Being painfully stuffed, rendered more or less stuck to where your sat after eating everything you could. The reason? There's plenty. It tasted good, you assumed you had room, perhaps believed you weren't as full as you actually were. In summary, you couldn't help yourself.
Picture being toyed with like that, a hand gripping your lower belly and teasing you for how much you've let yourself go. In a quick motion, there's a finger in your belly button that seems to control your entire belly's movement. You're still jiggling, even when this full.
Your shirt doesn't cover everything as easily, especially whilst your leaning back. You need the room. Your legs are spread wide, the fat on each leg being just as widened out. The waistband gets lowered under your belly, the sheer weight of it now fully showing. Your belly sits over and in between your legs amd each prodding squeeze seems to ripple throughout your entire body.
You move just a little, attempting to see the damage yourself. You check your sides, the expanse of each hip bulging from the waistband. There's softened love handles there, ones that almost blend into your fattened sides and heft of your rolls.
You're toyed with like that, hands slipping over each thigh and squeezing feverishly. You can't help but whine, maybe feign protest, but you'll continue to give sad eyes whenever you aren't being touched. There's a sweet spot somewhere on your belly, a certain motion helping you to get some of the air out. You still feel just as useless, but there's an undeniable sense of relief. You have enough energy to breath now, albeit heavy and belated a certain points. It gets interrupted with each touch, your lips aching to cut yourself off from sounding too eager.
Your sides recieve a squeeze in unison, fingers pressing into the skin and rolls where they can. There's a massage like motion, the kind that makes your back arch and causes you to relax for just a few seconds. Your chest gets the same treatment, cupped into either hand carefully before squeezing with a telling firmness.
Each part of you is growing. You're hungrier than you were before, far more bolder with eating than you've ever been. You're more lenient in your diet. You let yourself go, with grace. With ease. You did it like second nature.
Getting off feels a lot different for you now. There's no way for your hand to make a straight beeline between your legs. The path is interrupted by the heft of your stomach, something that can only be worked over or under.
Whilst leaning back, you understand the gravity of the situation. You understand your own weight, or at least accept it. It's not as easy as it used to be, but it's so doable. You're aching for some kind of stimulation, even if you don't think you've got it in you to truly do much about it. You need something.
So, you eat. You play with the nearest thing you can, something that's far easier to pleasure yourself with. You play with the weight of your belly, lifting it up and letting it fall onto your thighs, sinking in between them and completely covering any sight of what sits beneath. You're almost certain there's a jiggle there too, but you can't exactly see. You can only try again and again, shaking your own belly in hopes that the jiggle passes through your body in the right way to hit the spot.
The sight you see helps, your belly pushed out enough to where you've lost the sight of your own belly button. Your chest is spread, widened out and weighing you down on either side, pressed against plush arms and making the movement arousingly tedious.
Your second chin sits against your collar bone. It's something you can't see like the rest of you but you certainly feel it every time you move your face or part your lips to eat something. There's a lot you can't see, but you can certainly feel it. The way your thighs touch, spread wide as you lay on the sunken bed. You've really started to weigh everything down and when you move, if done abruptly enough, the bed moves with you. There's a sound to it, the specific kind that would make people think you're having sex and simply not just playing with your belly in an overzealous fashion.
You're playing with yourself in the fattest way possible. You're getting off by rubbing your belly, shifting it side to side, up and down. You're fingering the closest hole, the result being more heavy shifting of your own belly. From the other room, it sounds like sex. To you, it certainly feels like it. To anyone else, you're just a helplessly depraved fat whore.
There's something incredible about the pipeline of denial to shameless acceptance.
It starts with pushing the urge away, falling coy at the mention of general weight gain. Maybe a friend mentions it, talking about how their two week vacation has left them ten pounds heavier. You consider for a brief moment that it could be you.
The same happens again where a friend mentions their clothes getting tighter. You consider how you would feel in their shoes and how you wouldn't be able to announce it so freely. It would feel strange. Personal. It would simply be too much for you to admit.
It's definitely not something you want, but you allow yourself to fantasise about it eventually. It entertains you, until one day, you accept that it excites you. There's something about the idea of it, about gaining weight and the process of it all. You can only picture it for now.
But then you fill yourself up during meals. It's for comfort at first and perhaps the first few pounds go unnoticed. But then your clothes are tighter and those fantasies seem almost real. Obviously, it's not the same, but it's a glimpse into all those thoughts you once rejected, slowly accepted and eventually pursued, albeit subconsciously.
There's a battle that follows. You lose some weight, you gain it back. You're pudgy and you can't seem to shift it. No big deal. It happens. It's embarrassing to think that it happened so suddenly, but you let it slide. It's not too noticeable and you've already accepted that it pleases you.
Yet there's many opportunities to worsen it. Your portions are easily added to. Your usual order turns from one burger to two, whereas before it had only been for special occasions. You assume it won't do much. You've already started wearing bigger clothes since the gain. You figure it won't get much worse. You're used to seeing your weight budge.
But you ignore the number. It doesn't matter. There's an element of denial in you, even when you're sat rubbing over the taut evidence that seems to actually sit in your lap now. It's something you're used to. Your belly sits in your lap like it has done for a while, but not forever. Perhaps you've forgotten what being skinny is like and only when you're seeking pleasure, you remind yourself of it.
Only when you're seeking pleasure did you actually consider making it worse on purpose.
But then you had seconds thoughts. You wouldn't know how to truly accept it. You wouldn't know how to stop yourself, perhaps. Ironically, that was one of the exciting factors of it. Even more ironically, that only became arousing when you truly felt the fear that came from the little taste of what that may actually look like.
It takes time. Endorsement, even. Someone comes along and changes it. Before, when you stared at your larger portion, you called it such. You recognised it as large. Now, you don't even think about it. This is simply your portion.
You realise how big it is when you go out to eat. Restaurants don't usually serve enough to fully sate you, but you have room for dessert at least. Then something else. There's something perverse about it and surely there shouldn't be.
You spend time considering changes, in the same way as you had done so before. You used to consider eating a little more, now you consider eating a little less. Just like before, it remains a thought.
You want to eat more. As you had fantasised, you feel as if there isn't a choice. You're conditioned to be full. You're accustomed to eating what sates you completely. You're reassured and endorsed in these habits, enough for others to comment on it.
At first, it's embarrassing. You've noticed by now. You've gained enough weight to have doubled what you used to be. You can hardly recall what it's like fitting into clothes they sell in most stores. You can't remember the last time you didn't need to eye up furniture with at least a little concern.
You haven't broken anything– yet, you think. You're aware that the thought alone is concerning. It makes space for your fantasy to spiral. It's already gotten worse. You're at a size where people have noticed it. They've witnessed it.
Suddenly, that's your thing. People come to you when they want to know what tastes good. They make space for you in the largest seat available and typically, you get the passenger seat in the car. It's a silent acknowledgement that you're fat now. Actually fat.
You can't consider going back. You try, obviously, but you give up. This is who you are now. You're simply like this. You can only look upon people who used to be your size and pity them. They don't know the comfort of eating a good meal. All those stares that used to make you anxious? They excite you now. It's encouraging. You're open about it.
You're shamelessly fat in every sense possible. The way you are, the way you look, the way you act. You're fat and you love it. You fill up your clothes, the seats you sit in and know how to enjoy yourself. You're happy. You're fat, unapologetically. You were always supposed to be.
➜ ꗃ cw: noncon, ruination, manipulation, psychological themes, generally dark fantasy
You're hired as a personal cleaner.
You were well known in local area. At first, your name was tossed around with praise. You were dutiful, seeking approval and doing the best you could.
Then you came in contact with someone a little far from town. You wouldn't usually agree, but you do when persuaded by extra money and a little sweet talk. Apparently, they're aching to meet you.
So, you meet. You clean. Easy enough.
You're handed a bag of treats in the name of generosity and good faith. You don't like to decline and truthfully, there's no reason to. Whatever was in that bag, alongside kind, encouraging gestures and more money; you're more than inclined to come back.
This time, small talk is made. You're asked about your work, the neighbourhood you live in and your hobbies on the side. You share what there is to know, that you're merely like everyone else trying to make a good living. Your appearance is praised. It isn't anything vulgar or suggestive, rather, your smile is sweet and your presence is welcoming. Like before, you're handed a bag of treats in thanks.
Needless to say, you arrive back again. The two of you talk a bit more about this self-started cleaning business of yours. You're asked if it's going well, which it is. You're asked if you're enjoying it and respond that you like making people happy. There's a lighthearted joke that you're simple minded; you're pleased easily and persuaded by little things. You don't question it, you take the cash and seemingly more treats than before along with it.
You arrive again, praising the treats you were given last time and making small talk about how it's too much for someone like you. You're treated with a visceral tut, as if what you're saying is blasphemy, then reminded how sweet you are. You give in easily to attention. You take more treats. They remind you of the feeling.
You show up again to no one's surprised. There's insistence on dinner as you've stayed so long, although you've stayed about as long as you usually have. Regardless, it's free food, there's no reason to pass it up. The dish you're presented with is rich, overwhelmingly sized. Albeit hesitant, you don't like to disappoint. You leave full, satisfied and, yet again, with more treats.
You typically see one another twice a week. That turns into three times, then four. Something about pets and the bothersome task of cleaning fur. No problem. You're insisted to let yourself at the fridge whilst cleaning and, as you're alone, you give in. There's a selection of food, notably the treats you're familiar with being handed and therefore, you eat. You leave an obvious space in the fridge, apologise profusely for it, only to be met with encouragement. Apparently, you could eat all the food in the fridge and there would be no complaints.
Some part of you takes that as a challenge. There seems to be a routine with it. You come around, clean, raid the fridge in the process.
As time passes, your work gets sloppy. People in the neighbourhood are complaining that you're leaving areas unfinished, counters half cleaned and floors soaked in 'dish water' with how bad you've gotten. People stop asking you to come.
You talk to the only person that doesn't seem to have any complaints. You're comforted quickly. You're burnt out, probably. People are asking too much and giving you too little. Your standards are fine, apparently.
In actuality, you get worse. You arrive at houses and expect the same treatment you get outside of town. You're hungry, so you need to eat. Not only do you leave houses barely clean, but you leave fridges empty. There's a name for you in the local area by now and contrary to before, it isn't a good one.
There's people saying you've gotten fat. It's not like you haven't noticed either, but it's not as bad as everyone's claiming. You only look fat because you haven't bought new clothes yet and obviously, cleaning exhausts everyone. It's normal to be winded.
Now that you've heard it though, you think about it. You start noticing that your shirt does ride up quite often. You're more conscious of your weight now, overtly aware that your arms jiggle whilst scrubbing counters. Your belly, especially, gets in the way often.
You don't count how often you need to readjust your clothes to keep yourself covered, because you've stopped doing that a while ago. You're alone, so why would you? You've gotten tired of fixating on your appearance. After all, it doesn't matter. You still have a nice smile and a welcoming presence.
You're sat in the most familiar house besides your own, the one that calls you far out of town. You're greeted by the usual presence of a thank you for your hardwork, handed a treat before the offering of dinner again. It's become a routine and, really, you need it. There's little income outside of this one house you supposedly clean.
You arrive each day now. There's a joke about how exhausting it must be for you to take the bus there, only there's a truth behind it. That walk from your house to the bus station, alongside the 'cleaning' you do, is essentially all you're doing and it shows.
Yet, despite the odds, you're comforted. You earn enough from such a menial job and have a free meal with food to take home each day. There's not much to complain about, besides the obvious.
You hate to disappoint.
There's one day where you don't finish your meal. The consequence of such is small, but it sits. There's talk about how the meal wasn't up to its usual standard and despite your desperate attempts to reassure, it falls flat. You learn not to leave your plate unfinished. It's impolite to do so.
It gets to a point where you're struggling. You have a designated seat in the house, but it creaks under your weight and seems to press against your hips now. You try to ignore it, but it's difficult. You're getting slower as the weeks progress, taking longer to finish your job and eventually staying for hours on end. Not only do you have one meal insisted upon you, but several. The routine continues.
You get to a point where hardly anything fits. You're left with shirts that leave your belly out, fabric that curls up your hip and sinks into your back rolls. The only items left that cover your lower half is sweatpants and underwear that's left on it's last seams.
It should be a sign to stop, but you can hardly remember where you've gone wrong. You've not been overeating, besides where you 'have' to. You're not ready to admit you're at fault and so the routine progresses.
You come over, sit, make an effort to clean and waddle around the house with something in your hand.
The coffee table digs into your belly, so you lift it just to reach all the way over. The sound that echos back seems louder these days and on today in particular, you've knocked something over again. It falls under the table, you groan.
Slowly, you move to your knees, getting on all fours and feeling your belly rub against the floor as you crawl underneath. Your breathing picks up. You can feel the fabric on your underwear pinch even more with the compromising position you're in. Your hip nudges against the table's leg, the entire thing shaking with the reminder to be aware of your own size.
You search for whatever has dropped, eventually finding a small, square device. You can't make it out at first. You focus on shuffling yourself out from underneath the table, getting to your knees with much needed effort and setting the device on the table.
You leave it there. You don't think about it, not until you notice a similar one placed atop the soil of a decorative plant. It takes you a lot of thought, mainly because your initial one seems to remind you how unfit you are.
You realise, suddenly, that's a camera. You make an attempt to pull your shirt down at the realisation before turning it away. You're embarrassed at the thought of being watched. Perhaps they're not active, but you're not yet dumb enough to consider why else they'd be here.
You keep it in mind as you clean. Terrifyingly, there's cameras everywhere. You're probably being monitored. Even in bathroom, one of the floors you've scrubbed whilst practically naked, there's cameras.
You're understandably furious and the confrontation comes consequently. Despite your agreeable nature, you're adamant that you're uncomfortable. For the first time, you're greeted with reality.
You're told how you've fattened up over the months. It's barely been a year, you're unrecognisable. You're reminded of your goals you spoke about that time, contrasted to now. You're stagnant. You're given the truth about how compliant you've gotten, far more than before only, right now, you're spoiled. You're reminded of all the times you've given in, all the times you've been unable to help yourself and each time you thought you were alone when you actually weren't.
Apparently, there's enough footage to make a whole documentary about you. A cautionary tale. There's a joke, or less of one, about releasing it; letting everyone know how and why their neighbourhood cleaner grew into someone completely different.
Your boundaries are pushed again with hands moving on either side of your body, gripping onto handfuls of fat that you believed wasn't there before. You knew you'd gained weight, but as it's said loud and clear, shown to you under the force of mocking hands, you realise how bad it is.
As you try to move away, you're ridiculed for the effort. The attempt. You have to give in, so you do. You ease into it, only to be greeted with contemptuous words about how indolent and pampered you are.
You don't stay the night, but you return the next day. Affectively, you have no choice.
Built to be pampered. Built to praised, prodded and played with relentlessly; hands all over your decadent skin, fingertips sifting in and over self-made intricacies. Heavy. Overwhelmingly so, even. You're made to be someone's pet, treated like an asset that needs to be sated constantly.
You're made to be exposed, to please and to be pleased in return. Simple minded, yet hedonistic. You're mentally predisposed, utterly susceptible to such conditioning. You're content when fed. You relish in touch. You thrive on handsy attention. You're built to be shown off, paraded around, something to be proud of. There's work put into you, to get this fat with the the type of appetite that stuns.
Feeding is incredibly hot but there's also something really enticing about observing. Commentating, too.
That's more than before. Feeling daring, are we? You make a lot of noise when you're enjoying yourself. Mostly when you're alone, but even elsewhere too. You've picked a habit, didn't you notice?
You're getting messy again. Don't clean yourself. We're alone. There's no reason to act all polite when you're enjoying yourself.
It's really something else to watch someone else come undone before your eyes. That gradual dial from hesitance to hedonistic, you're brashfully eating with a vigor that's truly unmatched. Worst of all, you have no one to pass blame to besides the evident gaze of endorsement.
There's something really special about smaller feedees with bodies far smaller than their goals/fantasties. You're practically waiting on the day that changes. They look unassuming now, but how they talk so vividly about their fantasies really gives the picture of how desperate they are to let themselves go.
There's denial on one end and delusion on the other. They'll talk about themselves as they aim to be, describing small bits of pudge as handfuls of fat. It's not there yet but it will be. In a public setting, they're barely chubby, yet they're already doing all they can to make themselves as fat as possible. They're eager. It's that eagerness that let's people fall head first into something like this.
Yet, no matter how deep it is, they've already fantasised about it several times. They're so far removed from it, craving to get so much heavier than they are. The day these fantasies happen will be tremendous. The time where they stand there, only able to imagine what it was like to be that small, will be everything they've ever gotten off to.
I need to ruin you. I want people to ask me what happened to you, how you let yourself go so quickly and mindlessly. I need to see the mournful expression on people's faces, praising the figure you used to have and telling me what a shame it is that you've gotten so unfathomably fat.
I need you unrecognisable, waist twice the size and your previous outline nowhere to be seen. You sink into every seat, taking up far more space than before and creaking every chair loud enough to bring attention to you.
I need you to blow up at an ungodly rate, at a pace people can't even digest. You get carried away, no matter the place, a complete slave to your own indulgence and making an absolute scene every time eating is involved.
I need everyone to know how insatiable you are. You show people how much you've changed, what my influence has done to you. I don't even need to say anything, the way you eat and how much you eat says it all.
I need you lazy, breathing far too heavily as you mutter something about activities like this being easy only a few months back. You're blind to how much you've gained, embarrassed at how fast you've grown. You can't help but underestimate your own presence, knocking into things and squeezing into clothes that only fit sincerely well a while ago.
You've gone too far. Your figure says it all. Fat is your main descriptor. People talk about you and the first thing they mention is how insane the difference is, how much you've grown and how blinding it is to see how fat you've gotten within such a time.
You're huge. You've absolutely ruined yourself. Your body, your appetite, your metabolism, your image. Everything about you says insatiable, hedonistic and helpless.
