Then: “Sure.”

You fed him bite after bite—grinning, playful, insistent. You watched his throat move as he swallowed, watched the way he breathed heavier, slower. His hands wandered across your body again, fingers sinking into your hips, your sides, the growing swell of your belly.

It felt good. Better than good. He was hard beneath you, craving something. But somewhere in the middle of a fifth donut, he leaned his head back and said:

“Alright. That’s enough.”

“Already?”

“Babe,” he said, brushing crumbs from his lips, “we’re not in a competition.”

You stared at him. “Aren’t we?”

He looked confused. Or maybe he just didn’t want to answer.

The next morning, you weighed yourself again.

+14.9 kilograms.

You poked at your belly in the mirror. It was fully soft now, a real curve that sloped over your waistband. Your love handles had thickened. Your thighs spread wider on the edge of the tub.

You’d always been a little self-conscious. Now it was more than that. It was visible. Undeniable.

And Eric… he looked good.

Worse: he looked smug.

You caught him glancing in the mirror after a shower, flexing abs that had no right to be showing up after weeks of indulgence. He still ate with you, still kissed you, still touched you like he wanted you—but now you weren’t sure if it was lust… or control.

You tried again.

Another night. Another feast. You climbed on top of him, still chewing a caramel bar, belly warm and full.

“You used to match me,” you whispered, kissing his neck. “Now you’re slipping.”

“I’m not slipping,” he said, voice low. “I’m just… balancing.”

You pressed your softness against him. “I miss when you were soft, too.”

He ran a hand over your belly, slow and firm. “I like you soft.”

“But you don’t want to be soft.”

Silence.

You pulled back. “Say it.”

“I like being in control,” he said quietly.

And there it was.

The next morning, you sat at the kitchen table with a donut in one hand and silence in your throat. Eric came out in joggers and a fresh shirt, abs faintly visible beneath the fabric.

He kissed your head without a word and grabbed a protein shake from the fridge.

“You’re going to the gym?” you asked.

He nodded. “Back in an hour.”

You watched him leave. Watched his broad back and tightened frame disappear out the door. Your hand rested on your belly, the donut now limp in your fingers.

He was leaving you behind.

No, not leaving. Surpassing.

And something in you burned.

That night, you tried one last time.

The tray you brought up was ridiculous. Enough food for four people. You didn’t even pretend it was a light snack.

You sat on his lap, fed him every bite, your soft body pressing into him. You kissed him, teased him, begged him.

“Come on,” you whispered. “Let go with me. Just for tonight.”

He stared at you. At your flushed face, your full belly, your eager eyes.

And then he shook his head.

“No,” he said, firm. “You’ve had enough.”

Your breath caught.

His hands gripped your waist—not to pull you closer, but to steady you.

You weren’t leading anymore.

He was.

Chapter 5

You found him waiting by the machine.

It was past midnight—long after either of you should’ve been asleep. But the cravings had gotten worse. You’d tossed and turned, belly aching for more, the familiar hum of that magical vending machine calling to you from downstairs.

And there he was. Already barefoot, already holding a steaming pastry in one hand, a rich milkshake in the other.

He smiled.

“I figured you’d come.”

You looked down, embarrassed. The oversized hoodie you wore was stained now—tight where it should’ve hung loose. You felt heavy, sluggish, belly still full from the last indulgent dinner he’d ordered hours ago.

“I was gonna try to skip tonight…” you muttered.

He raised an eyebrow, stepping closer.

“And why would you do that?”

You hesitated. You’d always expected this point would come—that he’d draw the line. That he’d pull you back from the edge before it got too far. You had hoped for that at times, even while you binged and ballooned. But now, there was something different in his eyes.

Hungry. Devoted. Darkly supportive.

“You look incredible,” he murmured, stepping closer until your belly brushed his chest. “Softer. Slower. I can see it in the way you move. You’re… becoming exactly what this was meant for.”

Your breath caught. You searched his face, looking for a hint of hesitation. There was none.

“You’re not mad?” you asked softly. “That I’ve let it get this far?”

He chuckled, lifting the milkshake to your lips.

“Mad? Baby, I helped. You think I didn’t notice how quickly your portions doubled? How your clothes stopped fitting?” He fed you a sip—thick, creamy, too sweet. You moaned.

“I wanted this,” he said. “I still do.”

You were trembling. Not from fear—from relief. From hunger. From the raw approval in his gaze.

“I thought maybe you’d want me to stop. Or slow down. That you missed the old me…”

“I do,” he said simply. “But this one?”

He ran his hand down your side, letting it sink into the curve of your waist, your hip, the soft swell of your belly.

“This one’s mine.”

And then, in one smooth motion, he pulled you to the couch, the pastry already waiting in his hand. You didn’t resist. You let him settle you back—belly exposed, thighs spread, mouth open.

“Tonight,” he said, “we stop pretending this is temporary.”

Your heart raced.

“We’re going to feed the version of you that’s always been hiding under the surface. The one who doesn’t ask anymore. Who doesn’t wait.”

You swallowed.

And he smiled.

“Let me show you what she can become.”

Chapter 6

He didn’t let you choose the outfit.

He laid it out on the bed that morning—tight, soft, mercilessly small. A crop top you hadn’t dared wear since the early days, and shorts that hadn’t seen daylight since your thighs still had a gap between them.

You stared at the clothes, then at him.

“You’re serious.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Dead serious. You’ve worked hard for this body. Time the world saw it.”

You swallowed, heart hammering. It wasn’t just that you were fat now—it was how fat. Your belly hung low enough to cover the waistband even before the shorts were on. Your thighs chafed with every step. Your face had softened, cheeks rounded out, a gentle double chin appearing no matter the angle.

But he was unrelenting.

So you dressed.

The crop top barely covered the top swell of your belly, and the shorts—once loose and cute—now gripped your hips so tight the button dug in deep, the zipper threatening mutiny with every breath. You waddled slightly as you walked, arms swinging at your sides for balance, your center of gravity shifting more than you realized.

He watched every movement like it was performance art.

When you reached the café—his suggestion—you already wanted to turn back. It was bustling. Trendy. Full of fit, toned women in leggings and sleek ponytails. And then there was you.

Soft. Slow. Glowing with shame and sweat and something else you couldn’t name.

He pulled your chair out for you, and you sank into it with a huff, your belly pressing against the edge of the table, pushing your plate a few inches forward.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispered, eyes burning. “And they’re all going to see it.”

Your food came. Two plates. Then a third.

People did stare. Not rudely—but curiously. A few with open disbelief. The waiter’s eyebrows flicked upward when your boyfriend ordered dessert before you’d even started on your second plate.

You looked down at the spread.

“I can’t eat all this in front of them.”

He leaned in.

“You will. Because this—this is who you are now.”

He picked up a fork and guided a bite of creamy pasta to your lips.

You opened your mouth.

They watched.

And he fed.

Your belly swelled, growing firmer with every bite, until you had to lean back to make space. Your breathing was shallow, your face flushed, your thighs pressed wide beneath the table to accommodate the expanding curve of your gut.

He didn’t stop.

If anything, he fed you slower. More deliberately.

By the time dessert came—a towering mountain of waffles, ice cream, syrup, whipped cream—you felt like you’d been pumped full of concrete.

He glanced at your belly, noting how it pressed hard against the crop top’s hem, the red lines forming where the fabric dug in.

“Finish it,” he said softly.

You whimpered.

“Please…”

He raised the last bite to your lips.

“I said finish.”

You did.

Every bite was a public declaration. Every moan of fullness, every shift of your heavy body in the chair, every lick of syrup from your lips—it was all visible. And he loved it.

On the way out, he didn’t rush you.

He walked slowly, hand resting possessively on the small of your back—no, lower than that. On the swell of your waistband. Guiding you, owning you.

As you reached the car, he opened the door, then turned to you.

“You embarrassed?”

You nodded faintly, barely able to look at him.

“Good,” he whispered. “That means you still remember who you used to be.”

He helped you in, tucking your belly in with both hands, pressing a kiss just below your navel.

“But don’t worry,” he added, voice thick with promise. “We’ll feed that memory into silence.”

Chapter 7

The mirror didn’t lie.

You stood before it, naked—barely able to face your own reflection. Your belly hung low and full, the skin stretched tight and warm from the feast he’d orchestrated earlier. Your arms, once slender, were thick now, doughy. Your thighs rubbed at the top, the middle, even near your knees. Your face had softened into something nearly unfamiliar: cheeks swollen, lips constantly parted from shallow breathing, a pillow of a second chin forming.

And yet—when his arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you into him with ease—you melted.

“Look at you,” he whispered, lips brushing the back of your ear. “No one would ever believe where you started.”

You whimpered, his hands resting firmly on your belly.

“You’re obscene.”

His voice was reverent.

“Stuffed, swollen, lazy. I’ve watched you transform into exactly what I wanted.”

He reached past you then, to the small table behind the mirror. You knew what was there: the vending machine key. Still warm from the trip.

You turned to him, heart pounding.

“You used it?”

He nodded.

“I made sure it saved something special for tonight.”

A low whine escaped your throat. Your knees weakened.

He led you to the bed—no words, just touch. He helped you lie back, belly rising like a mound above you, your breaths shallow, rapid, already overworked. The moment you settled, he disappeared briefly, returning with the tray.

What he laid before you was… impossible.

A giant slice of cake—soaked in some kind of thick syrup, oozing chocolate and cream, steaming gently. A bowl of candied fruit, each piece somehow glowing with sugar. And at the center—a drink. Dark. Bubbling. Sweet.

He sat beside you, fork in hand.

“No more pretending,” he said softly. “You passed the point of no return weeks ago.”

You said nothing. Couldn’t. You just nodded.

He fed you the first bite.

The taste was unlike anything you’d had before—more intense than real food, more decadent than dream cravings. You moaned, hand clutching at your belly as he fed you again. And again. And again.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “I want you beyond repair. I want you ruined.”

Bite after bite, your belly grew tighter. A drum beneath your skin. You felt like you were expanding with every swallow—not just from food, but from heat, from surrender.

“You’re not my girlfriend anymore,” he whispered. “You’re my indulgence. My prize. The thing I crafted with my own hands.”

You cried out softly as he poured the drink between your lips—thick syrup coating your tongue, sugar crashing through your veins.

“And when you wake up tomorrow,” he said, caressing the taut dome of your gut, “you’ll know: there’s no coming back. No diet. No redemption. Just more.”

You moaned, legs trembling, stuffed beyond recognition, drunk on him—on the food—on the sheer wrongness of how good it felt.

He kissed you, slow and deep.

Then whispered against your lips:

“Deal of a lifetime, remember?”

You nodded, barely conscious.

“I’ve never been so proud.”

And as the food settled deeper, and your breathing slowed, and your body molded further into softness beneath his touch—you understood:

This wasn’t just a deal.

It was a fate.

One you’d eaten yourself into.

Willingly.

Eagerly