You're so close to just totally giving in, aren't you, fatty?
Oh, are you pretending you're not? Cute. Everyone in your life knows that you're about to completely give in to being a gluttonous, greedy, fatass but you. Aw, don't act surprised now. Can you blame them? Look at how those pants are digging into that fat, hanging gut of yours. How tight that top is around your arms, how soft your face is. Even most people with double chins don't have ones you can pinch, chubby, don't you know that? Don't whine, now. I know you like the feel of my nails digging into the pad of fat under your face.
And everyone can you see shamelessly stuffing your face at dinner. It's cute, honestly, how little you're aware of it. You're always showing up high, now, too greedy for that soft fuzzy feeling between your ears to wait to smoke with the rest of our friends. We can all tell. You get this cute, blissed out look on your face, and you also eat like a pig. Eating with your hands. Burping and hiccuping. Sauce dripping down your chin—I mean, chins.
It suits you, though. You're clearly just made for it. You never even notice when people slide their leftovers onto your plate, you just keep eating, stuffing your face like you haven't eaten in weeks.
Don't worry, chubby. We're all into it. It's nice having someone around to clean up the leftover food and to make us look skinnier. So don't think about it. Thinking was never your strong suit, anyway. Just give in, be a nice, fat pig like you're meant to be, and we'll all take care of you, okay? You know I'm into fat girls. I'll feed you until your double chin becomes triple and your belly touches the floor.
You're a feedee, yeah, but you're sensible about it—that's what you tell yourself. You're a hedonist, not restricting yourself, indulging freely and lavishly, gaining weight as a side effect of your decadence. Sure, you'll eat a whole pizza, drink a whole bottle of wine, and then eat ice cream. And maybe you do that a lot. Maybe you can't touch your chin to your chest anymore because of the thick collar of fat on your neck. But your clothes mostly still fit, and your gain has plateaued, and people have gotten used to you being a fat girl after the initial blow-up. You've always had an appetite, your wife openly feeds you and brags about how much she like your new, soft body, and your friends even tease you on it from time to time. You're not like the girls you follow on Tumblr—you're not chugging gainer shake, not doing ten-thousand calorie stuffings. You're being realistic, not gaining five pounds a week. You're taking it slow. You go on walks, you go to the gym. Your wife wants you fatter, but she doesn't want to "cheat" with gainer shakes, she just wants to stuff you full of steak and pasta and cake and watch you soften up at a modest ten pounds a year, rolling slowly towards 300.
But one day she comes home from work with ten cartons of cream and a case of beer. She's dressed up nice today, tight black skirt, pin-striped buttondown. You ask what all the cream is for—does she want you to make irish cream again?—and she laughs.
"I'm tired of you not gaining weight anymore," she says. "My pig needs to be bigger." She makes you your first shake that night, straddles you while she pours it into your mouth after dinner. You feel over-full, nauseous, lethargic, and you're dripping wet about it. She brings home a funnel and tube the next day.
You're no longer a good fatty. Your hourglass figure is gone, your belly dominates your frame, your belly bounces and pushes and oozes out of all your clothes, and you're constantly turned on, which makes you hungry. Soon you're guzzling three-thousand calories after dinner every night. You're losing mobility. Clothes you've worn for years are straining over your arms, your thighs, your ass. An old friend catches you alone, asks if you're okay, and when you say, Of course, yeah, what do you mean?, they won't even say it aloud, just look you up and down and grimace.
When you get home, you're ravenously horny. You beg for your wife to feed you and she gleefully obliges, and you drink eight-thousand calories in a single sitting, blowing past your personal best of five-thousand. It's a tipping point for you. The last shreds of restraint are gone and you start to really blow up, your entire life and being flattening into a never-satisfied hunger.
Your stretchmarks cover huge areas of your body now, shining red lightning belting your belly, striping your fupa (you take her word for it, you can't see them), covering your arms, your tits, even one tucked away inside your chins, a secret little brand of gluttony. Your wife writes your resignation e-mail for your work-from-home job for you while you eat a cake on all fours. You're her pig now, Mommy's sweet little pudding, constantly naked, stuffed, and stoned. She doesn't let you know your weight.
You see your friends post a picture from the summit of a hike you do every year with them, and realize that they didn't even ask you, but it doesn't upset you. You haven't been outside the house in weeks because nothing fits you. Your belly flows to your knees. Your world's shrunk as your body grows. You don't remember the last time your day consisted of anything but eating.
One day, she makes you stand before breakfast. It's an ordeal, and she's strong, but she truly has to strain to lift you up. Your atrophied muscles are little help. Slowly, you waddle to the scale, chins bouncing, belly bouncing against your thighs as you walk, pouting and whining that she put it all the way on the other end of the room. You step on, eager to be laying back down and watching TV, and she gives a soft gasp, kisses you, grabs big soft handfuls of you.
"Want to know what it is?" she says, purring. You say sure. You've been curious for a while now.
She smiles as she speaks. "Four hundred and thirty-three pounds," she says. You're stunned. You try to push your tits and belly out of the way to look yourself, but there's too much. Your legs are already aching. Has she been keeping you that sedentary? You barely noticed.
She leads you back to the bed, praising you being her perfect pig, and once you're settled back in with your morning pre-breakfast shake you ask her: weren't you going to tell me when I hit 400, so I could go to the doctor, get checked up?
She just smiles, and your heart melts. You love her so much. "I think 500 would look better on you," she says. "Don't you want to be a good piggy?"
"I'm your good piggy," you say, starting to drink your shake. "When's breakfast?"
She started off small, quiet, anxious. It was how she'd been raised, it was what women were to her—ankle-length skirts, small waists, a perpetual diet, downcast eyes—and even after she got out of the church and got away from all that, it was already a habit.
Then she met you.
She stood out at Dyke Night, standing quietly in the corner in a long, red dress that was new and fit badly, baggy, a bold color on a nervous, unflattering cut. You were there watching all the people drinking and mingling in their ironic, niche t-shirts and vintage crops and bizarre combinations of flannel, and there she was, something new, picking at her nails and sipping seltzer water. You walked toward her quietly, saying a soft hello when you were close enough for her to hear you, but she still jumped, and your heart melted. Who was this soft, sweet, scared girl? What was she doing here all alone?
You gave her a soft smile, asked her name, gave her yours in return. She smiled back and you were dazzled, already lost in her warm green eyes, the long folds of her skirt, the brilliant gravity of her grin. You pulled her aside to a quiet corner of the patio, pushed a beer into her hand, asked her where she was from, and that's where it all started.
The blush crept into her cheeks, and her country accent, a lilting around the vowels, came out. You're both grinning now, leaning closer towards each other, every little fidget bringing you closer to her until you can see the constellations of her freckles. Finally, you ask the question you already know the answer to: "So, what brought you here?"
"I'm. . . hungry, I guess. I want something new," I guess," she said, "new experiences. New people. New food."
"Oh, sweetie, I love a girl with an appetite," you say, leaning forward, your belly pushing over your cut-off shorts, your tits almost falling out of your top. "I think I can help you with all of those."
She smiled, blushing, grinning from ear-to-ear but not quite looking at you. "I was hoping you could."
It's been a year now since you met her at the bar, the night you now call your first date, and it's hard to recognize her. She wasn't playing it up; she'd seen and tasted so little of what this life has to offer, and even now there were still so many firsts you wanted to do with her, even after you'd already shared her first beer with her, her first kiss, her first real orgasm. She was hungry, hungrier than you could've ever guessed, and it was all you could do to keep up with her, but you wouldn't trade it for the world. You were there when she first saw the sea at sunset, when she saw her first redwood, when you cooked her the first authentic Mexican food she'd ever had, and the delight in her eyes were what kept you going, amongst other things.
"Baby," she calls from the other room, her voice low and flirty, "can you help me get dressed? I'm stuck." You round the corner and you're dumbstruck by what you see.
Gone is the narrow waist, the slim jawline, the air of quiet reserve, all of it buried under a hundred pounds of soft, new fat and a confidence bordering on arrogance—she calls you over with her eyes. "This doesn't fit anymore," she pouts, "what happened? Did you shrink it?" It takes you a second to realize it, but it's the red dress from the first fateful night. Her tits, swollen and stretch-marked, pour over the pitifully small cups, a stray bit of areola making you bite your lip. Her belly is tight against the fabric, her belly button a soft dimple in the red, the pert roundness of her gut deforming the entire line of the dress, her side rolls flowing out of the zipper she's holding with both hands. She didn't even try to close it herself, that's why you're there, but it's cute she pretends to make an effort.
"You've been greedy, my girl," you say, helping her to her feet without her even asking, examining the hopelessly small dress with amusement. "All those new restaurants, all those nights out, all those late-night food deliveries, they have to go somewhere, honey. Look at you. This big, soft, stretch-marked gut. These tasty udders. That giant, wobbly ass." Your hands punctuate your sentence, her moaning when you grope her, and wandering from her ass to between her legs as you stand behind her. "And this big squishy fupa, baby. What would they think of you back home? Would they even know you? You look like you ate that shy girl who I was eyeing across the bar all that time ago." She was helpless, leaning into you, grinding her hips into yours. "Anyways, let's help you get dressed."
Your forearms straining, you manage to pull each side of the zipper together with one hand and force it closed with the other, watching the fabric stretch thinner and tighter against her in the mirror, every curve and roll and dimple highlighted, all the more sexy for how this used to drape on her. "God, what did you do to yourself?" you ask.
"It's not my fault," she mumbles, nuzzling her head against you. "You feed me too much."
"I'm just letting you try new things, baby," trying to sound sexy as you can while forcing the zipper closed, its teeth clicking begrudgingly together as you slowly push it closed. "I didn't force that food down your throat. I didn't make you order more food after you came home stuffed. I didn't—"
You both gasp as the dress gives up, side seam bursting, her hips bulging out of the seam. She shimmies a little and the seam rips entirely, and the little laugh she gives as it falls to the floor leaves you burning. "It's okay baby," you say, pulling her towards you, slipping her fingers right where she likes it, kissing her neck, feeling how heavy her belly is on your arm and how wet she already is, "I'll get you something new."
office fatty but she's leaning way too into it. only wearing pink. taking two lunches. not-so-subtly asking people to make those triple-chocolate brownies again, they were SO good. not sizing up clothes until a manager takes her aside. rumors spread when people realize the giant tote she always carries is nothing but snacks. money changes hands when she breaks her first chair before her 1-year.
I tried everything to put weight on you. You wanted it, and I wanted it, but the university kept you so busy, always flitting from teaching a class to running a meeting to participating in a workshop to running an after-school club for your students, you were always in motion and the weight never stuck, no matter how high I heaped your plate at dinner or how much I pushed into you on the weekends, and after a while I started to let the dream of having more of you go. I abandoned the weekend feasts and settled for having a plain white box from Sandpiper's Sweets around the house, filled with lemon tarts and raspberry cookies and poppy kolackes and all your other little weaknesses, trying to focus on enjoying you as you are, the sweet caramel of your eyes, the intoxicating curve of your hips. Of course, I made sure you always had a few sweets in your bag before you left for your morning class, and kept cooking you heavy dinners, but that's the only way I cook, anyway.
It was a few months later, in bed, as I kissed you up and down in all your beauty, that I noticed you felt different.
A little more give around your waist, a little more weight in my hand when I held your breast, the slightest roundness in your cheeks. I didn't want to jinx it by saying it out loud, but I'm sure you noticed the little pinches while I took you into my mouth, fantasizing about having to fight your belly to eat you out. The next morning, I packed an extra treat in your bag, a crumbly chocolate scone.
"You know, I think people are starting to notice that my bag has more sweets in it than books," you said when you got home, and I wrapped my arms around your neck and kissed you, deeply, my hand going to your waist.
"They only think that it must be what keeps you so sweet," I said. "And it's not my fault that when I order a dozen she gives me fifteen."
"And it's my waistline that's going to pay that price?"
I kissed you again, and then it was time for dinner. We were tired and didn't talk much, but when I searched your face for extra softness it seemed like I found it, and I started scheming up more little indulgences I could push onto you. Double cream in your coffee. The little bag of pretzels becoming a sandwich thick with salami and soft cheese. Dessert every night, without exception, fed to you with one hand while the other wandered over your softness. It was undeniable now, but I doubt anyone less obsessed with you than me could've noticed it. But over time, it worked it. It wasn't much, but I had more of you.
"Baby?" you called from our bedroom. "I think you might actually be making fat." My face was hot when I got to the bedroom, and I knew it wasn't just from climbing the stairs.
You were standing in front of the mirror in your fancy dress, emerald green with a white belt that set off your dark skin perfectly and had used to drape over your hips elegantly, suggesting curves without revealing them, the perfect professional dinner dress for an upscale alumni dinner. The suggestion of curves was gone now, though, replaced with your hips booming out from your waist, your belly round and soft and outlined in the soft green fabric, your neckline full with more cleavage than was strictly appropriate.
"Might be?" I said, hypnotized by you. I wrapped my arms around you from behind, drinking you in, watching my hands curve and cup pinch while I whispered in your ear. "You look amazing, baby. You look hot. You look loved. You look like a fucking goddess. Look at those hips, baby, feel how much of a handful—a real handful—they are. Yours is the kind of body people pine after their whole lives, the kind people get surgery for. Every inch of you is fucking gorgeous and now there's even more inches for me to appreciate, to love, to worship. You know we're not going to stop, right? I need more of you. I need it, I need you." I dropped to my knees in front of you, taking your cock in my mouth, looking up at the perfect curves of your newly fatter breasts. "I need you," I mumbled, and you moaned, pushing deeper down my throat.
"Are you alright in there baby?" your wife asks from the other room, her voice low and loving and slightly smug. "You've been huffing and puffing for a few minutes now."
"I'm fine!" you say, heaving the waist of your skirt over your belly. "I just haven't done my asthma inhaler in a while and it's dusty in here."
"Just asking. I thought that your Christmas outfit might be a little tight."
"It's not," you say. It is tight, but you're not giving her the satisfaction.
And when you finally wrestle your skirt's zipper up as far as you can get it and present yourself to her, there's something hungry in her crooked smile. You stand there quietly, obediently, as she walks behind you, taking in every roll, every bulge, kissing your doughy cheek, sliding a hand up your leg and pinching at the beginnings of a thigh roll.
"Need some help with the zipper, piggy?" she asks, her voice in your ear. The floral, spicy scent of her skin makes you feel drunk, the background mental patter of your anxieties dropping away as you lean into her.
"I do," you say. She doesn't move a muscle, looks at you expectantly.
Softly, you oink, and she zips it shut carefully. "This is getting pretty tight, baby. Have you really looked at yourself? I can see the outline of your gut."
"It's A-line," you pout, "it's slimming. Besides, I like looking like a poinsettia." You run your hands over your red, cotton skirt and and emerald-green sweater, your classic Christmas outfit.
"Yes, you only look like a little bit of a pig," she said. "Your family might say something, though. The skirt is getting closer and closer to not covering your ass anymore. See?" She flipped a hand underneath the hem of your skirt and grabbed a handful of your ass, soft fat squeezing through her fingers.
"It's not like they don't know I'm fat," you say, "and anyways, we should get going, we'll be late."
On the drive up to your parents, as you chit-chat about gifts, other holidays plans, whatever comes to mind, her hand is on your belly. She feels every bounce, every ripple, and her touch makes you suddenly grateful. Not just for that moment, but for all of it—the way you take care of her and she takes care of you, the way her love shows in your stretchmarks and extra chins as you mold yourself to her desires, the warm, everyday intimacy of being her favorite pillow—and you cry quietly to yourself, thankful to have found the love you spent your whole life looking for. A love beyond luck, beyond stress, beyond anything.
When you get to your parents, they welcome you both in warm hugs. She's a part of the family now, gets along better with your dad than you do, and as you graze on the over-sized feast your parents have laid out (what family doesn't put out too much food at the holidays?), you're extra-aware of her light touches on your waist and on the crest of your tightening belly. Home-made thumbprint cookies, small platters of capicola and crackers and smoked cheese and fish, flaky biscuits warm and fresh from the oven, little jars of jam from scattered farmer's markets—you graze, constantly, not realizing how full you are until you stand and feel the taut, warm weight of your belly pulling you forward.
Needing a break from socializing, you go to the bathroom in the back of the house where it's quieter, stepping silently through your childhood home as a habit. Through a cracked window, you hear whispering voices and the chime of ice in a glass, smell the bitter richness and skunkiness of a noxious spliff. It's your wife and your father, talking quietly, alone.
"Hey, just wanted to say, we're all glad you're part of the family," he says, drunk, affectionate. "I mean it. What you and her have—it's the real deal."
"Hey, man, you know, I love my family, but they just don't talk with each other like y'all do," your wife says. "Moving to be her with was the best decision I ever made."
"It's great you feel that way, it's great. I'm glad she found someone who can handle her, y'know?"
"We handle each other. It works."
"Eats like a pig, doesn't she?"
Your wife laughs at his tactlessness, and you hear the tension and joy in it, biting your own tongue to keep from making noise. "I mean, hey, we're both fat. It happens when couples get comfortable with each other."
"Always knew she'd end up that way. Fuck, once, when she was young, we took her to a raspberry farm and dear God, she ate for hours and hours. We didn't know where she was half the time. She must've ate at least a gallon of them."
"Oh yeah, I've heard about that," your wife says. "I mean, she's a great cook, so it evens out. Food is one of the things we initially bonded over y'know?"
"Bit of a chubby-chaser, huh?" Just like him not to let it go.
"It's not much of a chase anymore," your wife says, and they laugh while you bite your tongue again. "Always happens to girls I'm with. I like it. Means they're comfortable."
"Hey, as long as you're okay with it, but one day you might have to tell her slow down," he says.
"I don't think I will. Anyways, man, stop hogging the damn joint."
"Sorry, sorry," he says, and the conversation turns away from you. Smiling, you silently step away, suddenly hungry, ready to eat for your love, your wife, your owner. When she comes back in, you're even more stuffed, and the light in her dark eyes are she steps over, grinning, cupping the side of your stuffed gut, is what you live for.
"I love you," you say, looking up at her, adoringly.
"I love you too," she says, popping a piece of bread and rich, yellow butter into your mouth.
You were fine with the weight plateau, really. You'd gained forty pounds, already, and it was a lot—going from being a little curvy to having a belly hang, a side roll, a pad of fat under your face you were horny-worried was going to become a double chin. But then the stuffings seemed to stop leaving their marks on your body, and you were starting to outgrow the really cute clothes you'd bought when you started transitioning and that made you sad, and you found peace with not chasing numbers on scale, just indulging with the woman you love as she worshipped you and made sure that, if at least you weren't gaining, you didn't lose an ounce.
Then, you met her.
It was by accident, mostly, a glib reply to someone you thought was way out of your league—she was tall, dark-skinned, confident to the point of regality, but apparently she liked people who made her laugh, and you'd always been funny. One thing led to another led to long conversations with your wife led to a short flight to a different town, stepping from the chill of the airport into the swampy Southern air into her black convertible. She was just as charming in real life as she was in person, even more so, but when you heard her laugh for the first time in person you knew there was something more, and when she took you out somewhere nice and fed you a bite of her creamy pasta before she'd tasted it, leaning in slowly and carefully with her warm, piercing eyes, her high cheekbones, the light shining off her skin like moonlight on a midnight lake, you knew were in love, again. And when you were in her bed that night, when she was digging her perfect nails into your gut stuffed with rich, expensive food, your heart was already trying to make a three-way stitch.
Cue many more long conversations with your wife, tentative, yielding, hopeful, nervous. The tension in the air before she flew in to meet you two at your home and how that tension dissolved in laughter and became high-pitched anticipation, the way you felt love-drunk at watching your wife, the woman you loved more than anyone or anything in the world, the woman whose face was the book you read in every day, flirting with the woman who made you want to lay at her feet and beg for a golden collar.
When you put the red beans and rice on the table for dinner and saw both their satisfied, happy faces, you knew, yes, this was happening. The wine and conversation was flowing, your wife's low chuckly laugh ran like a bass line under your girlfriend's high, melodic trill. It was just a question of who was going to make the first move. Surprisingly, your wife did, leaning in after another bout of laughter and tracing the line of your girlfriend's jaw. "God, your laugh," your wife said, her hand resting lightly on your girlfriend's jaw. "It's just like our little piggy said. How did your describe it again, dear?"
"Intoxicating," you said, blushing. Our little piggy?
"Intoxicating," your wife said. "Exactly right."
Your girlfriend didn't need more than that, crouching forward to bring her face level with your wife's, her eyes closed, and they kissed, and kissed, and kissed, ending in a low moan from your wife's throat as your girlfriend pulled away and they both turned to look toward you, blushing, squeaking softly as both of their gazes hit you at the same time.
"You know, you haven't shown me your bedroom yet," your girlfriend said, even though you had.
"I'll just get a few things together," your wife said, taking a piping bag full of pudding from the fridge. "Why don't you go get your ears, piggy?"
"Yes, Mommy," you said, the embarrassment making you feel light and helpless when you saw your girlfriend's grin.
"She's so obedient with you," your girlfriend said. "She was so feisty with me, or she was until I had her drunk and stuffed, at least."
"That sounds like my piggy," Mommy said, making her way upstairs. "Come on, pig! Feeding time!" And with a slap on the ass from your girlfriend, you made your way upstairs to the bed.
"In your usual spot," Mommy said, grabbing your cuffs from the closet, and obediently, to your girlfriend's delight, you settled against the headboard and held your arms up in the air to be cuffed.
"I didn't know she was so well-trained," your girlfriend said as Mommy tightened the pink leather cuffs against your wrists, then tied them tight to the headboard.
"She's shy about it, it's so cute, my greedy little piggy," Mommy said, finishing the last knot. "It's not like you can hide that big belly of yours, can you? They might not know you beg me every night to pump you full of lard, but they sure can see the effects." She slapped your gut hard, crawling on the bed next to you. Your girlfriend stood, staring, watching your fat wobble and still, then ripped her clothes off and crawled into bed next to you, your wife on your other side.
"My ears," you said, feebly. Your wife wiggled them in front of you expectantly, making you oink not just once but three times before she nestled your ears on your head, the thoughts dropping straight of your brain. You'd been excited, desperate, the joy heightened by your nervousness. Now you were just hungry, really hungry, and you strained at your cuffs looking at everything tasty in front of you, your girlfriend's lean body, your wife's shorter, doughier one, the bag of pudding calling to you from the side table.
"She really is like a different person," your girlfriend said. "It's weird, almost. Soon as they went on she just. . ."
"It suits her too well to be weird," your wife said. "But yeah, I get it. The light in her eyes changing. But that's just how my piggy is, isn't it?" She put her hands on your fat, hanging, stretchmarked breasts, twisting your nipples hard without any warm-up just how you liked, and you almost came right there, arching your back and moaning, and then they were on you.
It was a high past anything you'd ever felt. Not just the physical feeling of it, four hands and two mouths pinching and biting and kissing and licking all over you, but that is was them, your people. The sure, quick, soft hands of your wife to what she knew were your favorite spots, running their usual circuit faster and faster, and then your girlfriend's long, firm fingers filling the gaps, teasing your clit while your wife sucked on your tits, kissing you deeply while your wife pent you up with her tongue, slapping your gut hard—bruise-hard, harder than your wife ever would—while your wife slipped one lazy finger in you, curling it up against you, giving you the first shaky breathless orgasm of the night that left your whole body buzzing for me. Pulling toward the pudding, you moaned, begging for it.
"God," your girlfriend said, rutting on your thigh while your wife cut the tip of the piping bag. "God."
"Right?" your wife said. "Here, eat her out, slow, just keep her at the edge, I'll feed her." Your mouth clamped greedily around the bag as your girlfriend nestled between your cellulite thighs, the first stroke of her tongue making you thrash your legs. "Gentler, gentler. She doesn't get to come until she's done." Your girlfriend listening, taking the short, sensitive length of your clit into her mouth but staying away from the tip as, finally, the pudding pumped into you. It was pistachio, a mild sweet nutty flavor, and if your mind had been empty before now it was blank. After the first few swallows you didn't even have to think about it, your wife's steady hands pumping it down your throat while you felt nothing but your stomach stretch out further and easily, thousands of calories settling heavily in your stomach on top of the enormous rich dinner you'd just eaten, but it felt right. It felt good, it was you were meant for, a soft pillowy pleasure that infused every cell of your body as you drank and drank, and on top of that pleasure were the lightning flicks from your girlfriend's mouth that built and built until your wife ran her long red-nailed hand down the length of the bag and you were a person with thoughts again.
"Good job, piggy," your wife crooned, pinching a chin hard. "And good job for keeping her on the edge with how sensitive she is. But she's earned it. Finish her off." Instantly, the pressure in your stomach and your girlfriend's tongue brought you over the edge and into it, the thoughts again, and you were nothing, you thought nothing, you felt nothing but full and warm and loved, and the orgasm ripped you for what felt like forever, love beyond measure filling you, overflowing you, over, and over, and over.
You two weren't dating, and it wasn't a cute, hopeful-but-tentative-not-dating-but-maybe-dating-soon, it was something you didn't like to think about. She wanted you to feed you, clearly. The funnel sticky with weight gain shake and your distended potbelly attested to that. But you knew that she didn't want to be more with you, and you knew you were never going to know why.
She started off as a blank profile picture that you bothered to reply to for some reason, even though it was nameless and faceless, and, surprisingly, there was good conversation behind it--funny, smart, charming stuff that drew you in deeper than "ur gonna get so fat" ever could. And it turned out she was kind of local, so a few weeks later, there you were, driving up to some rural bar she swore had good food. The food was fine, and so was the date--just fine. She seemed nervous for some reason, alternating between watching enraptured at every bite that moved from your plate to your lips and starting every time someone a waitress walked by. But then when you walked back to your cars, she pushed you against yours,
leaned in close, and shoved a piece of chocolate in your mouth with a desperate look in her eyes, then another piece, then another, and her lips were on yours and then you were in her car going to a drive-through. She fed you two burgers, some fries, and finally poured the milkshake into your mouth, holding it to your lips until you finished it as you burped and tried to pull away, more stuffed than you'd ever been, your small belly pushing out over your tight shorts.
You met her every so often after that, and talked most days, but she never really let you know about her, her personal life a vague sketch she kept vague. She was interested in making you fatter, and that's what she did, buying meals for you on the condition you recorded yourself eating them, and you grew, your belly softening and rounding and widening, the sharp jawline you'd always got complimented on swallowed by the soft tide of your own greed. You stopped asking her about personal stuff, eventually, and when you did she got warmer, feeding you more, responding faster in dirty talk, calling you her "pet pig." And when you met her, there was no pretense at conversation. You went to the restaurant or hotel room, exchanged niceties, and she fed you. Always, she fed you more food, heavier food, and faster. You wondered if she had a boyfriend and you were her little lesbian experiment and then just stopped caring about it. It wasn't what you wanted, but it was what you had, and it's not like people were beating down you door to feed you.
One day after stuffing you, she gave you a box, an unopened Amazon package with the address label torn off. Inside was a scale.
"I was thinking, I kind of want to do more with you," and hope soared in your heart. "I'll link this scale to my phone, so when you weigh yourself, I'll see it. And I made you this." She passed you a binder, and inside were a list of meals and recipes, all of them dated, starting tomorrow. "You can eat a lot even now, but you could eat even more with a little training, and then I can really put the weight on you."
"Training," you said, "like I'm an athlete on a regimen."
Weirdly enough, it didn't make you outright heavier at first. It was a lot of grains, a lot of fiber, a lot of water and seltzer, and you started actually feeling hungry even though you were bloated all the time. It went on like that for a week, lots of broccoli and water chugs and chicken, and then the recipes changed. Cream was in everything, lots of Kraft made with heavy cream and bacon specifically as a right-before-bed-meal, but also in scrambled eggs and in protein shakes, and you ballooned. It was intoxicating, feeling yourself ballooning like that, the indescribably hot feeling of getting fatter by the second as you sat there, letting yourself go bite by bite.
And then she cancelled your next meeting, but mailed you a binder without a return address, with your fattening schedule. And she cancelled the next one as your breath got short, as you outgrew clothes, as the casual acquaintances all started treating you weird. Not worse, really, but. . . some took you less seriously, some seemed concerned and would mention their diets a lot more, and some, especially men seemed to just start kind of ignoring you. You weren't the serious consultant anymore; you were the one that needed to hit the gym and get clean, or at least buy new clothes, for God's sake. Little did they know it was for a woman who seemed like she was trying to avoid you.
But finally, she did agree to meet you again. You wore something intentional, the blue dress you'd worn when you first met her, now obscenely tight and too short to wear anywhere but to see her, your belly pressing hard and the indent of your bellybutton like the pupil of a demanding eye.
It was quiet when you got into the hotel room, a little suite with a kitchen. She was wearing a long dress with buttons from the neck to the hem, leaning against the counter, and her eyes flew to you as soon as you walked in. You could feel her picking out every detail, the faint beginnings of a third chin, the roll of fat under your arms, the globe of your perpetually stuffed gut staring at her as you looked at her expectantly.
She said nothing, working the buttons on her dress down one by one, motioning with her head to the fridge. A sheet cake sat inside in the clean sterility of the barely-used fridge, the only food in there. On top of it sat a harness with a modest, black dildo in it. Knowing was what expected of you, you put the cake on the floor, tossed the plastic cover aside, and handed her the strap before plunging your face into the cake, mentally savoring the first view of her naked you'd ever see. You dug into the cake eagerly, knowing from experience that you'd need more to feel full, confident she'd take care of you.
The first thrust into you felt heavenly, your mind dropping its thoughts and preoccupations like someone dropping a tray of silverware. Her voice was smooth and thrumming and dripping with genuine contempt as she fucked you.
"It's incredible what I've done to you, really, what you've done to yourself with just a little help from me. You could've pretended if you hadn't met me. Pretended that you weren't a giant, greedy, disgusting pig, tried to fit in with the normal people and just let go a few nights of year, pretended that the thing you're meant to do on this planet is something other than stuffing your fat face." She started slowly but sped up quickly, pounding into your ass while you ate so that you had to play dead and let the weight of your overworked gut hold you back from getting pushed into the cake, and it made you even hungrier, for her and for the cake. Her hips slapped hard into you and held pushed in for a second before starting again, slow. "Now you've eaten yourself so far past the the point where you could ever really be thin again. Permanently damaging yourself for this stupid fucking fetish? Do you think I don't want to let go like you? Do you think I don't wish I could be the gluttonous, greedy, desperate thing you are? But I can't, because I just won't demean myself like that. Have you looked at yourself? Are you in denial? Do you think you can ever be"--she clutched hard at the lowest roll of your fat belly, digging her nails into it, her voice frantic, desperate, rushed--"normal again? Forever stretched out. Your lack of self-control has left its mark on your forever." She fucked you harder, sliding a hand between your legs as you felt yourself rise to the brink of orgasm. The cake was gone and frosting was matted into your hair, and your belly, bulging with cake and fat, ached as an orgasm shot its way through you like the sound of something breaking.
