Its been said a million different times by a million different people more eloquent than me but I really don't just want to get fat, I want to be fattened. I need someone to look at me and decide that there should be more, for someone to grab at my softness and admire the fruits of their labor, to coo into my ear about how pretty I'm getting for them as they force another morsel between my lips.
I want to be able to look in the mirror and run my hands over every stretchmark, knowing that every new pound is a mark of their desire for me. To look up into their eyes and see that it's not enough, that they need even more as I swell past my wildest imaginations. I want to show them my devotion, my overwhelming need to eat and grow and bury myself in ever more lard all for them. I want to be someone's perfect little toy, softened up so nicely that everyone knows that they take care of me.
More than anything, I need someone to make me theirs. To feed me and shape me to their whims, to layer me with soft and doughy affection. to show me just how pretty I am to them.
I often fantasize about having a wonderful wife who fattens me up with her home cooked food, doting on me until Iām bursting out of every outfit I own.
Coming home from a hard day at my well-paying job to her, knowing she is well cared for. I make enough money that she doesnāt have to work and can instead pursue hobbies and relax, allowing her to spend her free time as she pleases. The only thing I ask in return is her love and companionship and boy does she deliver.
When I cross the threshold the smell of tasty food greets me immediately and the soreness of the day slips away behind me. Her dinners are always delicious, filling, and incredibly flavorful from all the fattening ingredients within. I work hard to provide for us and she spoils me lovingly, making sure her wife is well sustained so I can continue to pay the bills.
The weight comes on slowly but surely. My belly begins to round out and inflate with fat until my belts begin digging into my underbelly. My pants start creaking whenever I sit down and my work chair has been making strange noises of late. Whenever a holiday comes up I mysteriously start receiving more and more clothing, almost as if my friends and family realize how quickly Iām outgrowing my current wardrobe.
The first 50 pounds shock me. My once shapely frame now resembles leavened dough. My belly is round and full, stuffed tightly with my wifeās amazing cooking. My breasts have gone up 2 cup sizes while my ass has ballooned out of most pants. Iām sore constantly while standing now and I huff and puff any time stairs are involved. Despite all of this my wife continues cooking for me, feeding me, fattening meā¦
150 pounds later and Iām barely recognizable. Thank goodness I work in an office because Iām truly too fat now to do anything else. My body aches from all of the extra weight Iām carrying but I still gorge myself until I can barely breathe once I get home. My wife has begun packing lunches for me that are just as fattening as the rest of her cooking. My lunchbox is always full to the brim with candy bars, sweets, and plenty of food to keep me full throughout the day. Iām mostly belly now and only getting biggerā¦
Being a gamer and also someone in the feedism community is a wonderful overlap. The fact that one of my favorite hobbies often involves sitting still for long periods while eating high calorie snacks is not missed by me!
Iād love to be stuffed silly at my computer, belly taut and ready to burst from all the grazing Iāve been doing, Iām stoned as hell and the munchies have pushed me farther than I usually can go. I have to mute my mic in between pulls as I donāt want my raid team realizing that cooldowns arenāt the only thing Iām worried about popping. My breathing heavy, the soft blankets Iāve got prepared next to my chair come in clutch as I rub my achingly full belly during breaks. I try to speak like Iām not out of breath if I have to talk in Discord, but otherwise I keep myself muted so my friends donāt hear me panting and groaning.
They probably think Iām super focused and locked in, meanwhile Iām trying desperately not to explode from ANOTHER bowl of cereal or bag of candy.
Once raid is over, itās all I can do to waddle my overfed belly to bed where I sink into the sheets and conk out within minutes. A previously overstuffed and gravid belly begins to soften while Iām in my coma, turning all those wonderful snacks into an even wider waistline. Somehow I keep finding myself a pound or two heavier when raid rolls around again the next weekā¦
Currently craving getting fattened by an overly doting girlfriendās care and her friends/family approaching her about my growing weight like Iām a dog thatās been overfed.
āHey, Iāve noticed your partners been breathing really heavily lately. Maybe itās time to adjust her diet?ā
āI know how much you love your partner, but sheās been getting pretty big from all those extra treats youāve been feeding her.ā
āIām worried about your partnerās health! People arenāt meant to be obese like that, sheās having trouble moving around like she used to. Itās not cute, itās actually really sad.ā
*Said while Iām putting away a large portion of food into an already bulging belly* āWow, your partner is really food motivated, huh?ā
Bonus points if when I come over, her family rubs my belly and praises me for how cute and chubby I am while scolding my girlfriend for how much bigger my belly has grown since the last time we visited. While she denies their claims, she sets me down at the dining room table and puts yet another plateful of food in front of me so I can fill my belly to the brim. My breathing gets heavier throughout the argument until my plate is clear and Iām dangerously close to popping. The entire drive home my loving girlfriend praises me and rubs my aching gut, but not before handing me a thick and calorically dense shake to soothe the rumbling in my stomach. Maybe sheād feel a pang of guilt when I tilt my seat back in the car to allow room for my bigger belly and pant from how full I am. Maybe sheād wonder if she should cut back on how many treats I get. Maybe sheād see reason when sheās having to help squeeze me into my jeans because my belly is getting so big that I struggle to button them myself.
But then again, whatās a little extra weight but more of me to love? Besides, I do get so happy whenever I get a treat, itās not like Iām getting fat or anythingā¦
Laying on my back with a gut so stuffed I can't even reach my pussy. How pathetic is that? If I had a trough of fattening food in front of my face I'd shove my face into it without a second thought, even though I'm already so full my belly aches. It's tight and heavy and practically pulsing while my heart races and I try to touch myself. I need helppp </3 I need to have my piggy cunt stuffed while my stomach is pumped full of calories. Give me more more more until the bed breaks and my stretch mark covered lard pins you down underneath me. This fatty wants nothing more than to desperately hump my obese pussy against you while you struggle underneath my weight and think about what you're going to fill me with next š„µš„µš„µ
Imagine having a roommate who does odd jobs to help with rent. Sometimes they're at cleaning gigs and other times food delivery. One evening, they come home clutching a business card a client gave them.
"It's one of those paid studies! You know, like, medical treatments."
You don't hear about it again for a couple weeks. You'd assumed it was something like a sleep study or other mundane thing. He again returns, this time with a thick stack of paperwork. It's a mess of contracts, liability waivers, and other documents dripping in legalese. When you ask if he's sure the study is safe, he just waves you off.
"It'll totally be worth it. Look at how much I'll make!"
He's not supposed to talk much about the study, but they send him home with instructions for how to administer the medication they provided. You already give him his T-shot every other week, so when he gives you puppy eyes you just roll yours and help him out.
"What side effects will this have?" You ask to distract from the injection.
"Nothing too crazy," he tries. As soon as your eyebrows raise in an admonishing look, he's quick to amend.
"Well, they were talking about weight gain and higher sex drive. All that happened when I started T though. It's not a big deal."
You both quickly found it was a big deal. Before the mystery medication, he could at least pleasure himself quietly. Now he can't seem to help but moan like an animal in heat. The sound permeates the walls of your shared space in the morning and at night. Warmth pools in your stomach, but you try to ignore it.
Then you catch sight of his car a month into the study. The back seat was filled with an almost impressive array of fast-food wrappers and takeout containers. Chinese, steakhouse, burgers, shakes, Indian, and many more decorated the floor and seats.
"You can't blame the shot when you start getting fat from all this."
He grimaces, "I get hungry driving around all day. If I'm picking up an order for someone else, I might as well grab something while I'm there." It's clear you're not impressed when you hand him a garbage bag to clean up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your warning doesn't dissuade his new habits in the slightest. In fact, you find him teary-eyed and surrounded by more food only days later. His frame is swallowed by the massive throw blanket you keep in the living room.
"What's wrong?" You ask, moving around the plastic and paper on the floor. He mumbles some things, cheeks getting pinker by the second.
"Words, please." There's space on the couch to sit a little closer.
He swallows and admits, "my clothes don't fit."
"What do you mean?" Your hands are pulling away his blanket before he can protest. Your throat bobs. A sudden dryness takes away all words as you're met with the sight of his belly. Stretchmarks reach up from under the band of his boxers and almost make it over the swell of new flesh. It spills between the v of his pants and crests just beyond the zipper. Even the button is missing.
"That can't be comfortable."
He shakes his head.
"Get them off then. You obviously can't go out like that, and there's no point being uncomfortable in the house." The most indignant squeak escapes him when your fingers hook into the waistband and begin shimmying his pants down. His hand latches onto your wrist.
"Don't..."
So, you let go and look up. "It isn't anything I haven't seen before, if that's the concern." He shifts around, the new weight wobbling.
"Well, what do you want to do?" you ask instead. But his belly answers with a loud, long rumble.
"I just ate an hour ago," he whines. A couple tears finally drip down his cheeks. You wipe them away.
"This study is really messing with you, huh? Are you sure you want to keep going?"
He nods vehemently, "it's too much money to pass up. I can lose all this when the study is over." His gaze looks down at his lap, or what he can still see of it.
"Could I send you some money to grab a couple pairs of jeans?" You don't answer right away.
"I think you should stay home."
"What?"
"This," your hand rests on his tummy. "Is just from one month. The study is nowhere near complete. There's not much sense in buying new clothes if you'll just outgrow them that quickly. Besides, you look miserable trying to handle all this and your gigs. Take a break."
He sniffles, "you're messing with me."
"I have teased you before, but not right now." His stomach reminds you both that its hungry.
"Fine," he swipes at his face. "I can't focus on anything else anyways." You bite your tongue just in time to prevent a reflexive 'good boy' from escaping. Instead, you hurry to the kitchen to hide your own blush and get him something to eat.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It all becomes a routine scarily easily. You come home to him gorging himself on either takeout or the meals you'd prepped. He'd be exhausted from all the energy he expends just growing. Or you'd assumed that was all that was happening. He'd started covering himself with the blanket more often again. The poor thing would claim he was cold, but he's more insulated than ever.
Your hand comes up to feel his forehead. He's warm, but not feverish at all. "Are you feeling sick or something?"
"I'm okay," he fails to convince even himself.
"Then why are you hiding again?" He hugs himself when you question him. The face he makes isn't missed.
"Show me," you deadpan. After some prodding and wheedling, he relents and opens his cocoon. There are paper towels folded and stuffed under his shirt. They're soaked through.
"That explains why I've had to buy so many more rolls lately." You lift a sopping corner. The cold air on sensitive flesh makes him whimper.
"Have you mentioned this to the people at the clinic?"
"They said that other people are having the same reaction. The nurse didn't sound concerned."
You pull out your phone and start typing away. He makes a questioning noise. You hold one of his hands while you continue with your task.
"These pumps can be here in a couple of days," you murmur as they go into your cart.
"Pumps? You mean like..."
"You're lactating, so yes." The phone gets put away. Carefully, you trace the stretchmarks that are forming down his growing breasts before removing the makeshift nursing pads.
"Are you too full to stand? You should take a shower."
"No, but I'm so tired." He sighs and attempts to pull his shirt back down and over at least his upper belly.
"I can get your shower chair set up," you offer. It'd been hard not to do little things to assist him after seeing how fatigued he was. It wasn't the first time you'd set up the chair, but something was stirring in you from seeing the fat of his chest glistening with his own milk.
Standing alone in the bathroom, you couldn't help taking advantage of the small moment. Your hand, shaking with sudden need, begins to snake past your fly. Just before you could really do much, a knock echoes off the tile.
"Are you alright? It's been a minute." He asks, the door swinging open. You both freeze. Apologies crest and crash like turbulent waves, but never quite make it out of your mouth.
"I'll just go," you eventually manage. You brush by him. You don't mean to slam your door, but the mortification dominates anything else you might be feeling.
The sound of the pipes coming to life in the shower starts up. Very faintly, you hear the sounds of soap bottles popping open and water sloshing against the shower walls. Before you can continue on with feeling bad, there's another sound. Little whimpers and sighs punctuated by your name.
A feeling hot and heavy suffuses through you. You're almost tempted to start fooling around again. The only thing that stops you is hearing your name again. It's louder, more desperate.
You find yourself knocking at the bathroom door.
"Everything okay?"
"Get in here already!" You can hear the wanting and the tears. You stumble in and tug the curtain aside. The sight that greets you is divine.
Every curve, sudsy and wet, glows under the light. Bright, cherry red colors not only his cheeks, but his ears and neck.
"Can you touch me? Please?" He sounds so unsure of himself. That wouldn't stand.
One hand grasps his chin as you move in. You pour everything into kissing him. Every moment when you've harbored depraved, hungry thoughts and fantasies play in your mind. Your other hand finds one of his engorged nipples and begins to play. Warm droplets of milk mingle with the water and steam.
You pull away just enough, "you look so good like this. So swollen, so fat." He can't answer. He's too busy grinding down and rolling his hips against the chair. In a feverish daze, you strip your own clothes and join him in the shower.
When you're both done, you realize the water has gone a bit cold. Your roommate is in a daze. You don't remember when you made room for yourself between his thighs. Hickeys and bite marks adorn his plush belly hang and his softened thighs.
You turn off the water and begin to lotion him up. He's a bit more alert when you finish and hand him a towel.
"Was all that okay?" You brace yourself for whatever he says.
"I just wish we'd done that sooner," he whispers. You kiss him on the forehead and cheeks until he can't help but laugh.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After that night, neither of you bother trying to hide affection or attraction. Even if you did, evidence of every dalliance and indulgence pile up on his frame.
The study ended a week ago. Neither of you ever actually learned what it had been trying to accomplish. The nurse advised that the milk should taper off as soon as you both stop using the pumps. As soon as you both get in the car though, it's obvious what you both want. You squeeze his hand before starting the car.
"Did you want to switch up the flavor of lactation cookies next time I buy them?" You ask, the bigger question left unsaid.
"No, I like what we're buying now." He answers both anyways.
He also asks to have a special dinner to celebrate. Of course, you oblige. You'd helped him pick out nice outfits that fits his new frame after all. Every outing was a chance to show off your partner and how well they've grown for you.
Their chest was hot and heavy, the pumps at home getting used multiple times a day. His belly was filled around the clock to keep up with his growth and lactation. It wobbled with every breath he took. What you were most enamored with, though, was the way his hips have flared and spread. The fat fills the passenger seat and presses on both the console and door.
It wasn't a far drive to the restaurant. It was a quick thing to find a secluded parking spot in the back. Your hands snake up his shirt and tweak the sensitive buds of his udders.
The poor thing gets worked up so easily. You have him lick your fingers clean of his milk before you carefully set his clothes to rights. A quick peck meets his panting lips.
"Good cow. Let's get this belly filled, hm? You have more growing to do."
Imagine a fat gooner gamer who's added code to his game to pump gainer shake into his mouth and turn on a vibrator every time he gets a kill in his fps. He gets stoned and plays for hours, until his belly swells up so big that it starts pushing his desk away from him. Many such cases
hm. what i want is to have a needy feedee sitting between my legs with their back to my chest, high or tipsy or both, letting me feed them heavy fattening food from behind and whisper filth into their ear, getting them so stuffed and worked up all they can do is fondle their heavy gut and moan with their head thrown back on my shoulder while i stuff them and shove my hand between their legs to pull a gasping, overwhelming orgasm out of them as a reward for finishing it all
I love hearing boys make the most desperate sounds. Strained swallows as theyāre chugging, moaning after they burp, whimpering at how full they are, moaning through mouthfuls as I feed them. Theyāre just so cute. It only makes me wanna feed them more. I wanna hear my pretty boy make all those perfect noises for me~ and if that means feeding him more, then Iāll simply never stop šš„°š
I'm not going to get fat. A stuffing every now and then is just... a little horny fun. I'll walk a little more to burn off the calories. I just like the feeling of being full. I'll be super careful.
---
I've had one stuffing already this week, but... Well, opportunities like this don't come around very often. It'd be rude not to make the most of a buffet when I'm out with the girls. I'll just tell them that I was extra hungry...
---
God, these jeans are getting tight. I guess I haven't been as careful as I could've been. I'll start walking to work more often. It's almost winter, and I want to be able to eat a bunch then without feeling guilty about it. I'll put the stuffings on hold for now...
---
I'm so hungry, *all the time*, I just can't ignore it. Maybe those stuffings really stretched out my stomach? I'm snacking all day long and I just can't help myself around food. I'd walk more, but it's so cold out there now. Maybe trying this stuffing thing was a mistake...
---
I caved. Three pizzas shouldn't have been that easy to eat in one sitting. God, I feel so full, but it feels so, so good... Dieting for a month has been awful, and for what? Just so I can ruin all that effort like this? I'm still the same weight I was when I outgrew those jeans. This is useless. Why am I bothering to torture myself...
---
It feels so good to eat properly again. I missed not having my stomach rumble every ten minutes... It's coming at a price, but I needed to change my wardrobe anyway. Going up a size isn't the end of the world, it's worth it to stop feeling like I'm about to starve to death. I'll be more careful with my stuffings from now on, I'll space them out a lot more, and I won't go crazy with them...
---
So full. Four burgers, four fries, all finished... It felt so good when I did it yesterday but it feels even better today. I swear my capacity is growing, my belly ends up so round by the time I'm finished lately...
---
I have NOT gone up another size. There is NO WAY I've let myself get that much bigger. If my scales hadn't run out of battery then I'd totally prove it to myself. My stretchiest pants still fit, so I can't be the next size up. It must have been something I did wrong with the laundry...
---
This top doesn't fit either. It squeezes over my chest, but when I try to pull it down all the way to my waist... My belly just keeps pushing its way out and making it ride up. It's so much bigger than I remember. I can barely hide it, but I just can't help myself, I keep feeding it night after night.
Am I fat?
---
I can't get take-out *again* tonight. I only got Chinese food yesterday, and I ate enough of that for three people. I'll have something light tonight, like a salad or...
...But why bother? I'm already this big. I'm the fat friend now, I get everybody's leftovers, I snack all day long and then stuff myself most nights. Why feel guilty about it? It always felt so good to be so full, but it feels incredible to be fat. My belly is always so big and round and jiggly, just like the rest of me. Who cares if I can't fit into anything that isn't plus-sized now. I can fit so much more pizza into this belly than I used to, and I can't help but keep it filled...
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I haven't exercised in a while... I should go for a walk later...
Oh wait, I can't. I haven't been able to haul my fat ass out of this bed in months, and I'm even fatter than when I first got stuck here.
I could at least *try* to stand up. Try to get a shower, try to get dressed...
Never mind, all of my clothes are either torn at the seams or are too small to fit over my chest, never mind this massive gut that's pinning me down. My thick thighs and fat ass aren't going to accommodate any of my old pants either - I shouldn't even try.
Maybe I finally need to stick to a diet...
Maybe if I hadn't tried that a dozen times already, I'd actually humour the idea. But it never works. I'm just a greedy hog now. It feels too good to guzzle calories all day long and laze around, feeling myself grow fatter and fatter. I love being such a fat blob and feeling my blubber jiggle as I keep swallowing more and more delicious food.
I guess I really am a lost cause... I wish I could say it doesn't feel amazing...
i just want to be in a soft feedism relationship with someone
mornings spent with us snuggled up in bed, admiring every inch of each otherās bodies
tracing new stretch marks that had come in seemingly overnight from the day before, and feeling each otherās soft fat
making a fattening breakfast together, enough to feed a family of four, or even six. one of us manning the stove while the other does prep, sometimes sneaking in some pecks on the cheek here and there
or being grabbed by the love handles from behind and pulled in, trying to stifle giggles as kisses are being left along your neck
feeding each other the massive feast that was just made. and afterwards, rubbing each otherās bellies and talking about the day ahead until itās time to eat again
i know it sounds like nothing, something simple enough, but i want that
I remember when you first moved in with me. You were so skinny back then. So skinny and so full of stress. Distraught over how you lost your job and repeatedly promising me that you "won't be here for too long" and that it would only be until you got back on your feet. Of course I didn't mind your presence one bit and welcomed you with open arms; after all, it's a daddy's duty to take care of his boy - is it not?
I gave you a warm comfy bed to sleep in and kept you well fed while you passionately searched for a new job. I even gave you some sweet treats of encouragement while you did. But even with how hard you tried none of those applications seemed to stick and job offers kept slipping from your grasp. It just pained me to see you so frustrated like that so I encouraged you to relax more.
"Jobs will always be out there waiting for you. No need to hurry and find a new one. Go watch some TV, play some video games, eat some food and relax~."
And it seemed like you took my advise to heart as more and more I would find you sprawled out on the couch watching TV and snacking on some junk food. You still kept looking for work but the gaps between those interviews kept getting wider and wider. Nevertheless, after every rejection I was always there to comfort you with a big bowl of your favorite food and a movie to snuggle to. The time between your interviews wasn't the only thing getting wider either. All that snacking and lazing about steadily smothered that lean frame of yours under a thick layer of fat that made your shirts ride up your doughy gut and your pants split down the center of your bubble butt. But I was more than happy to pick out some new, bigger, clothes for my precious growing boy.
Eventually you seemed to give up on looking for work entirely, or perhaps it slipped from your mind entirely, choosing to laze around the house and stuffing your face instead. I made sure to keep you well fed with three extra large meals a day plus a massive dessert. You barely had to lift a finger and that's just how I wanted it. That's when your weight gain started really accelerating as you outgrew those XL shirts I bought you... And then the XXLs... and then the XXXLs in just a few months. And the fatter you got the lazier you grew, becoming more and more dependent on me to take care of you. Bringing you meals in bed, washing your blubbery body, rubbing down your bloated belly when you ate too much, even jerking you off when your fat swallowed your cock... You didn't even care when I started calling you "my son", "my boy" or even "my piggy".
As you got lazier you even stopped caring about basic manners. No longer were requests punctuated with "please" or honored with "thank you" they just became greedy demands of "Turn on the TV", "Feed me", "Jerk me off". You expelled burps and farts whenever you felt them arise and basked in their acrid odor afterwards. Walking to the shower was becoming more and more of a herculean task as your body continued to swell with heavy lard so you simply gave in to laying in bed stewing in your own sweat and grime.
Ironically, as you grew your world shrank to just the tiny room you were anchored in. Your only window to the outside world being the television you stared blankly at 24/7 but all it showed you was trash programming and gainer porn that fried your brain and dulled you senses. Your sentences became more and more simple and your words became more slurred, like a toddler or a cave man, as you struggled to use your mouth for anything other than eating. All the useless knowledge you spent so many years accumulating slowly faded away as you became wholly dependent on me for everything, and daddy is happy to take care of his big blob boy.
All that was how you ended up as you are today. A massive, bed-bound mound of hairy disgusting fat. Wallowing in his own filth. Barely recognizable as a man. No clothes save for the massive, over filled, diaper your daddy put you in when you stopped remembering how to hold in your shit and piss so you stopped making such a mess in your bed. What little scrap of your old self that could feel shame protested against the padding but daddy knows best for his boy and you soon realized how comfy it was to just relieve yourself into it without thinking. There's always that constant strained wheezing as you stare blankly at the TV from the hundreds of pounds of lard crushing down on your poor lungs, even with the extra oxygen being pumped into your nose you still struggle to breath. A bigger mask would help you breathe but that would require me to take out the hose that constantly feeds you that delicious gainer shake you love so much. And I can't let my boy go hungry now can I? The only thing I let you do for yourself is control the remote to the vibrating cock ring I put around that oh so needy little cock of yours that's trapped underneath leagues of gluttonous disgusting hog fat. All you have to do is press the button and it stimulates your sunken shaft until you fire another puny useless load from your abused balls. Who knows what kind of greasy, foul, grime has accumulated down there over the years. You're nothing but a braindead pile of lard, completely and utterly addicted to eating and jerking off, too dumb to even realize what a grotesque slovenly blob he's become.
Sneaking into your room while you sleep face down in your bed.
Itās late and I canāt sleep, so pent up and needing some way to relieve myself. I pull my hard cock out of my sleep pants and stroke it over you, imagining how youād look bouncing up and down on it like a good little cockslut. I bite my lower lip, stifling my moans as I buck into my hand, wishing it was your tight little cunt squeezing every last drop of cum out of me. How absolutely peaceful you look, dreaming about who knows what, while Iāve been lying awake in the other room, thinking of you riding me nice and slow. I gasp suddenly, leaning my head back and quickening my pace, my cock twitching as I shoot cum all over your back and hair.
I stand there, panting, still not satisfied, eyeing your perfect silhouette as you lie there, your panties hugging your ass in all the right places. I slowly get onto the bed, sitting behind you as I grind my cock against your ass, almost passing out from holding my breath, hoping you donāt wake up.
Itās still not enough.
I pull your panties off gently, exposing your holes as I rub my cock against the entrance of your cunt.
Itās still not enough.
I give in, pushing it inside of you, telling myself ājust the tipā over and over again, until I come to the realization that youāre absolutely soaked.
Youāre such a desperate, needy little slut that you couldnāt sleep without watching some rough porn on your phone, and passed out grinding on your bed, probably whimpering and begging for someone to to fill you up.
Before I realize it Iām already balls deep inside of you, pounding your dripping pussy while gripping your thighs tightly. You start to stir but itās already too late, as I bend over and cover your mouth with my hand.
āFuck, baby, I didnāt want to wake you up but I needed to let out some stress and you looked so good.ā I moan, railing into you while you let out surprised shouts and moans into my hand, trying to get away while I press you down into the pillow.
āIām almost done, baby, just relax and enjoy this, youāve already gotten wetter than when I started, I can tell youāve already been begging for strangers to do this to you.ā
You lie there, unable to do anything but take the abuse like a good little slut, feeling as my cock presses deep inside of your needy little hole while I cum again, despite your muffled pleas.
You quickly realize that itās still not enough, and that Iāll be here for as long as it takes until im satisfied.
I make so many wishes. A loving partner. A place of our own. Dates, parties, the perfect wedding. The first step - always - is knowing what you want.
But realising what I really wanted was my last.
The first months were dreamy. He slid across the sheets and left me breathless. Honeymoon in Paris, lots of shopping. A cruise home. And good food. So much good food.
Bigger tits. Weeks off work. I kept wishing - he granted me everything. DoorDashers and deliverymen queued behind our front door. I didnāt have to cook, to clean. He had people. He told me I didnāt even have to ask.
Slowly, my edges began to soften. I got used to wiping a messy, smiling face in the bathroom, sauntering to the shower after breakfast in bed. Sometimes Iād bathe following dinner - the weight of puff pastry and roasted meats making me rise, my dome of a stomach cresting in the warm, soapy waves. Iād crawl to bed stuffed, and in the night, Iād finger the dessert brought to my bedside table. If he wasnāt there to feed it to me.
He told me about this thing he had. He said he liked women to be comfortable around him. He said he wanted me to enjoy myself. Only when his throat was about to be pulp between my thighs did he cut the crap. He liked big girls - which, as a former gymnast and swimwear model, I did not want to hear. He elaborated while I was curled up, facing the wall, clinging a pillow to my chest. He liked making girls big.
I was more intrigued than afraid. Of all the things to keep secret? The next morning, he tried to pretend we hadnāt had that conversation. Until I waltzed in, ass hanging out a pair of his briefs, shoving crĆØme fraiche into my face just as fast as I could. I told him I wouldnāt mind. My trophies were just hunks of brass, but my body was his. Fuck being thin. The blood rushed to his dick so hard he darn near knocked himself out.
My competitive streak moulded into a desire to please. I was always trying to one-up myself. Tipping cream into my coffee. Butter all over my filet mignon. A nice protein shake before bed - except Iād let him do all the working out. A few months of being spread on the dessert table, and he got his wish. Like a gentleman, he held my hand as I got off the scale, a gentle fold jiggling over my string bikini strapline. For the first time in my life, I was overweight.
He loved it, but then so did I. Fat on my muscles gave me warmth, and a lot of compliments. People started saying how lucky I was - and fuck they were right. I was encouraged by the thought seeing them again, showing them how married life was treating me, tucking in while they talked stuff about management and walks they went on for fun. Iād listen, slurping, ordering a second entree. Iād still be first to order dessert before they were finished. Sometimes, Iād be the only one.
My husband told me I was obese with his teeth grinding my collar. I never weighed myself for my sake but the numbers made him static. It would take my cleavage flush against his shoulder blades to bring him down to Earth. Heād ask how I felt. Always. Iād ignore it until I was sweaty and satisfied, then say āfucking fat, what do you think?ā, before I rode his orgasm into the sunset. Took me a long time to realise he wasnāt as breathless as I was. He kept clipping out the end of the question.
It was āhow do you feel about McDonaldās?ā or āhow do you feel about a midnight snack?ā. This guy was relentless. I built up a belly hang and a double chin. I started struggling up stairs. My toneless thighs rubbed through my jeans so fast I took to just keeping my legs spread as much as I could. My gut filled the space between them, growling, growing, flexing the gaps between the straining buttons of my blouse. When I told him about it, he laughed.
I developed an addiction to carbs. Greasy, filthy pizza was my favourite snack between sit-down meals. It left me nursing a constant bloat in my belly, in my face, that kinda turned me away from wanting to socialise - unless it involved food. My friends didnāt say anything because they were my friends, which kinda belied I wasnāt the athlete they used to share the runway with. They stopped inviting me to hikes, which suited my ballooning ass just fine. But later I was huffing and puffing just tailing them around the mall. I donāt know why I was so desperate - none of the places we shopped at could cater for me any more. The only stores I felt welcome in served food.
My husband had to labour for sex with me. Not that I withheld it. I was just so fucking huge. It was hard to get it on when my big belly was forcing him up, up and away - which was crazy, because it made him crave me more. Iād be stricken, clutching my voluminous chest, scraping the silk sheets like a whale flipping desperately for the surf. Heād cum in my face and toss me a monogrammed hand towel. My eyes would part, and heād be standing there with blueberry lemon cheesecake and a canned of whipped cream. Iād want a hug - but with the weight piling on, soon an arm was all he could link his hands around. It was hot, in a base, sticky way, but Jesus Christ - the bed was breaking underneath me.
Hunger woke me up before his cock. Iād moan for him to reach across my massive belly, and ring the bell on my side. My eyes wouldnāt even open before the taste of British bacon on my lips. Fried eggs. Warm milk. Iād push my feast between my cheeks and ask him if how much he loved me, crumbs in my rolls. Heād grab the hash browns, the buttered pancakes and force them down my throat. Heād tell me I deserved everything. Iād wallow in bed for hours after lunch, squirming, letting him feed me waffles and ice cream, until my toes tingled with the pain of how hard I was bloated, constantly blowing up.
Yeah, I used to wish for things I never had. I liked being heavy in his arms.
But now I wish for things I took for granted.
Like being able to move after he leaves for work. Heāll turn the trash TV up high and keep my phone plugged in, so I can lift it up by the wire in case it slides off my fat to the floor. I only use it for takeout. I donāt bother with social media - itās embarrassing to scroll through a newsfeed clogged with so many throwbacks. Iām so big I canāt fit into a selfie. Too much pale, fatty bulk. My husband takes my pictures, and heās stepping further and further back from the couch.
Heās smiling. Melting my life into an extension of his desires; my body into endless fat. He tells me itās fine that I donāt go to parties. Itās okay that I spend all day at home. Not to be sad that Iāll never see my abs again. All that training and trialling, tumbling through air I can barely breathe in.
He tells me to smile because it happened.
And I try. I try so hard, but I canāt. Creamy, fattening froth, dribbling on my frozen, chubby cheeks.
The funnel. Too weak to take it off.
And the straps are getting tighter, and tighter...
