"You sure you wanna wear that tank top? It looks pretty tight."
"Exactly!" Andre said. "It'll make my belly more obvious, don't you think?"
I shrugged. He was committing to this outfit for all his check-in photos for the next two years. We both decided that consistency was important, so he'd be wearing the same shirt every month as he softens up his body.
I thought the tank top was a bad choice, considering how big I was going to make him, but... It was his choice.
"Okay, Andre. Stand right there." I raised my camera. "And smile!"
He sort of smiled. I could tell he was still nervous about agreeing to this. He liked his body the way it was, but he loved me enough to agree to try out my little kink. He signed a two-year contract and everything, promising to eat whatever I fed him without protesting.
In turn, I promised not to go overboard. Plus, he could work out as much as he wanted. He'd grow a nice, round beer gut and we'd both be happy.
***
"Ready for your photo?" I asked.
He still had his morning Big Gulp to drink, but we had brunch to get to soon. He could finish that in the car. Right now, it was time for his check-in photo.
"Yup!" he answered. He got in position and waited for me to snap his photo.
He had the same bashful smile on his face, a mixture of bemusement and I-can't-believe-I'm doing this.
I showed him the picture, while really highlighted his rounded gut.
He seemed to like what he saw. "See, babe? That tank top was the right choice. Makes me look burly."
I kissed his stubbly cheek. "Yes it does."
***
Andre was in position before I even entered the room. He was standing proudly, with his hands on his beefy love handles.
His smile was mostly the same, though there was more pride on his face.
"Look at this tank!" he declared.
I didn't know if he was talking about his belly (which had really widened in the last month) or his actual tank top (which was really riding up). Either way, he seemed so proud.
It took a while for him to accept that he was growing much, much faster than he'd expected. (What can I say? I'm an enthusiastic feeder.)
It was fun to watch him slowly accept his obesity. There were dozens of little steps along the way:
The moment he cancelled his gym membership.
The time I first caught him playing with his belly rolls.
The midnight snacks he started eating without being told.
And that tank top. Damn, it got shorter by the day.
I took his smiling photo and immediately showed him.
"Wow," he said, running his palm down his stomach. "You know how that makes me feel?"
I looked at him and waited for an answer.
"Hungry."
***
I heard Andre's heavy steps echo through the house. He knew it was photo time.
He walked out of the bedroom. He was an undeniable fat guy now. Round and jolly. He had a presence that filled any room. And the way he jiggled... The way he let out burps without realizing... Even the way he smelled...
I didn't tell him this, but he was as big as I'd always wanted. He'd achieved the image I'd had for him in my head since the day we met, and we still had a full year left of our contract.
With his pudgy fingers drumming against his gut (always drumming) and tiny jiggles sloshing across his hanging apron, I stepped back and took his picture.
"Do I look any bigger today?"
"Uh huh," I said. I wasn't humoring him. The droop over his sweatpants was much lower than last month. (I upgraded those sweats multiple times, but we still stuck to the same tank top. At this point, it was nothing more than a crop top, tight enough to keep his growing moobs in place.)
"Good," he said. "Shall we celebrate at Gusto's?"
(Gusto's was his favorite buffet.)
I was about to say yes, but I needed to be honest with him. "Andre, you're as big as I've always wanted. If you want to stop now, we can focus on maintaining and you won't..."
"No." The word came out of his mouth in a deep rumble. He stepped toward me. Pinned me against the wall. Crushed me with his warm gut. "Buffet."
"Okay," I tried to say, but my lungs were too squeezed for the word to come out.
He stepped back, and I sucked in air.
Well, I tried. He wanted to keep going.
***
"Photo time!" I shouted excitedly. "Hurry up!"
This was it. The last day of our contract. A two-year journey of constant feedings and belly rubs had finally come to this.
Andre did his best to hurry, so I only had to wait five minutes for him to get off the couch and trudge toward the center of the room. Hearing him approach was like music. His gasping breaths mixed with the swish of his straining clothes and the thumps of his cane and the heavier thumps of his struggling footsteps.
When he got in position, leaning most of his weight against Poky (that's what we call his cane), I held up the camera and waited for him to smile.
He couldn't. It took all his energy to stay vertical. His face was sweat-glistening and exhausted.
Okay. Close enough. I took his photo.
"Perfect," I said. I congratulated him with a kiss before helping him back onto his custom-made recliner. His tank top had pretty much turned into a bra, so his shapeless belly oozed freely across his lap and over his knees.
Even though his eyes were half-closed and his gasping mouth was slack, I knew he was happy.
"So. How do you feel? Two full years and... you're glorious."
He whispered something, but I couldn't make out what. I think he was trying to say "happy."
I sat on the armrest, giving his stretchmarks a hearty scratch. His hot, sweat-coated skin felt wonderful against my fingertips. "So no more feedings, right? From now on, we're gonna slow down and maintain."
He whispered the same word again. I realized that he wasn't saying "happy" at all. He was saying "hamburgers."
"Are you... Are you sure?"
He burped. The room filled with the greasy scent of his breakfast KFC. I guess that burp was a yes.
I kissed him again (on the belly this time) and raced into the kitchen.
Two things were clear:
Even without the contract, he wasn't done growing.
And it's about time I bought him a mobility chair.
I returned with a platter of burgers and placed them on his belly shelf. With the food in front of him, his sleepy eyes finally opened. I stood back and watch him go.
The End
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Attention feeders, remember to make sure you’re feedees feel appreciated after a good stuffing session, belly massages and words of fattening affirmation are encouraged 😌🐷
Holy cow, all this nonstop PORKING OUT this summer is seriously giving me some extreme dad bod at this point. And it’s okay if my gut hangs out a little cause I mean dad bod means getting a chubby gut so that what happens right? Chubby gut ends up pushing up the shirt a bit
Like yeah maybe if it couldn’t reach my bellybutton or something THEN maybe I’d be too fat for a dad bod but I think I still qualify right? Surely this looks like just a bit of belly of overindulging a bit
And yeah maybe eating out all the time and ordering massive family meal orders just for myself is blowing my tank up a bit but it’s not getting embarrassingly huge right?
What do you think? Do you think my gut is blowing up to the point where people have to notice it now? Do I look like I have a dad bod, or do I look like a fat hog whose belly is blowing up and he should just shovel more greasy burgers into it cause fuck how much bigger could it possibly get…
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