His hotel was perfectly situated downtown, surrounded by restaurants and bars. He pulled off his tie and threw it aside, loosened his collar, and opened the maps app on his phone to scout out the food scene. He knew some of his colleagues were going to be doing a bar crawl tonight, but his plan was different—a dinner crawl. Scrolling through the pictures in reviews, his mouth started watering already. Once his game plan was set, he left his air-conditioned room and made his way down to the lobby and onto the sidewalk outside.

The heat and humidity hit him like a wet blanket after the cool, dry hotel air. A few drops of sweat beaded on his brow immediately, and the smells of pavement and car exhaust filled his nose. A few breaths later, the food smells from the restaurants started to hit.

His first stop was a fast casual Mexican food place just a block away with good reviews where he planned to grab a couple of barbacoa tacos. The line was out the door, but he was in no hurry. There was a special, so the two tacos he’d planned on turned into three tacos. They did not disappoint. What a good start to the night, he congratulated himself.

With those three tacos under his belt making his belly feel warm and comfortable, he headed on to the next place he’d chosen, a trendy Asian-Cajun fusion place. They seated him at the bar, and he ordered a sweet tea and downed most of it right away, as he was thirsty after the tacos and the walk in the heat. For an appetizer, he chose tempura fried shrimp served with Cajun remoulade dipping sauce. The sauce had a kick, but he made short work of it, along with a refill of sweet tea. His entrée—a big bowl of gumbo-inspired ramen—was spicier than the dip but not too spicy for him to finish.

By the time he slurped up the last of the ramen, his belly was sloshy and bloated with tea and broth, and he was very aware of his belt buckle. He stopped at the restroom on his way out, loosening his belt a couple of notches and admiring how his belly filled out his shirt. The fabric was pulled snug, but the buttons were not gaping. Several long belches arose, relieving some of the pressure that was building in his belly. He felt quite full, and he acknowledged most people would stop now and probably even complain of having eaten too much. Not him, though. He wasn’t at his limit yet.

Back on the street, he was greeted by a hazy, amber sunset and the bustle of nightlife starting to pick up. Cars honked. The smells and heat were as oppressive as ever. In fact, it felt even more humid than it had when he left his hotel. However, that didn’t deter him. He had one more stop to make!

The third restaurant he’d chosen was an award-winning farm-to-table café with a rotating seasonal menu. He’d kick himself if he was so close but didn’t try it. It was several blocks away, and his bloated belly made the walk less comfortable than the first two stops. The heat didn’t help. Several more burps, which tasted of the spicy sea food he’d just eaten, came up as he walked.

He immediately loved the atmosphere of the restaurant, with glowing string lights hanging over the patio area, rustic décor and herb planters scattered about the place. He didn’t choose an appetizer this time, but he did order a house cocktail. He considered the grass-fed burger, but in the end, he decided on the braised short ribs with roasted seasonal vegetables.

The serving was larger than he anticipated. Maybe at the beginning of the night, he wouldn’t have thought so, but with two meals in his stomach already, it looked like a lot of food. It was delicious, though. And he was made for this—he loved a good eating challenge. Every bite burst with flavor on his tongue even as his belly sat heavier and heavier in his lap. He could feel his belt buckle digging mercilessly into his underbelly, and his shirt stretched tighter and tighter across his swelling gut. Surreptitiously, he reached under the table and loosened his belt the rest of the way.

When the server came by to collect his empty plate and suggest peach cobbler à la mode for dessert, he didn’t have the strength to say no. It was even more delicious than the short ribs, if that was possible, even though he was so full he could barely swallow. It took him a while, but he managed to finish his dessert. With the last bite, he felt a surge of triumph and elation. He had done it. For a few minutes, he just sat back in his chair, trying to catch his breath.

Staggering back out onto the street after settling his bill, he realized he had made a slight error in judgement. Usually, he was back in his room with takeout when he reached this food-drunk state, not a twenty minute walk away. The heat was as oppressive as ever, especially since he’d been sitting outside on the patio. The only thing keeping his shirt from being as plastered to his sweaty back as it was to his swollen belly was the undershirt he wore beneath. Was the undershirt riding up a little? His belt, even on the loosest hole, felt like it was squeezing him in two. Or was that the waistband of his pants? He was desperate to unbutton them, but he knew this belt wouldn’t hide it if he did.

He set off in the direction of his hotel, trudging miserably, fighting to breathe, fighting to avoid throwing up all the wonderful food he had eaten. He struggled to suck in his stomach to keep it from jostling too much. He felt like he had a million pounds of food in his stomach. Every heavy footfall on the sidewalk sent reverberations back up to his overstuffed belly and triggered a case of the hiccups. He really didn’t think he was going to make it.

Then he spotted his salvation—a bench. He collapsed onto it with a groan, legs splayed, one hand resting on his protruding stomach in a futile attempt to soothe it. The need to pop open the button of his pants had become all the more dire, but he felt too embarrassed to do it with all the people walking by.

He plastered a weak smile on his face, trying to look like a man enjoying the evening rather than one coping with the miserable regret of a stomach about to burst. He should have chosen a restaurant closer to the hotel and saved the café for tomorrow. His greed and eagerness to try interesting restaurants had gotten the better of him.

Time passed—he wasn’t sure how much. The traffic squealed and honked a few feet away from him, and twilight turned into darkness. The hiccups had subsided, but he still panted for breath, giving his stomach an occasional rub as burps continued to come up. The street became busier as people and music spilled out of the bars. He considered calling an Uber, but the idea of paying for a ride for just a few blocks pricked at his pride.

Eventually, he felt well enough to stand up again, though the effort made him groan. He swayed on his feet for a moment, finding his balance with his still-overstuffed belly before resuming his trudge back to his hotel. The cool air of the lobby was a much-needed relief from the sticky, oppressive air outside. He nodded weakly at the front desk clerk, who gave him a knowing look.

“Rough night?” the man asked, assuming he was drunk.

Alone in the elevator, he finally released the button on his pants and cradled his stomach in both hands. Not caring whether security cameras were catching him he whispered, “Never again.”

But deep down, he knew that wasn’t true. He’d already planned out tomorrow’s dinner crawl route.

When we get home, I watch you as you get out of the car and head inside. By the way you are moving, I can tell you are full, but I know you’re not at capacity. A little later, you’ll probably let me feed you more while we cuddle and watch a movie. In anticipation of this, I stopped by the store earlier and grabbed a carton of ice cream and a few things to assemble a basic charcuterie board for us to share.

I head to the bedroom to change into something more comfortable. You follow me there and open my dresser drawer, pulling out the filmy nighty that opens in the front that you like me to wear. You toss it my way and tell me, “Put it on.”

Realizing the night may be heading a different direction than movie cuddles and snacks, I wiggle into it and then bring out a shirt I picked up for just such an occasion. It’s at least a couple sizes too small for you, and you struggle mightily to button it across your fat belly as I watch with bated breath, knowing you’re playing up the struggle a little for me. Finally, it’s buttoned. It gapes open between the buttons, your flesh showing through the creaking fabric.

With a smug grin, you plop down on the bed, and a button goes flying. My breath hitches, and I watch you push out your stomach, trying for a second button. You lean forward a bit, and the second button gives way, your belly surging out of the now much larger opening in the shirt. You look at me for approval, and your gaze draws me like a magnet. I straddle your lap, carelessly ripping the shirt open the rest of the way, the remaining buttons scattering. The shirt has served its purpose.

Our lips crash together. I push on your shoulders until you lay back on the bed, pulling me over with you. Your hands settle on my hips, pulling me closer to your body. I start to slowly grind against you, feeling you harden against me. 

“What do we have for dessert, baby girl?” I hear you ask through the fog of desire clouding my brain.

“I got you some ice cream,” I reply.

“Perfect,” you say.

The screen door creaked open, and his wife stepped outside carrying a plate laden with a generous slice of apple pie covered in whipped cream. Her blue flowered sundress fluttered in the breeze as she came over to the swing and sat down beside him. She tucked her feet up onto the swing and scooted close. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and gave a little squeeze as she placed the plate on the top of his belly.

“I thought you might want some more dessert,” she said as her fingers found the side of his overalls where he had left them unbuttoned to give himself more space.

“Some more? This looks like a lot more,” he observed, giving her a knowing grin.

“You always find room for apple pie!” she replied.

“But I’ve already found room for thirds of dinner and that first slice of pie,” he said with a slight groan, patting his belly, careful not to knock off the plate of pie even though it had a pretty substantial shelf to rest on. He knew this would get to her.

Sure enough, he heard her breath catch, and the fingers that had been caressing his love handle suddenly dug in and squeezed. He felt his cock start to stir.

“I’ll find room if you feed it to me,” he told her.

“Deal!”

She shifted around on the seat to position herself more comfortably. With a glint in her eye, she dug the fork into the pie and lifted it towards his mouth.

“Open up,” she instructed, a husky edge to her voice.

He did as he was told, the tender spiced apples, flaky crust, and rich cream filling his mouth. An involuntary moan escaped him as he leaned back, closing his eyes and slowly chewing.

“Mmm,” he said. “You make the best apple pie.”

She laughed lightly. “You know what they say—the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

He opened his eyes and gazed into hers. “You’ve had my heart and my stomach for a long time, hon,” he said. “Now feed me another bite of that pie.”

She already had the next forkful ready, and she brought it to his mouth. This one was bigger, and some of the whipped cream smeared the corner of his mouth. She leaned in close and kissed away the cream. He cupped the back of her head and turned it into a slow, lingering kiss. She tasted almost as good as the pie.

After a few moments, she pulled away and scooped another forkful of pie for him to eat. He was stuffed to bursting, but he hardly noticed. The world had faded to the sound of rain on the roof, the porch swing with the two of them on it, and her tender care and attention as she fed him the remaining bites of pie and caressed his belly.

Finally, the pie was gone, and she set aside the plate. Snuggled close to his side, she continued rubbing his belly. They stayed that way until the rain petered out and it started to get dark. She rose from the swing, and he admired the curve of her ass and hips in her sundress.

“Help me up?” he asked.

She took his hands and gave a little tug, helping him get enough momentum to heave off the swing.

“Always,” she said.

It started out as stress eating combined with your curiosity for gaining some weight. Receiving positive attention from me and other FFAs just added fuel to the fire. You were so busy, and it was so easy to grab Burger King almost every day, and those Hershey pies? Ooh, boy, did you love those, even if they didn't always love you back. You had your Lactaid pills, but sometimes you forgot them.

Truth be told, sometimes you forgot them on purpose. There is a part of you that enjoys the bellyache from overstuffing yourself or from eating food your body doesn't like to digest. You daydream of me there with you to hold your belly for you, attempting to soothe it while you groan and try to get more comfortable.

You tend to eat in secret, getting a first fast food dinner on your way home from work and hiding the evidence before eating a second normal dinner at home. You think of me as you eat your first dinner, how I am that devilish voice on your shoulder urging you to turn into the drive-thru, my phantom hands on your fat belly as you scarf it down. You daydream of what it would be like to get fat for me how much bigger you might wind up if we were there with each other in person.

I know you struggle sometimes, going back and forth between being a feeder and a gainer, going back and forth between being turned on by health issues and being concerned by them. I've watched you come and go several times over the years, but you always find your way back to me. Gain, lose, maintain, I don't care.

Because I know you, and I feel privileged to have gone on this journey with you.

How he was going to get up again without everyone noticing his unbuttoned pants, he wasn’t sure yet. Hopefully his sweatshirt was long enough to cover it.

He’d been forced to unbutton, though. While these had been his new, loose pants just two months ago, the holiday season had seen to the fact that they were no longer so loose. He was up 25 pounds since Halloween, much to the delight of his girlfriend. Those 25 pounds and a Christmas dinner feast sitting heavily inside his gut meant he’d been desperate for relief from his waistband when he managed to heave himself up from the table, doing his best not to give away to his family just how uncomfortably stuffed he was and how his pants were squeezing him in two.

“Another slice of apple pie?” his girlfriend asked him, handing him a plate with a generously sized piece of pie with an even more generous dollop of whipped cream on top. He took the plate, already wondering how he was going to force it in.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” his mother asked disapprovingly, for what felt like the dozenth time.

“Aw, give it a rest, Ma,” his oldest brother said. “He’s just getting fat and bald like the rest of us, finally.”

This was only partially true, as his brothers could both be described as barely chubby at best, and he had clearly gone from being the fit one his mother held up as an example to being the much fatter one in the space of a single year. But he appreciated the support, backhanded though it may be, and gave his brother an appreciative nod as he dug into the first bite of pie.

“I’m just concerned,” his mother said. “It’s not normal to gain so much weight so quickly. I really think you should see a doctor or nutritionist.”

No, it probably wasn’t normal to gain weight so quickly, but most people probably didn’t have a feeder girlfriend encouraging them to do so. He’d wanted to be fat as long as he could remember, but he’d never allowed it to happen, other than the occasional bulking phase that he’d never let get too out of control. Not until he had met her, that is.

He’d found her on Tinder in January, and her profile said she liked guys with big appetites and a little extra meat on their bones. He hadn’t had the extra meat then, but he’d always eaten a lot due to all the physical activity he did, so he took a chance and messaged her. She’d agreed to a first date, and he’d made an effort to impress her, devouring his entree, polishing off the rest of hers, and ordering a dessert to share. She’d taken a single bite of the dessert and then let him have the rest.

Evidently he had made a good impression, as the first date turned into a second date, and a third, and they soon became a couple. He kept making those good impressions, and it was not long before he found himself tipping the scales higher than he’d ever been before. Nearly a year later, he was 75 pounds heavier than when he’d met her and 75 pounds heavier than the last time he’d seen his family last Christmas.

He ignored his mother’s remark, filling his mouth with more pie instead, though her comment had gotten to him. His girlfriend could sense the shift in his mood, and she sat down on the sofa beside him, sliding under his blanket, her hand finding his swollen belly beneath it. He felt her hand pause slightly when she realized his pants were open. She looked up at him, and he recognized that gleam in her eyes. The moment between them passed unnoticed by the others, or at least unnoticed as significant, but it gave him the motivation he needed to double down on that slice of pie.

“Well, son, are you planning to get back in the gym in the New Year?” his dad asked.

“Oh, he goes to the gym several times a week already!” his girlfriend replied for him. “He is big into weight lifting.” She punctuated this remark with an appreciative squeeze of his bicep and a bright grin.

His younger brother cleared his throat and suggested finding the game on TV, a suggestion which was met with relief by everyone.

A few hours later, as they started their long drive back home, his girlfriend asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Still stuffed,” he grunted, smoothing both hands across his round, bloated belly. “That last piece of pie you brought me really did a number on me. I should not have eaten that. I don’t know how I found the room.” His pants were still unbuttoned, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever button them again.

“I mean how are you feeling about your family’s reactions?” she clarified.

“Oh. Well, I knew they were going to have something to say about it. I have always been the most athletic sibling, and my mom was always big on healthy eating growing up. Our family doesn’t get fat.”

“Until now,” she said.

“Until now,” he agreed. “It felt really weird being the fat one. The way my mom watched every bite I took this weekend and kept talking about doctors sucked.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry your family is like that.”

“Me too. But I don’t think I could lose weight if I tried. I love food way too much, and it’s all your fault! Next year they’ll really have something to talk about!”

Your route to the store takes you right past the local mom-and-pop fried chicken joint. They have the BEST chicken around. Your weakness. You can practically feel the crunch of the crispy breaded skin in your mouth. Before you know it, your car finds its way into the drive-thru line as if drawn by a magnet. You don’t even glance at the faded menu board, which you know by heart. You give your order through the crackly speaker: the 8 piece family meal, which comes with 8 pieces of chicken and four biscuits. You ask for all drumsticks, with mac and cheese as the side and a large Coke to drink. The bag they hand you through the drive-thru window has a familiar heaviness to it. You take the first gulp of Coke as you drive away.

A few minutes later, you pull into the grocery store parking lot, find a spot near the back, and tear into the bag, moaning quietly as your teeth sink into the first crunchy, greasy drumstick. The breading shatters satisfyingly, giving way to tender, succulent meat beneath. The drumstick disappears quickly, and you grab another, eating it about halfway before searching out the first of four fluffy, buttery biscuits and another slurp of Coke. The rest of the drumstick follows the biscuit in short order, and you reach for the third drumstick, savoring the crunchy bites as you fumble the plasticware out of its wrapper so you can get into the mac and cheese. It is cheesy perfection, and you moan again as you bolt it right out of the serving tray.

Bite by greedy bite, the drumsticks, the biscuits, the mac and cheese, and the Coke all disappear into your stomach. Grease glistens on your lips and fingers. Crumbs and drips speckle your shirt. You feel dazed, almost sick as the effects of your meal catch up to you. A belch relieves some of the pressure in your stomach, which feels like a lead balloon has expanded inside it. You moan again, this time from the discomfort of being so stuffed, along with the simultaneous pleasure it brings you.

You lean back in your seat and rub your stomach up and down, trying to get a bit more comfortable as the meal really hits you now. Your hand bumps against the steering wheel, and looking down, you see how close your stomach is to it. Damn. When did you get so fat? You weren’t supposed to be doing this anymore.

The grocery store entrance seems impossibly far away in your stuffed state. You start the car and move it to a closer spot. In the new spot, you sit a while longer, waiting for your meal to settle enough that the idea of walking through the entire store feels tolerable.

They say shopping on a full stomach helps reduce impulse buying, so theoretically this should be the perfect time to get your groceries. 

Surely you’ll stick to your list. Right?

You wonder if you should dress up. You usually do, just to get in the spirit of things. Your go-to Halloween costume every year ever since you got your first office job has been Indiana Jones. It started out because the costume was easy but recognizable. A pair of khakis and a light brown shirt you already had, a cool jacket and hat you found in a thrift shop, and a whip you ordered online rounded out the costume.

The problem this year was that you weren’t sure the costume would fit.

Since last Halloween, you had gained…well, actually, you weren’t sure how much you had gained. You hadn’t weighed yourself recently. It was probably a good 50 pounds though. The khakis wouldn’t be a problem. You had bought new ones that fit since you wore those most days for work. The shirt and jacket, though…those were going to be an issue.

You pushed yourself up out of your recliner with a little huff. That whole large pizza you’d eaten for dinner weighed heavily in your stomach still, and the handful of Reese’s cups you’d chased it with weren’t helping. Giving your stomach a little scratch, you wandered to the bedroom, bringing the bag of Reese’s cups with you, and pulled the pieces of your Indiana Jones costume out of your closet. You put on a pair of your newer khakis, settled the hat on your head, and brandished the whip at your full-length mirror.

“See? Still fits,” you told your reflection. “Some of it, anyway.”

It was time for the moment of truth. 

The light brown shirt felt a little more snug in the shoulders and upper arms than you remembered. The top two buttons fastened easily. The third button, which was situated just above the top of your ball shaped gut, also fastened without much issue, although perhaps not quite as easily as the first two. It was the fourth button down that really started to give you problems. You just had too much belly in the way, and the button did not want to meet the buttonhole. You sucked in as hard as you could and managed to get it fastened. The fifth button down required the same performance. The sixth button was below the widest part of your belly, and it fastened well enough.

You studied your reflection in the mirror, turning from side to side. It only confirmed what you already knew. You resembled a can of burst biscuits the way the buttons were gaping across your fat gut, the fabric straining. There was no way you could wear this shirt to work, even as part of a Halloween costume.

The bag of Reese’s cups you’d set on the bed caught your eye, and you unwrapped a couple more, dropping the wrappers onto the floor and popping the chocolate into your mouth as you experimented with sucking your belly in and out, amused by the way the gaps between the buttons grew and shrank as you did so.

After a few more Reese’s cups, you reached for the jacket. It too was a bit more snug around the shoulders and upper arms than it used to be, but it was not as comically tight as the shirt. Sucking in your belly again, you tried zipping it. The zipper got stuck on its track just below your belly button. You ate a few more Reese’s cups before sucking in again as hard as you could, trying to inch that zipper up. You managed to get it a little higher up, but you could not get it past your gut.

That was ok, though. You always wore the jacket open anyway.

Would people notice you were too fat to zip it? Maybe. Most probably wouldn’t, but some might. Did you care? You couldn’t decide.

A few more Reese’s wrappers drifted to the floor.

You were definitely going to need to wear a different shirt. With the party tomorrow, there wasn’t time to go buy a bigger light brown shirt. A plain white one should do, though, and you had a couple of those.

Well, that settled it, then. This year, you were going as Fat Indiana Jones. You popped the last Reese’s cup into your mouth and brandished the whip again.

As if she didn’t know. She was the one who had determined what supper was going to be and how many beers you would drink with it. She was a feeder after all. Your feeder.

If anyone had asked you five years ago whether you’d ever wind up with a feeder girlfriend, you’d have said no way. Back then, you were focused on being a feeder yourself and spending your spare time in the gym, keeping yourself at the peak of physical fitness. You were very proud of your defined muscles and personal lifting bests.

That all changed when one of the feedees you started messaging was a feeder as well, and she kept encouraging you to overindulge. It seemed like she’d eat more whenever you did, so you rolled with it. You were already eating a crazy amount of food because of all the exercise you were doing, so it wasn’t like experimenting with stuffing and bloating was all that farfetched for you. Besides, it was fun to push your limits at the table as well as in the weight room.

Things with that girl faded away, but the seed had been planted and so had a few extra pounds that you never quite cut at the gym. Even as you reasoned you were just in a bulking phase, you started seeking out other female feeders to chat with online. The appetite and capacity you had seemed to impress them, and that led to more stuffing challenges, bloating challenges, and a few more pounds.

Then, finally, it happened. You found someone local, and she was a feeder. The first date left you more stuffed than you had ever been in your life, and thanks to the following dates, you found yourself developing a proper pot belly for the first time ever, one that was fat and not just bloated.

You looked over at her, and put both your hands on that belly, back slightly arched, a pose you knew was driving her wild inside. Another burp rose in your throat, and you made no attempt to stifle it or be polite. It was almost a challenge to her, and she rose to the occasion, scooting closer and settling a hand on your full, aching belly.

It felt heavenly, her cool but not too cool hand smoothing over the fuzzy surface of your belly.

“Did you ever think you’d be this fat?” she asked.

You shook your head no, groaning a little and belching once again. No, you had never imagined having a huge orb of a gut preventing you from seeing your feet when standing up, abs completely buried and never to be found again, soft jiggly tits, an ass that always felt too wide for any pants you tried to wear, and a double chin.

Her grin widened. “No?” she asked, raising a brow. “You didn’t think you’d be this fat? Thought you’d manage to keep the weight off? Well, let me tell you, it was EASY to turn you into a fat pig. You just love to eat too much. All I had to do was give you a little nudge to let your inner pig loose, and the last of your abs were toast.”

Her hands moved from your belly to your chest, cupping your tits. “No sign of your pecs anymore either. You have bigger tits than some girls now. Not bigger than mine, but bigger than some.” She gave your tits a squeeze and then pinched your nipples lightly. “So EASY to make you grow tits,” she teased. “They came in fast once you stopped going to the gym so much.”

You moaned a little, feeling your dick stir as she continued to fondle the fat body she’d grown. She coaxed a few more burps out as she resumed rubbing your belly.

“Your ass is almost too wide for that chair,” she told you. “I’m going to make sure you outgrow it the way you keep outgrowing your clothes.”

The scary or thrilling thing was you could imagine that happening, could imagine growing too wide for a normal chair.

Her fingertip lightly tracing over your belly made you shiver slightly in pleasure. At first you thought she was tracing your stretch marks, but then you realized she was spelling something out: “MY PIG.”

You go through a couple pairs of pants and several shirts before deciding on a combination that fits appropriately enough to wear to the office. The pants button still looks mighty tight to me, and you struggle momentarily dragging the zipper up. I wonder if you’ll make it through lunch without unbuttoning in your car as you eat. The shirt you select is probably the largest shirt you own right now, but it is still a little snug through the midsection, with your belly filling out the fabric in a way I appreciate very much. You tighten your belly, and I know you plan to suck it in all day if you can. 

Shirt and pants finally chosen, you look over at me and realize I have been rubbing my nipples while watching you struggle with your clothes. You meet my eyes and push your belly out, making the buttons of your shirt strain. I let out a small noise, and you grin. Belly still pushed out, you walk over to the bed and lean on me, the partial weight you bring to bear pressing the air out of my lungs. Your lips close over mine, stealing away the rest of my breath. You linger a moment before working your way down to my neck, sucking and nibbling. I will have to cover your mark with makeup today. 

I try to pull you the rest of the way into the bed, but you stand back up and straighten your shirt. “Naughty girl,” you say. “I need to go to work. I’m already late. I couldn’t find anything to wear, thanks to you.” 

I pout, but you laugh and leave anyway, looking back at me and giving your belly a little slap as you leave the room. 

Throughout the day, you text me fat pictures from your desk, from the bathroom at work, and from your car during lunch. It is the sweetest, most delicious torture. You know exactly what I like and how to tease me.

You send me one last photo on your way home from work, showing your shirt buttons straining across your round belly.

What you don’t show me is that you unbuttoned your pants the moment you got into your car. That I discover after you get home and I am easily able to slide my fingers into what should be a tight waistband as we kiss hello. I find your zipper and lower it, more easily than you were able to close it this morning, feeling you harden as I do so. 

“I hope you’re prepared to finish what you started this morning,” you tell me.

“Oh, after the way you teased me all day, you better believe I’m ready for you,” I reply. You confirm this by deftly unfastening my own pants and sliding your hand down them to discover the wetness between my legs. I grip your upper arms as you slip a finger inside. 

You stop after a moment and start removing my top, and we slowly meander our way to the bedroom, shedding pieces of clothing along the way, until the only thing left is your slightly snug shirt. You puff out your belly just as you did this morning, completely filling out the shirt and making the buttons strain a bit. I run my finger down the buttons from top to bottom, following the arc of your belly.

“I want to make you not fit into this at all,” I announce, looking up at you, noting how your face has grown rounder, your jawline softening and a double chin starting to form.

A wide grin spreads across your face. It always amuses you when I admit I want you fatter. “Does it look like I’ve been saying no to you lately?” you ask. “You already made me outgrow nearly everything I own. I should have gone clothes shopping tonight instead of coming home right away.”

I won’t be disappointed if tomorrow morning is a repeat performance of today. I slowly begin to undo the buttons of your shirt, revealing your beautiful globe of a belly. I pause, just admiring it. That gives you the opening to push me back on the bed and crush me beneath you, properly this time with your full weight. 

You know how long I can handle your weight, and right as I reach my limit, you ease up and move down my body until you bury your face between my thighs. When your tongue starts flicking, I grip a handful of your hair, driving my hips into your face. You continue to expertly work me over with your tongue and fingers until I shudder with release. 

Your head re-emerges, and you wipe your mouth. “What’s for supper?” you ask. “I’m still hungry.

Playing with FFAs had been more fun than you had anticipated, though, and somewhere along the way, it had turned into a bigger experiment than intended.

A MUCH bigger experiment, you mused, running a hand over your substantial gut as you looked down at it, noticing how it hung over your pants. Your once defined muscles were now covered in flab. Stairs left you winded, where previously you could jog for miles. You felt like the beard you’d grown since getting fat barely covered up your double chin.

Geez. You really could stand cut back and lose a few.

Even as you thought it, you knew if you took out your phone right now and snapped some photos, a couple of your FFA friends would be pretty excited to see them, especially if you told them how fat you were feeling today and how you had only managed to make it to the gym a handful of times this year.

You went to your closet for a tighter t-shirt, one that no longer covered your belly completely. The photo with your hand on top of your belly turned out pretty well, you thought. So did the one taken below your belly looking up. You even took one with your jeans button undone, even though these jeans did fit. You couldn’t wait to share them.

The scale could wait for another day.

“I’m thinking about getting the chips and queso appetizer. Is that too greedy? I’ve already had a lot to eat today,” you say as you look down at your round belly and give it a little rub. I know you’re doing it to tease me, and it’s working.

I play along through the tingle that’s started in the pit of my belly. “You haven’t had thaaaaaaat much. You definitely ate more yesterday. And this place has the best queso in town!”

The first time I reach over and touch your belly is when you crunch down on the first tortilla chip. You shift in your seat a little, the shift you do when you’re stuffed, though we both know you’re nowhere close yet, and you’re just putting on a show to get me excited. It’s working.

The second time I reach over and touch your belly is when you polish off the last chip.

The third time I touch it is when the server places two entree platters in front of you, and you shift your tight waistband further below your fat belly in preparation for this main event. I feel my heart beat faster and my face flush slightly as I glimpse the small strip of bare flesh peeking out from under your tight shirt. Oh, you are a tease, and is it ever working.

Still resting my hand on your belly, I lean in close, gulp, and say, “I can’t decide whether I want you to eat until you can barely manage to stand up and waddle back out to the car afterwards, or whether I want you to hold back enough that you can fuck me properly as soon as we get home.”

You give me a knowing grin and tuck into your first entree. “All I know is I’m hungry and don’t intend to take any leftovers home,” you say.

So yeah, he was feeling especially fat standing in line at the local burger joint trying to decide what to order for lunch and hoping his clothes didn’t look as small to everyone else as they felt to him. The morning’s struggle to get dressed had left him vowing to eat healthy and start hitting the gym again, both habits that had slipped during the pandemic. With that in mind, he had skipped breakfast.

As a result, his stomach was roaring at him. None of the salad options looked very enticing. Maybe the grilled chicken breast wrap? Nah, too dry. By then, the line had moved him to the counter.

“A double bacon cheeseburger,” his traitorous mouth blurted out. “With large fries and a large drink.”

As he paid, he mentally kicked himself for being such a weak fatass, but he was practically salivating by the time he was handed his food. He sat down at one of the booths and nearly moaned with the first greasy bite. He loved these burgers. In no time, it was gone. His pants squeezed him harder than ever.

Back at work, he sat uncomfortably at his desk. His stomach was overloaded with greasy food. He felt sluggish and sleepy and like a total glutton. Looking down, he couldn’t believe how round his belly looked. His tight pants and shirt didn’t help the effect any.

Letting out a belch, he reached for the soda he’d brought back from lunch and took another gulp.

He still felt full when he got home from work, although he blamed the Cheetos he had not been able to resist grabbing from the vending machine that afternoon. He had unbuttoned his pants in the car on his way home, and he walked in the door with them still open to discover his wife had cooked one of his favorites for supper—pot roast.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she said.

“I can’t,” he told his wife.

She scooted her chair closer to him and settled her hand on his swollen stomach. He felt her deft fingers against his underbelly and then there was a sudden relief as she released the button and zipper of his pants.

“Now you have room,” she insisted.

He groaned. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.” She held a forkful of food to his mouth, and he obediently took it. He took the next several bites she fed him as well, though it was a real struggle with feeling like the food in his stomach was backing up into his esophagus.

“I really have to stop,” he said, and she relented. The plate was nearly empty. There were only a couple of bites left. So close.

“You did really well,” she said. “I think that’s a new record.”

He just groaned in response, struggling to catch his breath and to keep all the food down. Right now he felt like he had to hold his belly to keep it from bursting.

After a few minutes, he had collected himself enough to say, “I didn’t save any room for dessert this time.”

“That’s ok,” she replied. “I have a feeling some of the pie might disappear before morning anyway.”

Saturday morning found you squinting against the sunlight and wishing you hadn’t had so much to drink. To settle your stomach, you decided to make yourself a plate of scrambled eggs. There were four eggs left in the carton, which seemed like one too many, but two seemed like not enough and you didn’t want to leave just one, so you used all four. By then, it was nearly lunchtime, so not too long after, you fixed yourself a ham sandwich. The handful of chips you meant to eat turned into the whole damn bag. Then there were the pudding cups you snacked on throughout the afternoon.

By the time your usual suppertime rolled around, you felt like you had swallowed a bowling ball. You were vaguely queasy and lethargic and swore you weren’t going to eat another bite until Monday.

Around 11 pm, you woke up from your food coma and actually were a bit peckish. You pulled up the pizza delivery app on your phone but then closed it back out, remembering what had happened the night before. Besides, you had food in the house, you reasoned, and getting delivery so often was really making your bank account take a hit as well as your waistline. Frozen pizza rolls it was, then! Those bags were so small, though. So again, you ate everything and discarded the bag without looking at the nutrition facts label. You wished you hadn’t eaten all the ice cream the night before, but a small–ok, a regular–bowl of cereal was an acceptable (healthy, even!) dessert instead.

Sunday you awoke feeling much better than Saturday. Sundays you often went over to your folks’ for lunch, and so you skipped breakfast since your mom always put out a good spread of food. By the time you arrived, your stomach was roaring with hunger. You tried not to make a pig of yourself, but it was hard, and you just couldn’t resist hitting the drive through for a couple of burgers on your way home, where you zoned out in front of the TV with your hand idly rubbing a belly that definitely hadn’t been there a year ago. You felt huge.

The Sunday lunch and the fast food still sitting heavily in your belly should have stopped you from ordering delivery for dinner, but it didn’t. And they gave you two sets of utensils because you ordered enough for two people. You had meant the second meal to be leftovers for your lunch tomorrow, but of course it found its way into your overloaded stomach as well. Stifling a series of embarrassing belches, you waddled off to bed early because you were too full to do anything else.

Monday morning, you tried to fasten up your work slacks, and they were uncomfortably tight. Just like the previous Monday, only maybe worse. Your shirt buttons were straining too, probably getting to be inappropriate for the office.

Starting right now, you were definitely going to take it easy!

Either that or buy some bigger clothes…

Here you go handsome. Guess it’s thirsty work eating all that Mexican food, huh? Speaking of which, how are your enchiladas? Not enough sour cream? Okay, I’ll go get the tub. Here you go babe. Is that enough? Another scoop? Okay hun. A bigger one? … bigger? Shall I just tip the whole tub over your food? Okay, okay, I was joking!

Now, while you enjoy that I’ll just put my feet- What? Another beer? All right Here you go. I brought two this time so that I don’t have to keep going back and forth. Oh? You’re not happy about that? You want them to be fresh and cold from the fridge? Okay, you’re the boss. I’ll take this one back. Yes, I’ll fix you up some more cheesy nachos too. Can’t ever have too much cheese, right?

Phew! Here you go, hotshot. You know, with all this back and forth I think I’m burning even more calories than you’re eating, babe. No? Hmm, perhaps you’re right. Those burritos were truly enormous, packed with about a day’s worth of calories each, and you had four. Tasty though, huh?

Wow babe, you’ve sure made short work of those enchiladas. I think you’d better have a little nap before your churros. You’re breathing pretty heavily, and your t-shirt has risen up so far your belly button’s exposed. That’s usually a sign that you’re getting a bit too full.

Still hungry? Babe, be realistic, you can’t possibly be hungry after all that you’ve eaten. Look at you, you’re so stuffed and round you look like you’ve swallowed one of those giant yoga balls.

Okay, you know best, honey. Now, how many churros do you want? Six? Eight? Ten! Uh, you realise that only leaves two for little old me. Oh, I know, I know. You’re the man, you need more. Let me pour on the chocolate sauce. You might as well have all of it, seeing as I’ve hardly got any food to put mine on. Theeere we go. Bon appetit my love. Uhh, yes, of course I’ll get you another beer.

Why darling, whatever is that noise? Trouble in the tummy? Wow babe, you’re turning green! I think you’re having a little indigestion. What’s causing it? Umm, could be the burritos, I guess? Or the enchiladas. Or the churros. Or the fact that you gobbled down enough food for a family of four in one sitting. Oof, darling, you’re swelling up like a parade blimp.

Fetch you the Pepto? Hmm, I dunno, babe. You’ve had me running around all day, cooking and bringing you food. My toes have got blisters, and I’m just about all tuckered out. And you left so little of the food for me that I’ve got no energy. You’ll have to get it yourself.

What’s that? You can’t get up? Well, I’m not surprised. All you ever do is sit and stuff your face with the food I bring. It’s no wonder your belly has gotten so hugely fat that you’re stranded under it like a beached whale. You must weigh what, 400 pounds?

Don’t look at me like it’s my fault. If you’d moved around a little more rather than expecting me to cook and clean and serve you like a maid, you might’ve realised what was happening. 

All right, I’ll go and get the Pepto. But maybe this’ll teach you to be a little less greedy and lazy in future.

Oh, who am I kidding?

***

A submission

You drop your big brown bag of fast food and stare at me in lustful shock. I gaze up at my big bearded Santa, hundreds of pounds of magic packed into a tight red suit. It wasn’t so tight when I got you the job as a mall Santa, but I knew the close proximity to Dairy Queen and Burger King would pay off. I can see your belly has grown so much. In fact, it’s poking out from under the top part of your suit, a little bulge of fleshy goodness for me to fill with milk and cookies later.

“I’ve been a good girl, Santa. There’s about four dozen cookies in the kitchen to prove it,” I say, sitting up to flash some cleavage. “You got a present for me?”

You’re a little breathless from the walk from the driveway, so you manage a nod and an “uh-huh” between laboured breaths. Before I know it, you’re on top of me, squashing me with all your soft, warm weight. We kiss passionately for a few minutes.

Just as you’re about to get down to business, I stop you. “Naughty Santa. It’s Christmas Eve! You’ve got work to do,” I say, a finger on your lips. “And you can’t work all night on an empty stomach. I trust there’s at least two meals in that bag for us?”

You look a little embarrassed and reply, “Um, well, yeah, I got four meals. In case you were as hungry as me.”

I grin and laugh. “Oh you. I’m stuffed from all the cookies I had to test earlier. You’d better get yourself comfortable. I’ll help you eat it all.”

I sit you up comfortably and unzip the top half of your suit, exposing a tightly strained T-shirt and a pair of suspenders. I unclip them from the waistband and let your huge belly spill out over it. I go fetch the bag you dropped in your excitement and place it on what remains of your lap, then begin to gently rub your belly.

“Eat up Santa,” I say as you unwrap your first burger with one hand while sucking down your milkshake with another. I slip my hand down your pants. “I’ve been an awful good girl and I want my main present.”

***

A submission

You try the shirt next, finding it more snug about the upper arms and shoulders than you remember. You have to suck in your fat belly in order to wrestle all the buttons closed, and your flesh peeks out of the gaps between the buttons. The fabric creaks under the pressure of containing your bulk. It does nothing to hide your bulges and rolls, but instead emphasizes them.

Catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you feel a mixture of excitement and embarrassment. Bursting out of your clothes the way you are makes you acutely aware of how much weight you’ve put on in the past year. You know you look silly. At the same time, you can’t wait to see your feeder’s eyes light up when you lumber downstairs for dinner, the smell of which is already making you salivate. The shirt buttons might not survive the meal…

The holidays are different this year, of course. You buy loads of Halloween candy, but of course all of it is for you. Then because you see candy chutes online, you wonder if you might get trick-or-treaters after all, so you buy another load of candy. Of course, you never build a candy chute, and all the candy winds up in your belly again. Your sweatpants squeeze you harder.

Then comes Thanksgiving. You feel a bit sad at not going home to see your family this year, so you compensate by making a big spread of food, all the dishes you’re used to. After the family Zoom dinner, there’s no one there to comment about you taking another slice of pie or another dab of mashed potatoes. You had every intention of freezing some of the food, but it all winds up in your belly before the freezer ever has a chance to get involved. You wonder who ever decided sweatpants were comfortable.

The usual holiday parties and office cookies and snacks are cancelled this year, but that doesn’t stop you from exchanging recipes with some friends and making your own treats that you of course eat yourself. The end of the year is for snacking, anyway. You adjust the waistband of your sweatpants, trying in vain to find a way to wear them that doesn’t dig in.

Christmas is a repeat of Thanksgiving. You aren’t traveling this year. You make the Christmas dinner you’re used to. You eat it on Zoom. Your freezer never sees any of the food you made, but your belly sees every crumb. A pair of novelty socks are the only clothing item you receive that actually fit. Everything else is too small. Your sweatpants are also far too small.

On New Year’s Eve, you resolve to eat healthier and lose some weight this coming year. Then you consume a few hundred calories worth of booze and order new clothes online. Your new sweatpants have plenty of room. For now.

You snacked on some of it during the morning, obviously. It’s not like you were going to be able to sit at your desk with all those goodies in your drawer and not pick at them. That’s why she’d packed so much.

You crack open your fourth can of soda, chug some down, and then let out an almighty belch. You feel a lot better letting some gas out, your stomach is so full and bloated that it’s sore even with you just lazily sitting at your desk. What you’d give for a belly rub right about now…

You screenshot the calorie app and send it to your feeder. She is quick to respond, saying she’s very proud of you and you’re way ahead of schedule for the day. That second breakfast really bumped up your intake, and she thinks it’s such a good idea that you’ll have to start doing it every morning. Your stomach protests loudly as you think about it, but she’s in charge of your stomach and she listens to no such protestations. How much you eat, when you eat…that’s all out of your control now, as it should be.

The office junior comes by your desk with a tray of cupcakes. No doubt it’s someone’s birthday, you think, but then she places them down on your desk.

“These came for you,” she says with a smile. “Shame there’s not enough to go around.”

You look at the tray. Twelve cupcakes?!

“Um, maybe I SHOULD share them,” you say, eyes bulging at the stack of sugar and fat in front of you.

“Twelve of them? In an office of 20? Hardly worth it, is it?” She leans down a little so she’s closer and nobody else can hear. “Plus, I get the feeling that whoever sent those wants you to have them all. Just saying.” She winks and then heads back to her corner with a grin on her face.

Oh god, you think. Suddenly all the snacks she keeps bringing you make sense. She knows. She has mentioned she knows your wife. They go to the gym together all the time. All those times you had to do overtime and she made sure to order takeout before she left, all those donut runs where mysteriously there were a load left over that landed on your desk…she’s been in on it.

In your shock, you’ve dropped your pen. You bend down for it, the half broken office chair creaking under your weight. You worry one of the wheels is going to break off again. Your stomach is so full and there’s so much fat in the way now that you can’t breathe. Just reaching down for this pen is utterly exhausting, but you get it just in time to sit back up and take a gasp of air and then have a gulp of soda. You realise you’ve popped open a button on your shirt and your bulging belly has pushed out into view. The office junior has noticed and she looks like she’s holding back a laugh.

You try to button it again, wondering if the shirt is going to survive those cupcakes before it gives way entirely. Your phone buzzes on your desk. You check it. It’s your feeder. She has written: “Well done on 5,000 calories today, babe. I sent you something to help double it. Remember, not a crumb goes to waste.”

You bring up a little more gas, finally get that button done up and make yourself comfortable, or as comfortable as you possibly can be with your belly as full as it is. You’ve certainly got your work cut out this afternoon.

***

A submission

You sigh. “These are my biggest pants. You just have shrunk them in the wash.”

She giggles to herself. “I think it’s time we went shopping again. You’ve clearly put on weight.”

“I haven’t put on anything. The scales still read the same as they did 6 months ago.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “They’ve said ‘error’ this whole time.”

She sits up and grabs you by the shirt tails to pull you close, then turns you around. She places her hands on your bulging stomach, all the growing fat straining the buttons of your shirt, a shirt that’s clearly too small for you now. Her hands work their way around the bulging mass of flab before she unbuttons the shirt, retiring it forever to the now highly stacked closet of clothes you’ll “fit into again one day.” She lifts your belly with both hands, her arms shaking slightly as they struggle to hold up the weight, and kisses your exposed belly.

“Take a personal day,” she commands, holding you close by squeezing your huge buttocks. “Say you’re not feeling good, or that I’m not, whatever. Just take the day off for yourself and we can go get you some new work clothes.”

Your stomach grumbles and she smiles. “Plus, I know you’ve already had breakfast, but McDonald’s is still serving. I bet you’ve got room for that. You’ve always got room for that.”

She pulls down your pants then drags you down to the bed. You collapse on top of her, getting horny over her sexy body.

“You know what else? It’ll be nice to have some time in bed with you this morning too. You always find sex easier when you’re not bloated. So…it better be this morning, because I have plans for the rest of the day that will mean you being very, very bloated.”

***

A submission

You don’t want to let this food go to waste, do you? No, I didn’t think so. Just keep going. Open up again. Take the next bite. Only a few more to go. You’re so close. I know you’re so stuffed right now, but being stuffed isn’t something I will allow to get in your way of finishing this meal.

That’s it, you’re nearly there. You can do it. Take a deep breath. Here you go. In it goes. Chew it. Aaaaaaaaaaaaand swallow. Good job. Open up again for me. I’m not going to let you stop until all the food is gone. We can take it as slow as you need, but every bite of this meal is going to be inside your growing belly by the end of the night.

Open up.

You sure feel like a pig right now. You’re sitting there in nothing but your underwear, which is digging into the soft flesh of your belly. You shift the elastic band beneath your belly, resigned to the fact that it’s probably time to buy a larger size. There are crumbs caught in your chest hairs, which you brush away absently. You feel lethargic and like you might be sick if you eat too much more.

But the rest of the meal is taunting you. Leaving any of it feels like a real shame. You want the satisfaction of knowing that you were able to finish all of it, that you were able to defeat the meal you set out to eat. You want the knowledge that every bite is sitting heavy inside you.

With that thought as fuel, you feel renewed motivation and take another bite. It feels like lead in your stomach when you swallow, but you take yet another bite before you think about the discomfort too much. You’re determined to make the most of this second wind!

After a few minutes, you sit back again. You’ve done it. Every bite is gone. You’ve never been this stuffed in your life. It’s a new record. If you felt like a pig before, now you feel like a whale–a beached whale stranded in your recliner. You cradle your distended stomach in both hands, groaning and taking shallow panting breaths.

Some part of your brain knows you should feel regret for stuffing so much food into yourself, but right now the only regret you have is that your stomach isn’t bigger and can’t hold another bite.

Despite that, you’ve always harbored a desire to be fat. As a kid, you stuffed pillows under your shirt and pretended you were as big as your bed. You don’t want a pillow, though. You want a hanging, ponderous belly; plump boobs to rival a woman’s; thick thighs that form their own rolls.

Why don’t you do it, then? Letting go would be so easy. You love food, you love feeling full, and some days you really hate working out. Maintaining the discipline is hard, and it’s even harder on the days your brain screams your fat desires at you the loudest. 

The truth is, you are terrified of how easy it would be to let go. Would you be able to stop? Part of you finds the idea of being unable to stop a massive turn-on. The other part wants to know you’d be able to stop.

You’re afraid. Afraid of what your family and friends will say to you and about you once you put on weight. Afraid of the way strangers might look at you. Afraid of lectures from your doctor. Afraid of developing heart disease or knee pain or any other ailment that will be blamed on your weight. Afraid of not being able to get dates anymore, never mind finding someone who will share her life with a fat guy who keeps getting bigger and bigger. Afraid of how much you’ll miss easily being able to do the activities you enjoy now.

When you talk to FFAs online, the choice seems easy for a moment. You want to rush out and eat all the food a fast food restaurant can possibly make you and then some. You want to watch the weight pile on as some cutie who shares your fat dream adores every added inch.

But the truth is those girls aren’t there in person. Maybe if they were or maybe if you could find one in real life, it would be different. Maybe you’d feel less apprehensive about letting go. As long as it’s all online, though, it’s different. It’s so easy for them to push you to eat and gain, but they don’t have to share any of the real life impacts with you. They aren’t going to be there when your mom tells you to cut back because you’re looking heavy. They aren’t going to be there when your doctor tells you that your blood pressure is looking a bit high and can you explain why you’ve put on 50 pounds this past year. They aren’t going to be there when you have to replace your wardrobe yet again. They aren’t going to be there when you are out of breath attempting a hike that used to be so easy for you and you are wondering if you made the right choice getting fat. They aren’t going to be there to squeeze your fat rolls and rub your tummy after you eat too much.

You know you should get fat for yourself and not for someone else–but having someone else makes that choice seem so much easier. Maybe someday you’ll reach the point where you’re ready to make that choice. Maybe someday your metabolism will slow down enough that the choice will be out of your hands as the weight starts to creep on anyway. Maybe this year will be the year you’ll let go. Or maybe not.

Either way, you’ll be ok.

I’m making some small talk while asking if he would like his usual when the front door slams open and a group of 4 or 5 guys clamor in, one aiming a camera at the biggest, bandana-clad buffoon of the lot. They brush past the hostess and the ringleader loudly declares to no one in particular that he is here to take on the Belly Buster Challenge, rambling on about some sort of YouTube time record for completing it in under an hour.

Casually watching now, my regular and I watch the “influencer” - or whatever he was - tear into the pile of steak with gusto, slow down about ½ way through, and simply give up soon afterwards complaining of how salty the steak was today. His loud crowd now silenced, they all sheepishly leave the restaurant.

As I gather up the plate of remaining steak to toss it, I feel bad having to make the quiet man wait so long for his food–which had still not even made its way to the grill given this abrupt massive set-back–and offer him either a discount on his meal (which would be ready “shortly”), or he could have the rest of this platter on the house given that it was still hot and ready and steak can’t be uncooked.

He mulls it over for a bit and happily accepts. He slowly cuts into the steak and savors it, chewing slowly and happily sampling the various different sauces. The Cowboys game is just starting, and the peaceful mood returns to the restaurant. No need to rush the evening.

As I attend my other tables, I realize that I am acutely aware of how the massive platter of steak is beginning to vanish more and more rapidly. Perhaps it is the increased speed of the soft clinking of his fork and knife, or maybe it is the slow but certain bulge of his belly pressing further and further out against the table each time I walk by. Topping up his pint glass for the 4th time–or was it the 5th–I begin bringing out little dessert samplers for him to taste test as well. These are not requested, but they are well received. And I am oh so very curious about where his limit might actually be.

After finishing the very last bite of steak, he sighs and leans back, stuffed to the brim and absolutely content. It is closing time now, and I am finishing sweeping up. All the other patrons have left and my staff are all heading out the door, anxious to get to a movie on time.

As he begins to slowly get to his feet, I hear the sound of a thread or two snapping before slow lumbering footsteps head my way. Pivoting gracefully, I spin to face him, trying to hide a smile as he sheepishly asks if I have a phone he can borrow to call a cab, as he had much more to drink than he had planned on that night.

Checking my watch, I realize there is very little chance that he will find a ride at this hour, and instead I offer to drive him home, as he lives only a little ways away. But I make the offer on one condition. I have been on my feet all day and haven’t had a chance to eat yet, so I want to sit down for a minute or three and get a quick bite…and maybe some dessert.

Trying to contain my enthusiasm as he squeezes back into the booth, I bring out a smorgasbord of leftovers that would otherwise go to waste. As the conversation flows, I keep his glass topped up and continually suggest that he tries a little bit of the cole slaw, then some of the baked potato, then a rib or two or four, then back for some baked beans, all the while noting how his belly is now pushing onto the table as well as under it, how the old booth creaks when he shifts his weight. When I happily spring to my feet when all the food is gone, briskly bringing the empty dishes to the kitchen, I am overjoyed to hear the labored struggling behind me, knowing full well that in all my years as a waitress, this is the first time someone has truly eaten so much that they physically can’t get out of the booth! Gliding back to the table, I am awestruck by the sight that greets me. Stuck and panting from the exertion, comically distended belly pressed up against the table and forcing his back against the wall, he struggles a little longer to wriggle free before melting back into the booth, gazing imploringly at me for aid.

Perching on the table now, I place one small ice cream sundae before him, pressing it forward gently. “After this, then we can go home. But I’m sure you’ve got room for desserts.”

***

A submission from justkeeprunning at Feabie.

Maybe it’s time to cut back, lose a few pounds, get back to where your pants aren’t cutting you in two and you’re eating single lunches like a normal person.

With that in mind, you hit the grocery store after work, armed with a shopping list of sensible options and a firm sense of resolve. You’ll have salad for lunch every day. You’ve listed out several kinds of fresh produce. And that lean protein–chicken breast, some salmon, canned tuna.

You’re going to save a ton of money too, you realize, seeing how your cart is much emptier than usual without the junk food you’ve gotten used to tipping into it.

Everything’s going according to plan until you hit the dairy aisle to pick up the skim milk and see the cooler full of egg nog. Ohhhhh. Egg nog is a weakness of yours.

You stand front of the cooler for a couple of minutes, the resolve you felt upon entering the store wavering. You feel the pinch of your waistband digging into you. Egg nog is not on your list. But it’s a seasonal thing, and you haven’t had any yet this year. Finally, you put a carton into your cart.

You can’t help yourself. You open the carton of egg nog in the car and sip from it as you drive home. You forgot how good it is! After you unload your groceries and put them away, you continue sipping as you prepare your healthy dinner. Your stomach is still growling once you finish. It’s going to take a little adjusting to get used to the smaller and less rich portions again. That’s the worst part about diets, you think.

Since it’s your first night, some egg nog for dessert is probably fine, you decide, so you pour yourself a little more, leaving the carton on the coffee table as you watch TV.

By the time you go to bed, you’re a little shocked to realize you absent-mindedly polished off the entire carton. That’s over 1600 calories you drank this evening.

You stare at your naked body in the mirror. You don’t feel as huge as you did at work.

You might have to hit the grocery store again tomorrow.

I don’t know what you are going to wear tomorrow. Even your sweat pants seem to be pinching you lately, the way you shift the waistband around. You’ve put on a lot of weight this past year. I’m not sure what the number on the scale is–you never share that with me–but there’s no denying you’ve crossed the line from chubby to fat. Your relatives no longer remark how you must be enjoying home cooking or that you should take it easy and hit the gym. The fat you is the new normal.

I know that tomorrow you are going to do fat boys everywhere proud. You’ll sample everything, more than once, and then get a second wind for dessert. On a day when everyone will be pigging out, you’ll be the biggest pig of all, eating until your belly feels like a lead balloon. You’ll beach yourself on the couch, giving me a glance and asking me to bring you another slice of pie, knowing I’ll bring you two. Every bite will disappear into your fat, overfilled stomach.

What no one but us will know is what happens with all the leftovers after we get home…

“You remind me of a cute chubby emperor penguin.” She squeals in childish delight.

He pats his hand on her head chuckling at her cuteness, “How so, loverly?”

“Your tummy… It looks like how theirs folds over their feet. So plush and fluffy. And when you hug me from behind, so big and protective. I love how it looks, with you towering over and around me.”

“I probably waddle like them too.”

“And I love it.” She sighs, moving on top of him. “I love it and you.” Kissing him deeply, grabbing his chest. His arms reach around her, his hands massaging her hip bones. His thumbs exploring around, teasing every nerve and hair.

“Mmmmm. Feeling like someone’s ready for a round two.” She moans, barely getting the sentence out as a finger finds its way in.

“If I were a penguin, I think the appropriate answer would be ‘gork’” he laughed, his mouth moving into the nape of her neck.

She breathed in deep, his cologne surprisingly still holding on even through all the physical contact and sweat. His beard tickling all the right spots as he moves down her body.

***

A submission by BakedAlaskan at Feabie.

What’s that baby? Candy? Check the glove compartment. Don’t forget there’s plenty of soda in the cooler. If you can reach it, that is. Your seatbelt looks a bit tight.

Anyway, thinking of lunch, I’m not at all surprised that you had to nap after that. Who takes on a 40oz steak challenge after a breakfast like that? You had to eat all the fries too. That was a total scam. There’s no way anyone’s finished that challenge with the amount of fries they put on your plate. I think they saw the size of you and were worried you were going to win. I don’t mind that we paid full price for it. I mean, you ate all the steak, not to mention the mushrooms and the salad. The salad was pretty good to be fair. I think it must have looked so funny, your huge frame taking up two bench seats while you tuck into over two pounds of meat and your petite partner just picking at a salad. I have to admit I was kinda full from breakfast. I wasn’t hungry again until dinner.

Hm? Oh yeah, your coffee is the one on your side. You can tell because mine’s a skinny latte and yours is the cinnamon latte with cream. They’re so nice, but they’re really fattening. It’s a good thing I don’t mind you being chunky, cuz I think that’s your 4th cup today.

That dinner was amazing, wasn’t it? Ok, the place wasn’t exactly the best service we ever had, but the food was good. Can you believe they tried to put us in a booth? I mean, come on, how rude was that? They can clearly see you’re a man who needs some space. Making you try to squeeze into that tiny gap was never going to work. Don’t they know this is one of the fattest countries in the world? I mean, half their booths wouldn’t fit anyone over 300. It was really nice of that family to switch and let us have their table.

They were still waiting for their food to arrive so it wasn’t a big deal, but I think the wife felt bad watching you struggling. Did you notice her husband was a big guy too? I think he was trying to stop her. He only just got into that booth himself. It all worked out in the end though, thank god, because that cheesecake was amazing. What did you have? The cookie dough wasn’t it? I think that waitress thought we were greedy ordering a sharing sundae too. I wonder if she realised you ate it all yourself.

I don’t mind that I did the driving this afternoon, but we are going to need to stop soon. You’re in no shape to drive, and I’m getting real tired. Coffee? Coffee isn’t going to counteract the food coma you’re slipping into. I can see your eyes dropping every time I look over at you. It’s getting dark too. We should stop at this motel coming up.

What? Oh all right, one more stop. Let’s make this one a drive through, though. I don’t want to have to go through the trouble of helping you out of the car again until we’re at the motel. I hope you’ve got room. I’m going to make sure you’re full this time.

***

A submission

We should have started a little lighter. It didn’t occur to me that you haven’t even walked further than the driveway for years now. I just didn’t think you were so out of shape. The cross trainer seemed like a nice way to ease you in but, well, you broke that. I sure hope they don’t say anything. I think one of the gym workers noticed that you were on it when it made that big ‘clunk’ noise, and…well, needless to say, I was a little embarrassed when I had to help you off it.

We should have called it there and gone home, but that treadmill said it could take your weight. Or at least, it said maximum 360 pounds. You haven’t gone over that have you? I don’t remember when we last weighed you, now that I think about it. I think you’d have been ok if you just hadn’t twisted your ankle. Once you lost your balance and leaned on the rail, that was it. You were going over and taking out that rail too. I’ve never seen gym equipment bend like that. I think you put that treadmill out of action for good. The thud you made when you hit the floor made my heart thud in my chest, I was so worried. You shook the floor so hard that I heard the stack of weights clinking across the room. It’s a good job those three bodybuilders were around to help you up. I know you were a bit dazed to hear it, but when I thanked them one of he joked that he lifts heavy weights in there all the time. He made me laugh. It was a crazy contrast, all that muscle and all your…um, lovely soft fluff. I think you‘re almost as big as the three of them combined.

If it makes you feel any better, we both got a crazy workout getting back out to the car, let alone to the emergency room. Trying to support you with your bad ankle was exhausting. I almost lost my balance. I thought I was fit but I felt like I was walking on Jupiter with all your weight leaning on me.

The doctor thinks your ankle is going to be ok. She wasn’t sure from the X-ray just how bad it was. I didn’t know you could be too fat for an X-ray to be honest, but she said you have a lot of, um, what did she write, let me check, ‘adipose tissue and fluid build up’ obscuring the X-ray. She was more concerned about your heart rate. I don’t blame her. It’s been elevated, and you’ve been panting for an hour now.

We can go just as soon as she’s found an ankle support that actually fits you. Where do you want to go for dinner? Taco Bell? Wendy’s? We can get both if you like. You earned it today. From now on though, let’s keep the workouts in bed.

She discreetly pops the top button of my pants, resting her hand softly on my swollen belly, reminding me to take slow, deep breaths. I find it so endearing the way she does her best to take care of me in these moments when I am nearly sick from her stuffing me. I close my eyes for a moment, breathing shallowly to try to gain some semblance of control over myself, and she slides out of her seat to go up to the counter to pay.

When she returns, she helps me waddle out to the car, cheerfully saying thank you to the waitstaff as I stare at some arbitrary point on the horizon, struggling to take one semi-coordinated step after another. I’m slow and breathless, waddling painfully. She helps me collapse into the passenger seat of the car.

Driving home, she’s careful not to accelerate or crest a hill too quickly. One hand gently rubs my aching belly, but every once in a while, I feel her fingers stiffen, nails digging into my belly with longing. It’s only for a fraction of a second, but this isn’t our first feeding expedition, and I have felt that momentary lapse in restraint before. I know full well where this is leading.

After she helps me waddle in the front door, she kneels and helps me remove my shoes. I’m too full to bend over, still in a food daze. She takes me by the hand and leads me to the bedroom, laying me down on the bed and snuggling up next to me. She caresses my ballooning belly and observes as my body language slowly transitions from pain into hunger–for her. I remain flat on my back, arms and legs spread wide, as she begins squeezing and probing my swollen food-filled belly with increased fervor.

“I’ve turned you into my fat prize pig,” she murmurs into my ear before she straddles me, careful to avoid putting pressure on my full belly, letting her weight rest on my thighs. She reaches for my chest, one hand cupping each moob.

“Remember when your chest was hard? Look at you now,” she coos as she fondles my now-soft chest. “Now you’ve got a real handful here.” Her hand moves lower to my belly. “It’s not just your chest that’s gotten soft. Look at this belly. It’s hard to believe you used to have abs here. All this eating has turned it into a fat gut.”

Her hand moves even lower, and as she slides me into her, she says, “I can’t wait until you’re even bigger.”

***

A submission from justkeeprunning at Feabie. He wrote about 70% of it, and I edited and fleshed it out.

My suspicion is confirmed a moment later when you tell me, “I didn’t mean to eat the whole thing. I just couldn’t stop.” Your jeans are unbuttoned and unzipped, the open sides framing the belly that’s encroaching onto your lap. If your previous binges are anything to judge by, the pie isn’t the only thing you’ll have eaten this afternoon.

“Do those pants even still button?” I ask, eyeing your gut, certain it looks larger and rounder than it used to, even taking into account the fact that you’ve just stuffed a whole pie into it.

A flush spreads across your cheeks. “They will if I really want them to,” you insist stubbornly.

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Prove it,” I say, trailing a finger down your bulging belly and kissing the sticky pie filling off the corner of your mouth.

Let me rub your belly. Oh wow, your stomach is so firm and bloated. You must be so uncomfortable. Just say if you’ve had enough… really? You’re so good to me, baby. Another cupcake? Here you go, I’ll feed it to you. Lean back, that’s it.

I can’t believe how much you’ve eaten today. I’m so glad we took an entire day to ourselves to do this. I’ve never been so happy to spend half my day in the kitchen cooking. Well, it wasn’t so much the cooking that made me happy as watching you fill up with every plateful of delicious fattening food I put in front of you. You really impressed me today, especially when you ate that whole chicken in, like, what was it, 20 minutes maybe? It’s not like it was even a small chicken. It barely went in the oven. With all that mash and gravy too, it’s no wonder you fell asleep right after, snoring away like you’d just burned yourself out at the gym.

Another cupcake?! Seriously? Honey, you’re going to get something special from me tonight when we go upstairs… if you’re even capable after all this food. I mean, you can bank it if you like. You’re making me so happy with all this gluttony. This big overfed belly of yours just spilling out between your legs is such a turn on, I can’t even tell if you’re wearing underpants…are you? Oh, I see. I get to find out. Fine by me.

Here, the last cupcake. Now, while you eat that I have to confess something. I’m really sorry, but I lost count of how many calories you ate today. I know, I know. Half the reason we did this was to see how much you can eat in a day, but you were eating faster than I could write it all down and I’m pretty sure I’ve missed some things. I mean, the good news is you put away at least 11,000 calories today, so that’s a hell of an achievement in itself. But the bad news is we are going to have to do this again. Oh, that’s not bad news, huh?

Now, come on, before you go into that food coma I need you on the scales. Come on, you promised. I’ll help you up on three. Ready, one, two…oh boy, you’re getting heavy. That’s it, waddle forward. They’re right here. I know you can’t really see them past your tummy. Let me guide your feet. Let’s see if I hit my goal of getting 10 pounds of food in you today. 

Oh wow, baby…you are exceeding ALL my expectations tonight, aren’t you?!

***

A submission

It’s amazing how just five pounds here and ten pounds there can add up over time—especially when you keep exceeding the goals. What a whale you have become! Every day it gets harder to heave your obese body out of bed. You long for the day when it’s no longer possible without aid. Never mind your feeder’s small monthly goals. This is your own goal. 

You’re lucky how well fed your feeder keeps you and how well you are rewarded for meeting and exceeding each goal set for you. You have fast food many times a week—any time you want it, you receive it. The amount you can eat has increased so much since you first started gaining. Your original portion sizes are almost laughable now.

Speaking of which, you reach for a fry from the fast food bag on the vanity and dip it into the ketchup. Must finish your dinner like a good pig, after all. Not that you’d dream of letting any of it go to waste, anyway, not now. You didn’t get this huge by wasting food. You’re actually not sure if you’d be able to let any of it go uneaten. It’s been a long time since you were able to stop eating what was in front of you. There are moments that losing such total control of your appetite gives you a glimmer of worry, but the doubt always passes as you get excited and aroused thinking how much closer you get to your goal with every bite. 

Giving in to your inner gluttonous pig and becoming a blob incapable of getting out of bed and doing anything but eating and eating and eating and keeping your stomach stuffed to capacity is your dream come true. Every time you think of it, you feel flushed and aroused. You touch your belly apron. That’s much easier to reach these days than anything beneath it. You’d have to lose weight to pleasure yourself properly—and that’s never going to happen. You couldn’t lose an ounce even if you wanted to try. You’ve become far too addicted to being stuffed and to seeing the number on the scale go up, up, up.

You have no limit.

The last fry disappears in your mouth. You wish you had more.

It’s crazy that you managed to hit every goal this week. I never really thought you’d do it. I was expecting you to give up before the end of Tuesday. Monday you were over 10,000 calories, then Tuesday it was over 11,000…that should be enough in two days to make anyone sick to their stomach. But you, you woke up Wednesday morning ready and willing to eat 12,000 calories. Then 13,000 calories, 14,000, 15,000…so here we are, Sunday night and you still think you can hit 20,000 calories. You have hardly moved all week and I doubt you could even get up out of this armchair. 

Look at you, you can barely speak, just grunting and panting…damn this is so sexy. I want you like this all the time. Have a rest and drink some of this shake I made you. It’s very thick, but you’re going to love it. Here, let me help you. That’s it, chug a little more, that’s my guy. I’m sure you’ve gained more weight this week. You look enormous. It’s such a shame you’ve been too full for sex all week, but I guess that’s going to make your reward all the more satisfying. I just hope I can still find your dick tucked away in all that soft heavy flab later. You want to keep eating? I’ll order you a couple of pizzas and we can nap while we wait for it? Let me rest my head on that big belly. I can’t wait until this is every day.

***

A submission

You shocked my parents tonight, that’s for sure. When they invited us over for dinner, I had to warn them to cook a little extra. Mom wondered why, and I said, “Just trust me, his appetite is crazy since he started lifting.” I mean, you lift a couple of times a week…ok, maybe more like a couple of times a month. It wasn’t a total lie, though.

They hadn’t seen you since Christmas, remember? You wouldn’t think you’d put on a noticeable amount of weight since then but…well, they sure seemed to notice. Mom took me to one side in the kitchen and asked if everything was ok between us, like were you depressed or something. It’s sweet that she cares, but I told her straight you just enjoy your food and I love you this way. Dad even spoke about getting you a referral for his gym. Can you believe that? I said you have a gym membership.

Probably time we cancelled that, though, if we’re honest. I mean, you get home from work and get straight on the sofa, and you’re there ‘til we go to bed. I don’t mind, I love how soft you are. I love how your belly is spilling out onto my side of the bed right now while I rub it. I can feel all the weight of my home cooking when I lift it to get my hand under it. You don’t need a gym, do you babe? Wouldn’t you rather lay here and let me look after you? I’ll be fit for the both of us.

Are you enjoying your belly rub? Yeah, I bet you are, you brought up some wind just now. You know what I say to that, any wind is you making room for more. I’ll just pop downstairs and make you a milkshake. Don’t fall asleep, you can’t fall asleep until you’re full. And you’re not full ‘til I say so.

***

A submission

So are you going to allow yourself to fall short of that goal just because you’re tired of chewing and the food isn’t as delicious as it was with the first few bites?

No, I didn’t think so. Stop avoiding finishing.

Now take another bite. Chew it. Swallow it. Now do it again. You’ve got this.

Think about my hands on your tight, tight belly, lightly rubbing it and distracting you from the ache as you get more food down.

You’re my eating machine, and I know you can finish every morsel you have in front of you. Sit back and imagine I’m bringing the last bites to your lips. You take them and chew them almost mindlessly.

You feel fat as fuck, like a beached pregnant whale. Your stomach feels like a lead beach ball in your lap. It’s hard to breathe. But you’re finally satisfied. Nothing less would do.

“I might’ve put on a few lately,” you say, giving it a rueful pat. “Do you think this still fits?”

Truthfully, it is borderline, and you could probably get away with it if you kept your gut sucked in. I place my finger over the button that strains the most.

“Whether it fits or not depends on how hungry you are today.” In the mirror, I can see you flush a little and your breathing speed up. You turn toward me and pull me firmly into your belly.

“I’m very hungry today,” you growl into my ear.

Wait, aren’t these jeans the new ones we got you? Yeah, I’m sure these are the ones we got that were two whole sizes bigger. What’s going on? Have I shrunk them? Can you shrink denim? Wow, ok, maybe no more jeans after this pair, these barely lasted two weeks. Now, hold still and breathe in. One, two and (huffing and puffing) no, no they really don’t want to go on, do they? I can’t get them up over your butt enough to do up the button. I think your butt is what’s stopping me reaching around easily. I’m kinda leaning over it to get in close to you. 

Next time we go out for a drink, I want to lean on it like you’re a bar stool and see if anyone notices (laughs). It’s so big now I could almost rest my drink on it like a table. You’re so puffed out, you should sit down and get your breath back. You’re not used to all this exertion anymore. 

It’s a shame you don’t have any more nice trousers that fit. I wanted you to have something to go with this shirt I got you. Actually, you’d better try this on. I’m not sure it’s going to fit either. I used the size you were when we went shopping for these jeans. Now I look at you, the way your belly spills on to your lap through those open jeans. There’s no way, is there? Look at those fresh, red stretch marks. It’s just gotten so big. 

I know we are going to dinner, but I think you’re just going to have to go in those elasticated shorts and one of those big T-shirt’s we got from the big and tall shop. It’ll be ok. I’ll dress down a bit too, so you don’t stand out too much. It’s not like it’s a black tie kind of establishment, this buffet. You’ll look fine. You always look good to me. Anyway, I hope you’re hungry. I want to get at least ten plates in you this time. Gotta get our money’s worth, right?

***

A submission

There was the bacon and pancakes I made you for breakfast, the pack of cup cakes you ate right after… I almost forgot I had to make you all that buttery toast just to fill you up. Then there was all the chips and dips you ate while waiting for lunch. Oh and the box of chocolates we got for our anniversary, can you believe our friends thought that would last at least a week?

If I didn’t know you so well I’d be shocked that all that didn’t spoil your appetite for your Burger King lunch. Two whopper meals and onion rings. Oh, and the donuts you got from the little van in town, I mean, the guy’s jaw dropped when you ordered 20, I think he sold them in bags of 3. I had to drive careful over the bumps in the road on the way home, your belly was just so swollen and sore. It was so cute watching you panting for breath while still eating those donuts. They were so dripping in fat that the bags had gone soggy and see-through. It’s no wonder you needed a little nap when we got back.

You know, while you were sleeping, I was rubbing that big old belly of yours. It was so puffed out. I listened to your heavy breathing and your belly groaning as it digested all that grease. Then I woke you up for this lasagna. The recipe said this serves 10 people, can you believe that? That’s nonsense you’ve eaten almost all of it yourself. I maybe had a couple of mouthfuls to taste all that cheese, I mean, wow, it’s so rich. No wonder you’re struggling to finish this.

Now, come on, just a couple more bites, I need to go finish getting dessert ready. I couldn’t decide if you wanted cake or a pie so I made both. You’ve always got room for dessert baby, right? For me?

***

A submission