He could feel it. Feel all the thick, creamy fat solidified in his overworked gut and adding pound after pound to his already inconceivably large frame. He felt the fat thickening as it pumped slowly up his veins, filling him from inside out and making him swell up like a lardy, wobbling balloon.
He grabbed another pint of Bessie’s Specialty Butterfat Ice Cream, melted as he preferred to consume it, and chugged the viscous liquid with the speed and urgency of a thirsty man stumbling upon a desert oasis. He groaned, grabbing a handful of the fat bulging from the side of his pillow-soft gut and giving his enormous body several good shakes, and grunted with the effort of lifting the flabby mass. A cacophony of burps burst past his lips with each heavy wobble, and he moaned, the relief enough to make him reach for the next pint.
Trevor had become absolutely addicted to the pricey, specialty treat that contained a whopping 30% butterfat, 10% higher than the recommended limits and nearly 20% higher than the average ice cream brand. Trevor, however, couldn't help himself. His cravings were driven by more than just greed and had spiraled out of control over the last several years.
Trevor was one of the unfortunate victims of the OVR-8 medical malpractice scandal that led to an internationally infamous class action lawsuit. The drug was originally designed for those suffering from severe malnutrition, but after testing revealed side effects including severe reductions in metabolic efficiency, extreme lethargy, insatiable cravings, amplified hunger cues, and more, OVR-8 was officially discontinued in trial.
He and thousands of others, however, had been mistakenly receiving doses of the disconnected drug in place of their GLP-1 weight medications. Although Trevor had earned a hefty sum from the legal proceedings following the little mishap, his body never recovered from the multiple doses of the typically single-dose drug, and he’d become absolutely addicted to fat.
He’d grown fat, of course, but his own body wasn't the object of his desire. All he craved were saturated fats of any kind. Fatty cuts of meat like ribeye and brisket. Sausages. Creams. Anything deep-fried. He would gorge himself on fried bacon, chicken, even Oreos. If it could be coated in crispy batter, he would push it down his overworked gullet with his eyes rolled back.
Most overwhelming of all, however, was his need for some form of butter. Ghee, crisico, he swore he could eat it straight from the jar, and proved it by slathering a thick layer of extra fat on each bite he took before stuffing it in his puffy, desperate face. He was addicted to saturated fats, the kinds with the least healthy benefits and highest calorie counts, and he’d begun to really feel it.
He’d become a behemoth of a man, a lazy, greedy whale struggling to breathe and filling out every available inch of space in his king-sized bed, and he’d long given up on the notion of slowing down. He was beginning to outgrow his home, a fact that had been pointed out to him when an old friend from college stopped by for a visit that Trevor wished he had flaked on.
He was humiliated to feel his wobbling saddlebags brush the door frame as his old buddy watched, and although his friend was well aware of the catastrophe that had rendered Trevor a barely mobile pile of extra calories, Trevor could still feel the judgment.
He judged himself, if only in passing moments of lucidity. He couldn't eat a Big Mac without dipping it in a bowl of melted butter. He deserved to be judged. He’d holed himself away in his home and poured pig lard down his throat until he got fat enough to crack a sturdy, wooden, queen-sized bed frame. He’d sucked down so much butter it was starting to leak out of his pores.
His lips and hands were always covered in a thin layer of grease, grease that he often wiped away on his blubbery, overhanging rolls. Rubbing the butter into his skin felt better than Trevor wanted to admit, and he often awoke embarrassed to have dreamed of swimming in a pool of lard yet again, sucking down mouthful after mouthful of the fatty gold until he was pinned to the pool's empty floor coated in fat and unable to move.
He was finding himself unable to move more and more often these days, hence the pile of ice cream next to him that had been melting since he last stood earlier that morning. He grabbed another and gulped it down, his pace clearly diminished from the previous, but his enthusiasm amplified, if anything. He couldn't get enough.
He finished the pint, licked his lips, and let out a burp so deep he surprised even himself, reaching as far forward as he could to give his but a little pat. He couldn't reach the front of his belly anymore, hadn't been able to for quite some time, and as his body grew larger than he could manage, he was beginning to feel more and more helpless.
He was really feeling the effects of not just the massive amount he’d gained, but also the buttery means by which he’d developed all that new mass. His fitness levels were so abysmal that hauling himself out of bed left him lightheaded, and he could feel his body growing unhealthier by the hour. The fat accumulated around his neck and chest was beginning to push up against his triple chin and make it even more difficult for him to breathe, his pathetic gasping only muffled by another butter-covered bite.
His heart raced more often than he’d like to admit. His chest ached as he slathered each piece of an extra-large, three-meat pizza in margarine or sucked down ice cream technically closer to sweetened butter than it was to the familiar dessert. Sometimes he got so tired simply trying to get through his admittedly lengthy pizza order that he had to pause to catch his breath, a bad sign for overall cardiovascular fitness if he’d ever heard of one.
Yet nothing stopped him. In fact, the moments where he was forced to reconcile with the irreconcilable impact that his eating had on his overall health almost spurred him on. He knew it was wrong, grotesque even, but he couldn't live without the feeling of that thick fat returning to its solid form as it attached to his body and bugled from every possible angle. He needed to fill himself until he couldn't move and imagine the way the thick butter was being forced through his fattening veins.
He burped again, then, against his better judgment, grabbed the mostly demolished family-sized tub of Kerrygold butter he’d been smothering on each bite since he’d opened it that morning. Putting away a full tub in a day was becoming more and more commonplace, but Trevor didn't care. He swore he could wake up feeling each tub resting on his mountain of a belly every morning in the form of five wobbling new pounds, and he was starting to look it.
He hadn't recognized himself in the mirror in years, but when he waddled past lately, he was struggling to recognize a person. His impossibly fattened face always slick with grease, his piggish little eyes made beady by the swells of fat surrounding them. His cheeks were so tubby they pushed his lips into a permanent open pout, and he now sported a tubby, slack-jawed expression that made him look almost as food-obsessed and ditzy as he actually was.
He felt around underneath the expanse of his hips to find the spoon he’d abandoned on his third pint of ice cream earlier that morning, but after his search turned up nothing, the spoon lost underneath his blubber, he stuck a finger directly into the tub and pulled a blob of butter. He studied it for a moment as if unsure of the choice he’d make, his heart already quickening as his fat finger neared his fatter face.
This was the point of no return. He’d often fantasized about eating straight butter, often slathered his bites with so many layers that he was consuming a higher ratio of the lard than his meal, but he’d never sucked it down plain before.
He popped his finger in his mouth and moaned, the taste no different than what he was used to, but the feel indescribable. He stuck his whole hand back in the tub and yanked it out so quickly his body was shaking. He licked and sucked his hand clean, his desperation mounting and his groans turning to breathy moans as he felt himself get fuller, felt the butter enter him and begin to regress to its solid state.
He scooped more and more, the rate of his breathing increasing and the blubber caking his swollen, heavy pecs quivering with each rapid rise and fall. He finally wiped the tub clean, choked down the last handful, and whimpered, suddenly feeling the fullness from his unhinged lapse in control.
He’d oversaturated his insides with so much unsaturated fat that he’d turned into a pile of melting lard. And worse yet, after admitting to himself that plain butter was what he really wanted, he knew he would only spread.
I really hope you enjoyed! This story is part of a longer ongoing series that I'm creating, and you can find the full 16,400+ word story on my Patreon (with updates every week)! I also have a ton of other weight gain stories, weight gain series, weight gain audios, and more.
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