Male tf - long tf - weight gain - food tf
It was just past 3 p.m. when Jonas stepped out of the gym, sweat still drying on his brow, earbuds dangling around his neck. His muscles ached in that satisfying, post-leg-day kind of way. He adjusted the strap on his duffel bag and started walking down the sidewalk, already thinking about the protein shake waiting in his fridge.
That’s when the man approached.
He was heavyset—obese, really—with his round belly pushing the limits of his bright orange uniform. The fabric stretched tight across his midsection, and his cheeks flushed from the heat or the effort—or both. A plastic name tag clipped to his chest read: “Toby – Product Rep”. He held a clipboard in one pudgy hand, the other raised in a friendly wave.
“Excuse me, sir! Do you have a moment to help test a new product line? Just a quick taste and review. Totally free. No strings.”
Jonas raised an eyebrow, still walking. “I’m good, man. Not really into sweets.”
“It’s for a new boutique brand—Daddy’s Donuts. All natural ingredients, chef-designed recipes. We’re offering early access to select individuals with a high-performance lifestyle. Like yourself.”
Jonas stopped. The flattery wasn’t lost on him, even if it was obvious. “You’re saying donuts are healthy now?”
The big man chuckled. “No, but balance is. We just need your opinion. Five minutes. Right inside. And hey, you look like someone who could use a cheat day.”
Jonas hesitated. He hadn’t had sugar in over two months. But… he had just crushed a two-hour session. Maybe one bite wouldn’t kill him.
“Alright,” he said. “Five minutes.”
The building was unmarked. Just a steel door set into crumbling brick. The man swiped a card and gestured him in.
The hallway inside smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and something else—warm, sweet, heavy. They walked in silence down a narrow corridor lit by buzzing fluorescent tubes. At the end, the fat man opened another door.
“In here. Just sit down and we’ll bring the sample.”
Jonas stepped into the room.
Bare walls, cold concrete floor. One metal table, one matching chair. A thin bed against the wall, hospital-style, with a gray sheet tucked tight. Mounted high in one corner, a speaker embedded into the ceiling. A faint red light blinked beside it.
On the table was a steel panel—almost like a hatch—with a circular indentation in the center. Sitting precisely on that spot was a single donut. It looked… perfect.
Glossy white glaze with a gentle shine. Steam rose from its soft surface as if it had just been baked. The smell hit him immediately—vanilla, yeast, warm sugar. His stomach growled.
A voice crackled to life from the ceiling.
He turned toward the door, confused. The kid who brought him in was already gone. The door closed behind him with a heavy clunk.
“Sit down,” the voice repeated. It was male, neutral. Not threatening, but not friendly either.
“This is a product taste study,” the voice continued. “Please consume the donut and share your thoughts.”
“Is there a form or something?”
Jonas reached out and picked it up. It was still warm, light in the hand. He took a bite.
A pause. His eyes widened.
“Oh, damn,” he said, through a mouthful. “That’s… that’s insane. Like, really good. Better than it
Jonas licked the glaze from his fingers, smirking to himself.
“Okay,” he said, looking up toward the speaker. “That was legitimately amazing. You guys are onto something.”
He stood and walked toward the door. The handle wouldn’t turn.
“Oh, yum yum yum, take a bite,
Daddy’s Donuts feel just right!
Sprinkle, chocolate, warm delight,
Daddy’s Donuts, day and night!”
It was high-pitched, cheerful—childlike, almost—but looped with the precision of a jingle from some corporate hellscape. The kind that worms into your brain and stays there for weeks.
“What the hell is this?” he said, turning back toward the room.
On the steel hatch, a new donut appeared—identical to the first. Still steaming. Still perfect.
The voice from the ceiling returned, this time with a synthetic calm.
“Do you want another donut, Jonas?”
He blinked. “No. I’m good. I had one.”
“Daddy’s Donuts, can’t be beat—
Every donut’s joy complete…”
The song looped again. Louder.
Jonas covered his ears. “Stop! Okay, just—stop the music!”
He paced. Banged on the door. Slammed his shoulder into it. No movement. No response. Just the song, cheerful and relentless.
“Yum yum yum, take a bite—”
“No. I don’t need it. I’m not a goddamn rat in a maze.”
He backed away from the table, sat on the edge of the bed. The room felt smaller. The donut was still there, gleaming, pulsing in the corner of his vision.
The song never stopped. It looped and looped and looped. Jonas’s hands were shaking. His breathing had quickened.
He looked at the donut again.
A voice inside whispered: Just take a bite. You’ll make it stop.
He stood. Stepped toward the table.
Picked it up. The heat of it soothed his fingertips.
Then, with a snarl of frustration, he threw it at the wall.
It hit with a wet splat. Fell. Rolled.
The song restarted from the beginning.
He tore at the bedsheet. Kicked the chair across the room. Pounded on the walls until his fists hurt.
He sat in the corner, breathing heavily, arms wrapped around his knees.
Jonas didn’t know how long he sat in that corner. Time had stopped having meaning. The room never changed. No windows, no clocks. Just the donut, always reappearing. And the song.
“Daddy’s Donuts, day and night…”
He lasted as long as he could.
He stood—swaying on his feet—and dragged himself to the table. His hands trembled as he picked up the fresh donut. He didn’t even look at it this time. Just bit. Chewed. Swallowed.
Relief flooded his chest. A pathetic, fragile silence.
He collapsed onto the bed, curling into the fetal position. His stomach ached. Not from hunger—quite the opposite.
It was a soft ache, a stretch. Like something pulling under the skin.
When Jonas next woke up, his back was sore. His hips felt strange. Tight in a way they hadn’t before.
He sat up slowly. The sheet slipped from his body. He looked down.
Where there had once been definition—tight lines, lean mass—there was now softness. A smooth swell at the base of his stomach. A small, chubby belly.
He ran his hands over it, stunned.
His fingers moved lower. His hips had grown outward. Subtle love handles had begun to form, hugging the waistband of his stretched shorts. His thighs touched when he stood.
He staggered to the mirror in the corner, dragging the bed with a screech as he stepped.
It was him. But it wasn’t.
His face looked rounder. Puffier under the eyes. His beard had grown in patchy but thick enough to notice. The veins in his arms had softened. His delts looked smaller, drowned under new tissue. His pecs… drooped slightly.
There—just above his love handles—was a small roll of fat. His back. His back had fat.
He backed away. Turned to the table.
“Yum yum yum, take a bite…”
He did pushups. Sit-ups. Shadowboxed. But the room was too small. The mattress sagged under him. The metal bedframe groaned beneath his new weight.
No matter how long he resisted, the donut returned. The song played. Over and over.
Sleep deprived. Overfed. Swollen.
The sugar flooded his brain like dopamine. Instant. Artificial. Euphoric.
Jonas’s body followed the donut's logic: expand, soften, give in.
His modest belly rounded outward into a dome. His thighs ballooned and rubbed raw. His arms lost shape. His shoulders drooped.
He had developed a permanent sway in his walk—caused by the mass on his back side, which had exploded outward. From chubby to heavy to fat.
His neck thickened. A small roll formed at its base, blending into shoulders now padded with doughy softness. His groin had vanished beneath a spreading pillow of fat.
His moobs jiggled. His chest fat merged with his side fat.
His breathing was heavier. His skin, glossier.
He started humming the song.
“Daddy’s Donuts, can’t be beat…”
Jonas didn’t remember how many donuts he’d eaten. He had stopped counting after the fiftieth. Or the hundredth.
At some point, numbers lost meaning.
He only remembered the cycle:
Hunger. Music. Donut. Silence. Guilt. Repeat.
Each bite brought temporary relief. Each silence felt like mercy. And then the hatch would click again.
Another round of that infernal jingle, always cheerful, always identical:
“Daddy’s Donuts, can’t be beat—
Every donut’s joy complete!”
Jonas no longer screamed at it.
He just sat on the bed, belly spread across his lap, breathing heavily. The mattress dipped deeply under his weight now. His body ached constantly—his joints, his feet, his back, everything.
Even the air felt heavier.
The mirror had become his only company. A witness. A judge. A reminder.
Where there had once been a man—lean, hard, confident—stood a stranger. A mound of soft tissue, draped in sweat-stained fabric two sizes too small.
His neck had thickened into a trunk. His face looked doughy, his cheeks round and flushed, jaw lost beneath a second chin. Hair had sprouted thicker on his chest, arms, even his back. The beard had grown out, uneven and wild.
His shoulders were padded with softness, leading into moobs that swayed when he moved. His belly had turned from round to obscene—massive, overhanging, an underbelly that pressed over the waistband of what had once been gym shorts.
Now, they were just elastic prisons for thighs that touched, rubbed, and burned. His groin, buried in fat, was just… gone.
Even his hands had rounded. Fingers pudgy, swollen. His breath was labored after the simplest effort. His once powerful legs trembled under his own mass.
He laughed now. A strange, hollow sound.
“I get it,” he muttered to the empty room. “I’m the punchline.”
He reached for the donut.
He threw the donut against the wall. It didn’t even leave a mark.
Another one appeared seconds later. The music resumed.
“Yum yum yum, take a bite—”
Jonas covered his ears, eyes squeezed shut.
“No… no more, please… please just stop…”
He fell to his knees. His whole body jiggled with the movement. He tried to pray, but couldn’t remember any words.
Then, defeated, with shaking fingers, he lifted it, and bit.
He didn’t cry this time.
He didn’t scream.
He just chewed.
In the silence, a flicker of something strange passed through him. Familiar. Old.
And that terrified him more than the song ever had.
It was sometime after the last donut—maybe the thousandth—when Jonas awoke to silence.
No mechanical click of the hatch.
He blinked, breath shallow. His limbs were heavy, his joints throbbing. Every movement sent ripples through his enormous, exhausted frame.
He sat up with effort, his massive belly rolling outward like a second body. His chest sagged, sweat pooling beneath his moobs. The mattress was indented deep, nearly to the frame.
A sound he hadn’t heard in what felt like years.
He stared at it, uncomprehending. For a moment, he thought it was a dream. A hallucination. But no—he heard the soft creak as it opened by a fraction, revealing the hallway beyond.
Jonas forced his feet to the floor, groaning as his legs adjusted to his new mass. He waddled—because that’s what it had become now, a slow, dragging waddle—toward the door.
He stepped into the hallway.
The walls were the same sterile gray. The floor, a dull vinyl. But it was open.
He kept walking, one swollen foot in front of the other.
At the end of the hallway, he reached a glass door.
“Daddy’s Donuts, can’t be beat…”
The song wasn’t playing from a speaker.
Softly. Unconsciously. Like breathing.
But it was in him. Etched into his brain like a scar.
A door clicked open on his left.
The room was silent and bright.
Every wall. The floor. Even the ceiling.
He stood in the center of it—trapped in an endless, multidimensional view of himself.
He saw his body from every angle: the hanging gut, the arms lost in softness, the thick neck that no longer turned smoothly. He turned—slowly—and gasped when he saw his back.
His buttocks had grown massive. Two heavy domes that strained his shorts to their absolute limit. They jiggled as he shifted his weight, rippling and swaying grotesquely in the glass. He hadn’t realized. Not really.
From the side. From below. From behind.
His entire backside had exploded.
Jonas stumbled backward, almost falling under the sudden visual weight of himself, of what he had become.
A voice echoed, deep and smooth, almost amused.
“Would you like another donut?”
He opened his mouth to speak.
But what came out instead was…
“Oh, yum yum yum, take a bite,
Daddy’s Donuts feel just right…”
His eyes widened in terror. He grabbed his mouth, but the next line spilled out anyway.
“Sprinkle, chocolate, warm delight—”
He sobbed, but the tune carried on, involuntarily.
In every reflection, his lips moved perfectly in sync.
“Daddy’s Donuts, day and night…”
Jonas stood frozen in the mirror room, breathing heavily. Every inch of him reflected back in grotesque repetition. He felt like a balloon filled with wet cement—immense, soft, and immobile.
Then, with a smooth hiss, another door slid open behind him.
Footsteps entered—measured, confident.
Tall. Fit. Bald head gleaming under the artificial lights. He wore a crisp orange suit with “Daddy’s Donuts” embroidered in white over the chest. Everything about him was immaculate—his smile, his posture, the scent of artificial citrus that followed him.
He paused. Took in the room. Took in Jonas.
“Oh,” he said, his voice silky. “Yes. Yes, you’ll do quite nicely.”
Jonas turned awkwardly, his reflection wobbling all around them.
“What… what is this?” he asked, voice weak, breath catching in his throat.
The man didn’t answer right away. He walked in a slow circle around Jonas, hands behind his back, humming softly.
“You’re exactly what we’ve been needing. A real ambassador. Someone who embodies the product.”
“Look at this,” he said, almost to himself. “These curves. The roundness. That posterior. That’s branding.”
Jonas flinched. His face flushed with shame.
The man reappeared at his side, holding a large orange bundle. He presented it like it was sacred.
Jonas stared. The fabric was massive. Stretchy. The sleeves short and the torso wide and boxy. A white donut logo was printed right over the heart. The pants were equally voluminous, designed to cling and emphasize.
His lips parted in disbelief.
The recruiter smiled wider, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“Go on. You’ll look wonderful. Just like the others.”
“The… others?” Jonas whispered.
The man nodded slowly. “You’ll meet them soon.”
The man’s voice dropped an octave.
Jonas’s hands shook as he took the fabric.
He could feel the weight of every reflection watching him.
He knew the moment he wore it, something would change forever.
But he was already too far in.
Jonas stood in the mirror room, the orange uniform now clinging to every curve of his altered body.
The shirt was snug across his chest, the fabric stretching over his belly like a tarp pulled tight. The sleeves gripped the tops of his arms, pressing into the soft flesh. The pants rode high and tight, emphasizing the massive curve of his buttocks. Every mirror reinforced it—he looked like walking product packaging.
The man in the orange suit clapped once, delighted.
“Perfect! Just perfect. That fit, those proportions—Jonas, you are radiating brand presence.”
Jonas didn’t respond. He stared at himself. The reflection no longer startled him—it numbed him. His face was blank. Hollow. Lips parted slightly. His shoulders slumped forward, defeated.
“These clothes were designed for your body type. You don’t hide it—you lead with it. That belly? That’s comfort. Those moobs? Approachability. That backside?” He whistled softly. “Confidence.”
Still, Jonas didn’t speak.
The man tilted his head. “Why so quiet, Jonas?”
Jonas just looked at him. His eyes, watery. His lips, flat.
The recruiter tutted softly and placed a gentle hand on Jonas’s shoulder.
“You know… sometimes a smile just needs a little help.”
Softly at first. Then louder.
“Oh, yum yum yum, take a bite,
Daddy’s Donuts feel just right…”
“Sprinkle, chocolate, warm delight…”
It slid back into his mind like a returning wave. And before he could stop it, he was humming too. The melody leaked from his lips like air escaping a balloon.
It was stiff at first. Forced. But the moment his lips curled upward—
The recruiter’s grin stretched ear to ear.
“There we go,” he whispered.
He stepped forward and gently took Jonas’s face in both hands, thumbs on his soft cheeks.
Jonas stood there, locked in place, grinning mechanically. Silent.
“There. Look at you. That smile… That’s the one. Now you can represent Daddy’s Donuts.”
Jonas stared back, eyes glossy, mouth frozen in a grin.
“You are exactly what Daddy’s Donuts needs. Soft, sweet, and approachable. A walking invitation to indulgence.”
He leaned in slightly, whispering just above a hum.
“You’ve never looked more like yourself.”
The grin said everything.
And the mirrors… the mirrors agreed.
The mirrors opened like doors.
And through them, Jonas walked.
He emerged into daylight.
Not the same street he remembered—this one was... cleaner. Too clean. The sky a little too blue. The buildings, oddly identical. The people, if any were there, never looked up.
He stepped outside in his tight orange polo and matching pants. His face bore the practiced grin. His belly bounced slightly with every step, his arms swinging just enough to look natural—but never free.
He took a position near the sidewalk, beside a sleek, black door in a red-bricked wall. The door had no sign.
Jonas adjusted his shirt.
A man—muscular, lean, with gym shorts and earbuds—walking past.
He stepped forward, just like he’d been taught.
“Excuse me, sir! Do you have a moment to help test a new product line? Just a quick taste and review. Totally free. No strings.”
Pulled out one earbud.
“Uh… free?” he asked.
Jonas nodded, eyes shining, voice syrupy sweet.
“Just five minutes. Right inside. Come on, you look like someone who deserves a treat.”
It closed behind them with a click.
Jonas led the man down the narrow hallway without a word, his heavy footsteps echoing softly on the concrete floor. The muscular stranger followed, slightly cautious but curious. Jonas could feel the man’s eyes occasionally drift toward him—toward the bright uniform stretched across his broad back, the way his belly pushed forward as if always arriving first.
As they neared the tasting room door, Jonas glanced sideways, studying his guest. The defined jawline. The tight shirt hugging a chiseled chest. The barely-there body fat.
In his mind, he painted the transformation.
He imagined that chest softening into gentle moobs, arms losing tone, thighs thickening, rubbing. A soft dome of a belly pushing outward—just like his own. Stretch marks forming like delicate veins. The slight shame at first. The hunger that would follow. The need.
“Just in here,” he said, tone pleasant, almost musical.
The man stepped inside, the door closing gently behind him with that familiar, weighted click.
Jonas stood there for a moment, hand still on the handle, head tilted.
“Oh, yum yum yum, take a bite…”
He turned, belly swaying with the motion, and walked slowly back down the hallway. His steps were lighter now. There was no rush. There would always be another.
As he reached the exit, he began to hum.
“Daddy’s Donuts, day and night…”
