Your fingers, shimmering with traces of oil and salt, straighten out the party-sized bag of chips you hold. The thin plastic crackles softly as you adjust it, the smell of fried starch and seasoning still clinging to the inside. It’s empty, almost. You bring the top of the bag to your lips and tilt, letting the crumbs and tiny pieces at the bottom cascade into your waiting mouth. You angle the bag higher, neck craning back just enough to make sure nothing is wasted. You shake the bag a bit, encouraging the extra calories to free themselves, to make a new home in your belly, and eventually more pounds on your frame. Not that you need it. But at times it feels like you do.
You set the bag down as you chew, hands now free to fondle the ever-growing mass in your lap. Your palms sink into the soft weight there, and the flesh gives easily, pushing back when you squeeze, your breathing slowing as you focus on the sensation. Your chair creaks faintly as you shift, making room for yourself.
You eye the nutrition facts on the bag, do some quick math in your head, trying to gauge how many calories you’ve added to your daily total, how much fatter you might get as a result. The numbers blur for a moment as your stomach tightens and relaxes under your touch, a deep pressure sitting low and wide inside you. You sigh into your gaming chair, pleased but unsatisfied, somehow. Two subs and a bag of chips later, and you still crave more, despite the fullness. The craving sits alongside the weight in your gut, a persistent pull that doesn’t fade just because you’re stuffed.
The mess before you should be evidence that you’ve eaten enough. The wrappers and crumbs litter your desk, greasy fingerprints on your deskpad, your controller. It somehow makes you glad and sad at the same time, as you typically do after a heavy meal. Glad at your accomplishment, how much fattening, indulgent slop you were able to fit into your fat gut. Sad that the meal is over. Sad that you gave in again.
Your chair leans back further, reclining as your hands trail over your belly and you consider whether you should eat more. Your gut spreads and lifts at the same time, dense beneath your palms, the skin pulled tight enough that you feel it respond immediately to your touch.
‘I’m full…’ you think, and you are. The thought comes matter-of-factly, a simple data point to consider. It lands without judgment, just an observation, like checking a gauge and noting the reading. Your stomach presses outward as you lean back, heavy in a way that’s noticeable but not punishing, fullness sitting solidly instead of sharply.
To anyone else that’d be the end of the matter. What else is there to consider? You’re full, you’ve had your fill, your belly is round and heavy in your lap. But you’re not aching, you’re not pinned to your seat by your own gluttony. You can still breathe comfortably, still move if you want to, even as the fullness makes itself known with every small adjustment.
The question isn’t really whether or not you’re full, it’s how fat you want to be tonight, how much further from healthy you want to make yourself, how much you want to regret it in the morning. The thought carries a sort of anticipatory pull, your fingers pressing more firmly into your belly as if testing how much give there still is, how much more it could take.
Your mind drifts to the myriad of snacks you know wait in the kitchen. Foods that you buy because you crave them, in massive amounts because that turns you on. The memory of stacking them into your cart comes back easily, the way greedy eyes led your choices alongside the physical effort. You’d fantasized about stuffing yourself with them even as you waddled down the aisles of the store. Only to come home, eat a fraction of your haul before you hit a wall, and feel disappointed in yourself. That disappointment settles in your chest as you think about it, your hands pausing on your belly as if weighing the feeling against the fullness already there. Whether the disappointment stems from the limits of your gluttony, or the gluttonous decisions themselves, you’re unsure. Maybe both.
You sit up, letting your belly roll forward between your thighs, greedy in how much space it takes up. The motion forces the weight to spill outward, settling with a slow shift as it claims your lap. Your legs part a little more to make room, fabric pulling where it presses against you.
‘Maybe this is enough,’ you think.
You’ve gained so much over the years, your body steadily growing, expanding until it’s the first thing people notice about you, how fat you are. You love that, but also try to hide it. It was easier when you were smaller, easier physically and mentally, when the changes were subtle enough to stay yours alone.
You indulged, with close to no consequences. None that anyone could see anyway. No one ever saw the massive amounts you’d eat in private, no one ever noticed the small belly that started to form. And you were happy with that, ecstatic even. No one ever saw how aroused those few pounds made you. Some extra padding here, a tiny new roll there, sensations you’d linger over for days or weeks. It was more than enough, at first and for a while.
You remember how it felt then, how each calorie, every meal added a little more softness to your frame, the changes slow enough that they blended into normalcy. You felt yourself getting fatter, sure, in the way your thighs spread a bit more or your chest jiggled a little when you moved. But you didn’t see it. You’d stuff yourself, cum at the feeling of fullness and the few measly pounds you’d gained, then go about your life. Your clothes would still fit, buttons closed, waistbands held, and no one was ever the wiser, comments never came. A private affair.
You reach forward, grabbing the half-empty 2-liter of soda sitting on your desk. The plastic is cool under your fingers, slightly tacky where a stray drip has dried. You lick some salt from your lips as you twist it open, the cap popping loose, and begin to drink. One gulp, then two, and another, the carbonation burning lightly as it slides down into the already packed weight in your gut.
You barely notice as your free hand makes its way to your belly, rubbing slowly as the sugary liquid bloats you even more. The pressure builds, your stomach rounding harder, pushing outward as the soda settles and spreads. A small flicker of arousal spikes as you feel yourself swell, quickly doused by the reminder that you’re trying to maintain, not gain.
Although, “trying” may not be the right word. You haven’t actually changed anything, haven’t even made much of an effort. But you think about it, sometimes. You just need to get to the right weight first. The thought lingers as you keep drinking, each swallow making your belly feel tighter, heavier.
You pull the bottle from your lips and set it down, breathing heavily after your long swig, chest rising against the fullness below. A burp rumbles up almost immediately, escaping before you bother to stop it, low and thick. It somehow makes you feel fatter, more overfilled, and reminds you of how much of a pig you are.
Your hand still rests on the bottle as the other gives your belly a jiggle, the mass wobbling under your palm, heavy enough to lag behind the motion. The movement makes your t-shirt ride up a little, exposing the curve and the way it hangs forward. There’s no missing the thing, your gut. Your shirt fits fine, in the sense that you’re covered, but it still clings to the mound, stretched smooth across it, and you wonder if you’ll outgrow this shirt too.
The thought makes you pick the bottle back up, drink a little greedier as your hands fondle your middle a little rougher. The soda sloshes as you tilt it higher, carbonation rushing into the tight space inside you. Your fingers dig in, kneading and shaking, and you moan softly as you feel your mass jiggle and quiver under your touch. A shake of your belly sends ripples upward, the movement carrying through your chest. That motion creeps higher, tugging at your double… triple chin as the weight shifts and settles again.
‘Just one big mass of fat,’ you think to yourself. Bigger than yesterday, smaller than tomorrow. The certainty of it makes you drink faster, swallowing without pause, the idea that your gain is inevitable.
You know your gain is entirely self-inflicted, even now, as you consume more calories than your body needs. But at times it feels as though you have no part in it at all, like your body is simply carrying on without your express permission. Even at times when you aren’t so greedy, when this fetish doesn’t consume you so completely, you still seem to grow. The weight increases and stays, clinging to you whether you want it to or not, whether you’re trying or not.
Or perhaps you’re just delusional, so accustomed to eating so much that restraint still results in excess.
You lean back in your chair, resigning yourself to finish the bottle, because why not. The angle forces your belly higher, and you have to stifle a burp as you continue to chug, throat tight around the constant flow, unwilling to pause and break it.
Your hand leaves your belly and moves to your chest, grabbing one of the mounds, fingers squeezing as you try to reignite the glimmer of arousal you felt earlier. It doesn’t take much these days. Or maybe it does. The hundreds of pounds you carry everywhere, the fullness of food you feel constantly, the knowledge that you’re not yet as fat as you will be, they all add up to feelings and sensations that take more effort to suppress than they do to summon.
You suck down the last of the soda and let the empty bottle drop onto your desk. It hits with a hollow clatter and rolls slightly before settling, forgotten. Your hands grasp your belly as it heaves with every heavy breath, tight and uncomfortable from the fullness.
You moan as you try to gently rub and jostle it, slow circles at first, then firmer pressure, coaxing the trapped weight to shift. The mass sloshes and resists until finally a long, drawn-out burp slips out of you, loud and uncontrolled. The sound seems to come from deep inside, pulled loose by the pressure. You sigh at the end of it, shoulders sinking as you take in the small bit of relief it gives you, but the discomfort stays, dense and present.
“Ughhh,” the strained groan slips out, carrying both satisfaction and the ache of having had too much. The waistband of your shorts suddenly feels too tight, the confines of your chair suddenly too small. And still… your thoughts drift back to the snacks. To the idea of pushing it a little further. A snack cake, or some cookies maybe. Your thoughts are modest, but you know the reality will be much worse, much more.
‘Just a little more,’ you think. You downplay it on purpose, making it sound reasonable. It’s hotter that way. So that when the inevitable spiral comes, you can really feel it, can relish in just how much control you’ve lost.
It’s hard not to let that thought excite you, especially knowing—or believing—that this lifestyle won’t last forever. That someday you’ll have to stop and rein it in a bit. But you can feel it starting now, those increasingly frequent moments where you’re constantly hungry, wanting more, eating until excess every night.
Moments that stretch on, hours or months at a time, leaving you with new habits and new pounds every time they finally pass. When every thought, positive or negative, seems to push you toward food. When you just can’t seem to get enough.
This is one of those days.
Now if you could just find the energy to get up.
You reach for your phone and open social media. The last thing you need is motivation to eat more, and yet that’s exactly what you’re looking for. The screen lights up your face as you scroll, thumb moving slowly, deliberately. Post after post slides by. Feedees showing off their gains, soft bellies pushed forward, bodies heavier than they were weeks or months ago. Feeders tempting with their bodies and food, curves, plates, captions meant to linger. Each image makes the weight in your gut feel more present, more demanding.
You keep scrolling until you come across a text post that makes you stop. It feels too specific, too well-timed, like it’s meant for you alone:
“What a fat mess you’ve turned into, sitting there all full and spent. I bet you’re already thinking about what your next meal will be, you fat fuck. What are you waiting for? Is a stuffed gut really enough to keep you from eating a little more? Don’t you want to feel the heavy, dragging weight of your own greed weighing you down? Don’t you want the satisfaction of knowing you’ve eaten enough for three, four, maybe five people today? All those greasy carb-filled, fat-heavy, sugar-drenched foods are just waiting begging for the opportunity to be gorged upon, to slip you into a food coma, to make you fatter come morning. Go chug something, tubby.”
You read the post again. Then again. The last line lingers longer than the rest. Go chug something.
Your gaze drifts from your phone to the empty bottle of soda on your desk. You’d chug more if you had it. You try to recall the contents of the fridge, mentally scanning the shelves through the fog of fullness. There’s nothing left to bloat with. Nothing except a quart of heavy cream.
The thought hits you hard. A pleasurable surge rolls through you at the image of it, thick and caloric, poured straight into you. Chugging something so rich, so fattening, in one go. On top of everything you’ve eaten today. On top of the snacks you’re still planning on filling yourself with. Your stomach feels heavier just thinking about it, your body reacting before you even move.
It’s exactly what this body needs.
You brace your hands on the armrests of your chair and force yourself up. The effort pulls a grunt out of you as the chair protests beneath your weight, and another burp comes tumbling out as you straighten. Your belly drags downward with gravity the moment you’re upright, the weight of it tugging at your spine.
The hem of your shirt has ridden up even more, bunched under your chest, but you leave it be. The exposed curve of your gut hangs heavy, the skin faintly flushed, and the sight of it makes your pulse thrum a little harder. You like seeing it like this. You like feeling it pull and sway without anything in the way. You like how fat it makes you feel.
Your walk is closer to a waddle as you make your way to the kitchen, thighs chafing with each step, belly swaying side to side in front of you, every step requiring more effort than it should. The burden of your obesity. Your breath quickens quickly, shallow and labored. A few steps in and you’re already tired, the food packed into your gut making it harder to draw deep breaths, harder to move with any real speed.
But there’s food to be eaten. Cream to be chugged. Addictions to be fed. So you waddle on.
Part of a commissioned piece, full story on Patreon.
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