Your back is to the wall. You can’t see anything in the darkness of my room, but you can hear my footsteps approaching. You try to disguise yourself as much as you can; slinking against the wall. Your belly pushes out and exposes your position, but you’re oblivious to that. You hear the footsteps pass, pattering up the stairs, and sigh out a breath of relief. You proceed to turn on the bedside lamp and rummage through my bedside dresser until you find what you’ve been looking for: my recipe book.
Maybe it’s stupid to break into someone’s room to find something that can be easily asked about, such as a recipe, but you are too nervous to admit why you want the recipe. You’re not quite ready to admit to me that you want to eat the food I cook for you until you can’t get up; pinned to the couch by your own overindulgence.
The shame and the thought of overeating are the perfect combination for you to begin sporting an erection.
You stumble upon a recipe for dumplings that you want me to make. You are about to rip it out when you notice writing on the back of the page. Your own name catches your eye. You sit down on the bed and don’t even try to refrain from reading the entry. You’re much too curious.
“I want to touch him again. I want him to feel as good as he makes me feel. I want to cook for him and feed him and be the reason why he grows. I want people to look at him and think, ‘his appetite is out of control’. I want to make him my greedy pig, just begging me for more and never truly satisfied. I don’t want him to flinch when I touch his tummy. I want him to push it into my hands and beg me to make it bigger. I want him to moan and pant desperately as he lets me grow him. I know it’s wishful thinking, but he’s so beautiful that it’s becoming hard to resist temptation.”
Your cheeks flush red and you slam the book shut, too cautious to venture further into my mind. You move to stand and feel your hard cock pressed against your restricting pants. ‘That’s odd’, you think, ‘I’m turned on by this. There’s no way I’m-‘ the door swings open and you are greeted by none other than me. My eyes grow wide as I notice you and I freeze as you move to stand.
“Sorry, Nico. I was just looking for a recipe. I found it and I want you to make it for me.” You say hastily; your voice shaky.
“Which one?” I ask, sounding a bit more relieved upon hearing that you are hungry.
“The pork dumplings.” you demand. I am turned and halfway out the door when you grab my wrist to stop me. I freeze and look back to face you, but when I do, your nose is brushing against my own. “Nico,” you whisper, “I want you to make me 50 of them, like the recipe calls for, and I want you to feed them all to me.”
Your words surprise me. I’ve dreamt of this for years and now it’s actually happening. You want me to feed you enough dumplings for a banquet. This seems too good to be true. “You’re fucking with me.” I whisper apprehensively.
“You think so?” You ask in disbelief. “Let me show you something.” You grab my hand and move it to cover your hard-on that throbs beneath your pants. “I read what you wrote about me, and I liked what I read. I liked it more than I expected to and I want to eat for you. Please.” You step closer to me and grab my hand, placing it center on your gut. I inhale sharply and squeeze my eyes shut as you allow me to roam your body freely. “Please just… I want to try it,” you plead.
You move forward and pin me to the wall with your massive gut. “Now go make my food. You’ve got work to do.” You demand, stepping away, and I have never run anywhere so fast in my life.
(pt 1) (just imagine that you’re a prince and I’m a castle cook)
One snowy afternoon, we spend the morning cooped up together in cozy companionship, with me playing video games while you read in the armchair. You made yourself a couple bacon-grilled-cheeses, and I watch out of the corner of my eye while you eat them quickly and neatly, turning pages with your greasy fingers and licking crumbs from your lips. When the two sandwiches are finished, you put your book down and disappear into the kitchen, and I smell the unmistakable savory odor of cooking bacon.
You come back a while later with two more grilled cheeses, plus a big bowl of Doritos. You settle again into the armchair, leaning back and running a thumb around the waistband of your sweatpants like they’re irritating you, and I watch as your shirt climbs up and reveals a tantalizing strip of bare, bloated belly.
You munch on a handful of Doritos before starting in on your grilled cheese, and I watch your stomach swell ever-so-slightly further outwards as you finish the third and then fourth sandwich, and demolished the bowl of chips. You’re flushed by the time you’re done, clearly full, and you use the heel of your hand to rub soothing circles on your belly while you read, your shirt lifting and falling over the tight roundness of it. Every so often the shirt lifts in such a way that I can see the waistband of your sweats folded down beneath your gut; your sides bowing subtly outwards, too, a hint of a roll.
I find myself saying, “Was thinking of running across the street for a cupcake or something. You interested?”
“Sure,” you hiccup, as if you aren’t already swollen from breakfast and your four-sandwich lunch. “Just give me a few minutes.”
“I'll go alone, I don't mind,” I say. “Just stay seated, baby. What do you want?”
“Surprise me,” you say, your eyes heavy-lidded; fingers digging into your stomach.
I come back with a coconut cream pie, and without thinking too hard about it, I serve you an enormous piece, nearly a fourth of the entire thing. You don’t even blink, just put down your book and pull the plate onto your knee and begin stuffing eager forkfuls into your mouth. I can hear your heavy breathing; can hear you squirm a little as you try to find a more comfy position, but I pretend not to notice. I don’t look until he hear the last scrape of your fork on the empty plate, and a series of stiff little burps, followed by the whoosh of a difficult breath. Then – then I look.
Your hand is cupping your gut gently, thumb moving slow, soothing circles over your belly button, which is clearly visible through the stretched cloth of your t-shirt. Your stomach is round and poking out over your waistband, and your chin is squishy, your cheeks fuller. You’ve always been a little soft, but you are a little bigger now than you’d been before – a little bigger, and differently-shaped, too. You used to be smoothed in a small, soft layer of fat like an otter; had a few little rolls when you sat down, but now you’re growing round and squishy. Your firm stomach pushes out solidly in front of you, instead of folding like it once had done, and I have a sudden, desperate urge to see it bare. I haven’t seen you shirtless since summer, when you’d been so thin.
“Think I'm gonna go take a nap,” you say, interrupting my reverie.
“Sure,” I say, “cool, yeah, I'm just gonna --” I wave my game controller, trying to push down the blush that is clawing its way to my cheeks.
You push yourself to your feet, your face wrinkling in discomfort as you get vertical, but instead of trudging into your room, you detour into the kitchen, and my jaw nearly unhinges when I see that you’ve helped yourself to another enormous piece of pie, easily as huge as the first one.
“Pre-nap snack,” you blush, eyes on the floor, and a moment later you disappear into your room.
I abandon all pretense of playing the video game, and steal off to my own room, where I have my hand in my pants almost immediately, my eyes slammed shut as I imagine you across the hall, pink mouth wrapped around the pie fork; your strained, too-full breaths; that stomach getting even rounder as you eat. I almost feel guilty for sexualizing you this way – sexualizing the person who was probably slipping into a food-nap right as I cum in my underwear.
“I think we did a pretty nice job.”
“Can’t decide until we taste it.” You reply, sipping down the remainder of your milk and slipping out of your seat to refill the glass. I take the time to drink down your body, noting the way your shirt is beginning to scrunch up in all the usual places: hips, belly, arms. I wonder if you’ll ever start to plateau and part of me hopes you never do.
Twenty minutes later and we’re seated at the table with a heaping bowl of homemade chili in front of you, topped with red onions, sour cream, and shredded cheddar. I help myself to a small bowl, a quiet moan slipping out in satisfaction. “The meat is a little overcooked, but the flavor is perfection.”
You nod, though you seem characteristically unaware of the finer details and much more focused on consumption. You scoop up bite after bite, making a bit of a mess of your cheeks in all your haste. I can’t get enough of the sight: your greed on full display, mouth stuffed and gut getting fuller.
“Do you even taste anything?” I ask, getting only flushed cheeks and a scowl in response. You’re clearly too interested in your chili to offer much more, already close to halfway done with the bowl. I give your gut a firm pat, neglecting my meal for a few moments to watch you enjoy your food, and goodness does your love for food seem to get stronger every day. You revel in every bite, tiny confirmations of enjoyment showed in short moans, even your eyes flutter shut every now and again.
You finish the bowl in even less time than I had anticipated, leaning back in your chair and resting a hand on your big belly, seeming just as surprised as me at how quickly you wolfed your food down. I refill the bowl like a reflex, finally sitting back to work on my own food as I watch you eat with keen eyes, loving the sight.
You slow down a bit during your second bowl, finishing just a couple minutes before me and taking a short break. I get to my feet to get a drink and glance at you when you loudly clear your throat. “Will you get me another bowl? My belly is a little…uh…” you give the dome a firm pat, the tightness obvious.
"Admitting you're full and asking for more?" I blush, satisfied with my half-full bowl and shifting to serve you a third, heaping portion. "You're like a walking definition of greedy."
“Shut up. I just can’t sit up very well…” You mumble, squirming in place as you begin scarfing down the chili, hastily at first, but you seem to taper out a bit after the first few inhales. You hum at the taste, one hand slipping beneath your shirt to cup your stomach; feel the tight heaviness of it. I can hardly help sneaking my hand in next to yours, feeling the product of all your hard work so big and impossible to ignore.
I move to serve you your next bowl the second you slurp down the dredges of your third, hands moving straight back to their place on your stomach one you had the full bowl. “Think you can finish four?”
You hum, making a pleased noise and pondering, though you seem plenty confident. “Bet I can, if you help me.”
“I’ll give you all the tummy rubs you need, piggy.” I offer, fingers dancing along the massive bulge of your stomach, making soothing patterns along your skin. You let your head loll back, resting the bowl on your chest and scooping bites straight past your lips.
The both of us work hard to get exactly four and a half bowls of chili stuffed in your belly. You’re heaving and exhausted by the end of it; I had to shovel the last few bites in. I revel in your pained moans and burps with every bite, slipping a hand delicately up your thigh when you shift your hips up in an easy rhythm. “This okay?” I ask before pressing my palm against your navel, and you nod frantically. You seem to love every second of it, but I keep my hand still, deciding not to roam too much. You’re not done eating until I say so, and I can’t give you that satisfaction yet.
The moment you swallow the last bite, I sink down to pepper kisses along the taut skin of your belly. I rub the width of it and I can feel how firm and swollen with food the top is, while the bottom is soft and malleable. I give it a smack and you moan, and I notice how hard you are. “You like being my big pig, huh?” I ask, and your cheeks flush red as you nod. “Good,” I smile deviously, “because we don’t have room for this pot of chili in the fridge, so you’re going to have to eat it all for me.”
I know that I’ve been eating good lately because my tits are starting to spill out of this piece now 😈 I’ve gone from a B cup to a C cup in just a month hehe
New story will be on my next post, so be ready!
Also, if you have any post requests or suggestions of what you want to see, please drop those in the comments or in my inbox. Thank you all for the love and support and keep eating!
hey guys. i’ve been super sick this week which is why i haven’t posted. i’ll make a new post tomorrow since i’ll be off work. if you guys have any ideas, poses, outfits, etc. to request, please message me or comment below. thx 💞
Four hundred finds you waddling in earnest, swaying back and forth as you take small steps, pausing every so often to test your balance before you move forward. You huff from the couch to the kitchen; huff from the bed to the bathroom, and rest your belly on the countertops when you’re snacking in the kitchen. Your belly is still mind-bogglingly round, and your arms look short in comparison; your bubble-butt widening into thick thighs. Your gut now slopes down over all your waistbands, and you have to lie flat on your back and hold it up in order for me to blow you. Your ass hangs off all our chairs and your gut is too big to let you sit comfortably in booths anymore – though you try anyway.
“Babe, what is this?” I tease, watching you wedge yourself into a booth at our favorite pizza joint. The table digs into your belly as you try to get comfortable. “Is this denial?”
“No,” you say, adjusting yourself so most of your belly is slung between your legs beneath the table. “I just like the pressure. Feels good. And I figure, hey, pretty soon I won't fit at all, so I should get my kicks while I can.”
It's another few months, though, and another twenty pounds, before that prediction comes true. You can still squeeze yourself in, sure, but it's an unbearably tight fit, and after trying for a minute to make it work, you squeeze back out and hoist yourself up, shaking your head. “Better make it a table,” you say. Your cheeks flush red with embarrassment and I wrap my arm around your waist, giving your biggest roll a squeeze.
“This chair digs into my ass,” You say, shifting, cheeks getting pink from exertion. “Fuck. I feel fat.”
“You are fat.”
“Yeah, but I don't always feel it. Right now, oof. I feel heavy. Think I gained another couple pounds, actually. My thighs feel bigger.” You prod them with your fingers, and huh, they do look a little thicker.
“Your gut looks bigger,” I point out.
“You think?” You look down and pat the sides of it. It wobbles beneath the touch. “Honestly, I feel like it can't get any bigger. I mean, look at this thing.” You skim a hand down from your chest to the round curve of your belly.
“Oh, it can get bigger,” I say. “Look, you can still put your arms around it. Someday...” I trail off.
“God,” You gasp. “That day's still pretty far off, I think.”
But it isn't. It is, in fact, just three weeks later when you shout for me. I come into the bedroom to find you sitting on the bed, your hands resting on your gut with about a hands-width between them, framing your deep belly button. “I can't touch,” you say. “Holy shit, I'm fat.”
“You're gorgeous,” I say. “Come have breakfast.”
You spread your legs, leaning forwards, preparing to stand, but then you stop.
“Bring it to me in bed,” you demand, and begin scooting back up against the headboards, swinging your thick legs up onto the bed with a groan. Your belly is massive, spilling over your lap and jiggling as you moves around a little, and your once-muscled chest is soft and girlish. You have so many rolls and they’re all so thick. By the time you’re pushed back against the headboard, you’re out of breath and I’m crawling on top of you. You look into my eyes and you can see how turned on watching you struggle beneath your weight makes me.
(pt 4)
Ninety sticks of butter later, you’re up twenty-eight more pounds.
“The thing is, butter doesn't feel like eating,” you explain early on. You just chugged a blender full of butter and hot chocolate mix, and then whined to me that you needed real food, which was, in this case, a plate of buttery fettucini alfredo and half a loaf of buttered bread. Now you’re spreading butter across chocolate chip cookies while I rub your rumbling tummy. “It doesn't make me full or anything,” You continue. “So I need all my normal food on top of the butter. God, I can feel the calories, though, like each mouthful's going straight to my gut. I feel like I'm about to pop.”
“You look it,” I say, smoothing my hand over your bloated belly, which rises and falls heavily with each breath. I tuck a finger in your deep side roll, then tickle the underside of your left tit where it rests against your gut. You wiggle a little in protest, your chin sinking cutely into the pad of fat around your neck. You drop a hand to the armrest of the couch and begin rocking in preparation to stand.
“What do you need?” I ask. “I'll get it.”
“Glass of milk or something?” You say.
I get a glass of butter.
(pt. 3)
I propose challenge, and it's pretty simple: eat as many cheesecakes as you can in three weeks, and for every ten cheesecakes you manage, you get one day of me being your sex slave, feeding you at your complete beck and call.
Every morning, you blend a full cheesecake with milk in the blender, and sip it continuously through a straw as you work on your paintings. You eat thirty-two frozen cheesecakes in twenty-one days, and I spend three days feeding and blowing you, fetching your snacks, letting you take me whenever you want. Those twenty pounds go on so fast that you’re not inclined to move much, so we’re holed up in my apartment together in a miasma of sex and food and love. Your ass seems to have taken most of those last twenty, and it begins to spill over the sides of your chair and mound up behind you when you sit.
By summer you’re up to three thirty, and by the next fall you’re up to three sixty-eight, thanks to a quality A/C unit and endless servings of homemade ice cream. You’re truly fat now, not just big, and you’ve started waddling a little as you walk, your thighs rubbing together, your gut pulling you forward. Your belly is finally beginning to lap over the waistband of your pants, and when you sit down to tie your shoes, you come up bright red and wheezing for breath, laughing a little at yourself as you try to catch your wind.
“Jesus,” you huff as you thump down in the booth at the local buffet. You scoot your ass back, adjusting your gut on your lap as you try to wedge your belly beneath the table. “I just can't get comfortable. My sides are getting so fat I can't put my arms down normally, look at this. And my back is killing me.” You take a big bite of a fried chicken leg and mound some macaroni onto your spoon, your elbows planted on the table. “Plus, I'm so fucking hungry. We ate, what, an hour ago? And I'm starving already.”
I reach under the table with my hand to prod your fat belly. “You've got a lot of room in there. Thank god my paintings are selling,” I say. “Otherwise we'd never afford your appetite.”
“Or my new clothes,” you say.
“Or those,” I agree.
You pluck at your t-shirt with a grimace. It's getting tight around the chest and shoulders. “Babe, will you run up and grab me a plate of mashed potatoes? I need 'em for this chicken. Grab some biscuits, too, if you don't mind.”
I oblige with pleasure, and take my time sauntering back to the table, observing you from a distance. You’re hunched over your plate, eating steadily, your chin sinking into your second chin with every bite. There's still the frame of a strong guy beneath the fat: your shoulders are broad and firm, your forearms corded still with muscle, and the taut roundness of your sloping gut speaks to the invisible abs that hold it up beneath.
As I watch, you pause to dig your fingers into the side of your belly and blow out a breath, then rub your thumb across the stretch of your belly button. You trace the pudgy round curve of your lower belly where it sits on your lap and lean back in your seat with a chicken wing, continuing to stuff yourself while rubbing careful circles on your belly.
I drop down in the booth next to you and slide the mashed potatoes towards you. You watch as I drops four pads of butter into the middle of the biscuit, and you take it with a kiss to my cheek.
“Thanks,” you say, and begin munching. You clear both of your plates pretty quickly, then let out a big belch.
“What do you say to a new challenge?” I ask, idly turning a wrapped pad of butter over in my hands.
“What'd you have in mind?” You respond, fingers drumming the round crest of your gut.
“Three sticks of butter a day for seven days.”
“Easy,” you scoff. “I'll just drink it.”
“You'll get sick of it,” I say.
“Of butter?” you ask incredulously. “This is the easiest challenge yet.”
“A month, then,” I say. “Three a day for a month.”
“Challenge accepted,” You say confidently.
(pt. 2)
“Mmphf,” you huff, shoving the last bite of your second meatball sub into your mouth and then flopping back onto the couch, your breath audible from where I’m sitting a few feet away. You arch your back, and your stuffed belly peeks out from the bottom of your t-shirt. You’ve had nearly an entire liter of Coke, too, not to mention an order of onion rings and most of my fries, and you look positively thick, your belly round and swollen. You arch your back again, and I notice how your jeans are cutting cruelly into the chub on your hips, and leaving a painful-looking red mark on your lower belly.
“Baklava?” I ask innocently, offering you one of the squares of buttery pastry.
You take one and put the whole thing into your mouth, smiling your thanks at me. You take the entire pan and set it on your lap for easy access, arching your back again in that catlike movement, then tucking both thumbs into the waistband of your pants and tugging, confused, trying to make room for your bloated stomach. You put another piece baklava into your mouth, crumbs landing on the upper curve of your belly, and I have to sit on my hands to resist reaching over to brush them off.
“This is so good,” You groan around another huge mouthful. You frown down at the crumbs that fell from your lips. You brush them away, and I see, with a clarity not unlike religious ecstasy, that your rounding belly jiggles ever so slightly beneath your fingers, and when you crane your head your chin is beginning to hint at softness. How could you see the crumbs, but not the belly beneath you?
“Mmphf,” You mumble again, that little grunt of fullness, tugging your shirt down and trying again to adjust your pants.
Finally, lazily, you undo your jeans button, letting out a relieved sigh as your belly pushes out joyously between the flaps of your pants. You pull your zipper down an inch or two to get even more breathing room, and wriggle in your seat, testing the newfound freedom before picking up another square of baklava and pushing it into your mouth. I notice that you’re breathing around the food, taking little sips of air as you chew, mouth partially open, one hand still resting on your gut, thumb rubbing the exposed skin of your lower belly in little strokes.
“S'good,” you say again, more of a sigh, and begin nibbling the last piece of baklava, slowly, cheeks bright.
“Really good,” I agree, watching your lips.
(pt. 1)
met up with a feedee (he would prefer to stay anon for now) and fed him 2 lemon bundt cakes and a shrimp platter hehe 😈 it was a struggle getting him up off the couch 😅💞 next time i’ll record a video but we were a bit distracted this time around 🥴
results of a huge dinner tonight 😈 I had a huge piece of salmon and a big bowl of rice and I am stuffed. I’m planning to do a water bloat soon, so stay tuned ☺️💞
You lean back, breathing heavily. You grab your phone and scroll through it and try to ignore the aching in your abdomen. You’re packed uncomfortably tight, and it’s becoming hard to distract yourself from it when you had gone to bed bloated almost every night for the past few months.
This time, like the last few, you took it to a new height. You aren’t sure if you can even stand up. You finally put your phone down and look at your taut belly. You hesitantly hover your hand over it and slowly bring it down to rest atop. Your hand moves slowly down the slope of your gut. You felt your heart rate speed up and heat rushes to your cheeks, causing you to flush red. You’re shamefully turned on by the realization of your own indulgence.
Guilt and desire intertwines as you rub the bottom of your swollen gut; you bite your lip. You can’t help but be curious and knead at it, which heats your chest up with burning desire. You let out a groan from your throat and pull your hand back, embarrassed. Though no one is around, your stomach is full of butterflies due to how oddly sexual this all is: making yourself continue to eat until you’re temporarily immobilized; easing your stuffed, swollen belly while you desperately grow harder; gasping at the touch of your fingers relieving the tension. Society tells you that you should feel bad, but you don’t. Sure, you feel like this is something you may need to keep a secret, but you’re not doing very well at deception considering your gut is sitting in your lap.
You decide to do what you’re best at and indulge in the feeling of you heavy body. You grope the thick roll on your side and massage it as you run your hand up and down your gut. This was bound to happen - every time you eat, you are overcome with the temptation to touch your body and feel the consequences of your greed. You usually resist it (with a few previous inebriated exceptions) but you figure that the damage has already been done, so you might as well enjoy the ride.
You lean forward to get up and your distended gut pins you to the couch. You let out an audible whimper and desperately knead your bloated belly. You inhale and try again, rocking in place as you slowly get on your feet. You walk over to the mirror and avoid looking down, maintaining eye contact out of shame. But it’s not like you’re not aware of what you’ve done to your body. You’ll look like this regardless.
You are the only person getting in the way of your own satisfaction and you know this, so you look.
Your eyes widen and you finally see the growth you’ve added to your waistline. You’ve avoided looking in the mirror for months, allowing yourself to live in a delusion that you’re not fat. In reality, you know you have to be at least 300. Your shirt is riding up, exposing the bottom of your belly that overlaps your waistband. You run your hands up the soft fat and pull your shirt up over your tits, which rest on the dome of your stomach. The feeling of grabbing each roll of fat and caressing your own growing body almost brings you close to orgasm.
You make your way into the bedroom and sit on the bed, which creaks as you lean back to lay down. Your weight shifts as you lie down and you reach around your belly to pull off your clothes. By the time you’ve reached your underwear, you’re already out of breath. “Fuck,” you exhale desperately as you rub your swollen gut. With your other hand, you press into the firm, full top of your belly and whimper from the pressure. “So big,” you remark, unable to see over your swollen gut. Your legs shake as you try to keep it together, biting your lip hard. You close your eyes and think about eating even more; being even bigger. You probably can’t even get up from the bed, and that thought alone nearly makes you cum. You think about someone else- someone you try not to think about, but always seem to- kissing your thick thighs and shoving bite after bite down your throat. “C’mon, baby. Just one more. Be good for me,” I would say. You see my blue eyes and blonde hair in your mind when you reach your climax and it’s almost as if you can feel my strong hands groping your taut belly; you can practically hear my voice telling you to eat just a little more for me…
“I know it’s hard not to notice.” We both know what you’re referring to, and I try to maintain eye contact, I really do, but my eyes eventually fall back on your stuffed belly. A little bit pokes out of your sweatshirt at the bottom and it rests on your thick, tree-trunk thighs that spill out of your shorts. I can see every roll and crevice from how tight your clothes are.
You watch my eyes roam your body freely and your chest heats up. This new shift in tone is definitely a readjustment for us. You break the tension for a moment by asking me if I can grab you another beer. “You can’t get up and get one?” I taunt, knowing what the answer already is. It’s worth it; seeing you tongue tied and flustered.
You play your cards and slowly run your hand down the slope of your mountainous gut. “I think you know the answer to that,” you smirk. The tension finally seems to cease and we both realize that, yes, the feelings between us are mutual. This is really happening. I grab us a few more beers and drink mine in four gulps. “Slow down there, Nico. It ain’t gonna run away from you and there’s more where it came from.”
I hesitate on my next words, not wanting to cross a line that may not exist. I won’t know until I try. “I could say the same thing to you about that borscht.” I nearly whisper it and you chuckle at my brave comment being said with such uncertainty. You thinks it’s cute when I get nervous; cheeks flushed and eyes averted toward the floor.
“It’s not as good cold.” You shrug. “And anyways, it’s not like I got this way from restricting myself, right?” You tease, gesturing down to your taut belly. I am resisting every urge in my body telling me to reach over and touch your fat gut. I want to kiss your soft lips and bite your warm neck while my hands roam around your plentiful body.
“I’m glad you’re not,” I pause as my voice catches in my throat, “restricting yourself.” You smirk in response and can’t help but rile me up even more by shifting heavily to scoot next to me. We’re now sitting with our shoulders touching and I turn so that I’m completely facing you, still slumped back and trying to breathe. I notice how soft you’re getting as we’re pressed together. “Do you eat like this every night?” I tease the question, and the it seems to be a checkmate as your cheeks turn red.
“Yeah,” you says rather breathlessly, “most of the time I sleep here on the couch because I can barely get up.” I open my mouth to respond, but I snaps it shut and reach forward to hand you your beer. You take it with a sly smile and I decide that I would like a bit more alcohol in my system at this rate. “Could you grab me a another?” You ask, rubbing your bloated gut as I finish mine. I get up and take the beer to the trash. “And some of that ice cream in the freezer?” I freeze and wait to catch my breath before grabbing a pint of chocolate ice cream. I brings it to you, and you thank me and open it. You knows you’re not hungry, but you want to push himself beyond anything you’ve done before now that I’m watching. You start to go in on the ice cream and you can already feel your angry stomach protesting, but your self control seems to be controlled by your own desire. I don’t know what to say and I act as if I don’t notice, sipping my beer. I have a one track mind, though, and the only thing on it is you.
You move so that you’re leaning against the arm of the couch, stretching out to give your massive gut room. By the time you’re finished adjusting, you’re already panting and out of breath. I’m starting to go insane pretending to watch the television as you put on a show next to me. I’m not sure if you want me to look or if you’re just inebriated. Regardless, I can’t help but turn my head and suddenly the two of us are making direct eye contact. The tension is palpable. You stop eating for a moment and pant. I bravely ask you, “Are you going to finish that?”
You pause thoughtfully. “Should I?” I, growing almost impatient, do my best to remain calm and collected.
“Do what you want. You clearly like eating.” I say, my voice low and seductive, and your breath catches in your throat. You make eye contact with me for a moment and shovel more ice cream into your mouth to distract from the sexual tension. Each bite hurts and you know you’ve never been this full in your life. Your belly is swollen and you’re overcome with the desire to stop and touch yourself everywhere to alleviate the pressure. I notice this and remark, “You don’t have to eat it all. It’ll be there tomorrow.” You look at me and see the challenge in my eyes.
“I can finish it.” You pant out. You take another bite and my eyes catch the underside of your belly. It’s sticking out of your shirt and it looks soft. I have never wanted to grab something more. I am truly shocked by your level of gluttony and I can’t help but imagine how far you could take it.
“I’m sure you can finish it.” I tempt you, and you do just that. You lift the carton to your mouth and drink the rest of the ice cream, whimpering softly as your belly swells. You finish and go to put away the carton, but realize how heavy you are. You know for a fact you can’t reach the living room table, but you decide for whatever inebriated reason to try. You scoot forward and let out an “oh fuck” that resembles that of a soft moan. You can’t even sit up far enough to move yourself off of the couch. “Finally full now or are we gonna eat the rest of the fridge?” I ask breathlessly.
“Maybe another night I’ll clean it out, but not tonight. I’m stuffed.” You pat the side of your gut and I watch it jiggle. Considering how full and packed tight you are, I’m surprised you’re still so soft. You are so turned on by your big, bloated gut that you can’t even bother to restrain yourself. You close your eyes and begin rubbing your hands around your tummy like second nature. I watch with jealousy. You sigh into the touch and massages the rolls at your side while I watch wide-eyed, biting my lip slightly. “Wanna give me a hand, Nic?” You invite, and this is the moment I’ve been waiting for. I don’t hesitate, instead shifting between your legs and putting my hands on your soft body. You immediately push back into the touch and a gasp leaves your lips. You let your eyes roll back as I press into your full belly with my fingertips and trace circles onto it. “Feels good.” You mutter, hand gripping onto the arm of the couch tightly from the pleasure that has sent a rush through your whole body.
“You feel good.” I whisper, unable to speak properly. “So soft.” I get into it, roaming your belly desperately. I place my hands on both sides of your gut and give it a shake, in turn making you let out an unintentional moan. “You like that, piggy?” I deeply hush, and you whimper with a desperate nod in response.
“Your hands feel so…” you trail off when I reach for the hem of your sweatshirt and lift it up, exposing your big belly and perky tits. I can’t help but grab one of them, swiping my thumb over your sensitive nipple and making you squirm. You’re whimpering beneath me and you gasp when I take one of your nipples into my mouth and start sucking on it. “Nico, oh shit.” Your hands make their way to my hair and you pull back, and I’m scared I’ve gone too far. But when I looks at you, I notice the way your eyes flicker down toward my lips. I make the move to lean in and kiss you. It’s hot and heavy and my hands roam your plentiful body restlessly.
“Fuck, you’ve gotten huge. You’re so big, babe.” I moan into your mouth, running my hand down the slope of your exposed belly. I untie your sweatpants string for you, giving way for your belly to spill forward. You sigh in relief and I attempt to pull your tight sweatshirt back down over your mountainous gut, but it gets stuck between two rolls of fat at your side. I can’t seem to get it to go past your belly button; deep and sensitive. “Can’t even get your shirt back on.” I tease while pinching your navel, and you look down to confirm this.
“Ate a lot.” You breathe out. “Gained a little weight.” I suck on one of your nipples and you mutters a mantra of, “Oh, Nico.” I suck on your swollen chest and begin making my way down to your belly. I suck a hickey into your swollen belly and your eyes roll back in pleasure. You move so that my hands are between your thighs.
“A little weight?” I smirk, shaking the soft, jiggly bottom of your gut. “Does this look like a little weight to you?” I rub my hands over your gut and grab the two massive rolls at your side as you rut into me. I grind my hips against yours and you throw your head back in pleasure.
Next story will be posted tomorrow since I’ll have the day off! Love you guys and here’s a teaser for my next set I upload ☺️ What do you guys wanna see in my feedism writing? And what kind of pics do you want? (no full-nudity) Let me know in the comments! <3
Part 2
“Fresh pumpkin pie, all for my piggy.” I hold out a fork and you take it graciously, pulling me down to sit as you sink the fork into the crust and scoop out a considerable amount of sweet pie. You push it into your mouth and moan softly at the taste, shivering from arousal when my hand touches your stomach. You know that this is just the beginning…
“Damn, that’s good.” You take another bite, then another, eating quickly and steadily until about a third has disappeared already. I give your stuffed belly a firm pinch.
“Almost forgot to grab some milk for you. How about chocolate milk? I bet that’d be perfect.”
You nod and I slip out of the dining room and into the kitchen. When I come back, you hastily grab the cup, sucking down almost half in no time. You place the cup on the table with a burp. “Feeling pretty stuffed, Nico…”
“Then put your feet up and I’ll do the work.” I assure, guiding your fat body to the couch for a more comfortable position- head on the pillows; thighs spread for me to settle in between. You brace yourself to stand with a grunt and try to lift your fat ass from the seat, but your gut is too heavy for you to get up. I reach out my hand and use all of my strength to get you up as you moan about how full your belly is. You waddle to the living room and plop your heavy body onto the couch and I straddle your lap. I pluck up the pie and balance it on the bulge of your round belly, spooning you a huge bite.
You close your eyes and chew, one hand resting on the taut curve of your stomach while the other settles on my forearm, squeezing it gently when I press my body flush against yours, hips grinding down with aching need.
“You're doing such a good job, baby.” I hum. “I think you're on your way to polishing off this whole damn thing.”
You moan, breathing through your mouth as you chew. I feel your dick twitch beneath me from the praise; from the teasing. My free hand is rubbing at the massive dome of fat that has become your belly. Your hips coil and rut, the rate only slowing when your core goes rigid ( a telltale sign that you’re nearing climax) and you beg me for more. My hand swipes smoothly over your round gut, the other shoveling bite after bite into your awaiting lips.
Your breathing is heavy, each bite taking a little longer to chew and swallow than the last, but I offer frequent breaks for you to breathe and sip your milk. It‘s not long before hardly any pie remains and I can hear the arousal in my own voice. “Just two more, piggy, I know you can do it…”
You nod, accepting the next forkful to your lips with a whimper. You take your time to chew, gulping it down and opening your mouth for the final bite. I feed it to you, and my eyes are eager as I watch you lick crumbs from the corners of your mouth, entirely unable to breathe smoothly with how tight your belly is.
I slip the tin away almost immediately, kissing along your soft neck, over your perky tits that sit on the dome of your fat gut, my hips grinding desperately against yours. “Shit, piggy, I-I’ve never been as turned on as I am now…” I whisper into your ear.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been so stuffed.” You throw your head back, body spreading as if to make more room for your bloated, distended gut. Despite the discomfort, your cock is throbbing against my thigh, and the heat of your arousal only inspires me to move a little faster against your pinned body.
“I don’t think so, either,” I breathe, both hands moving over the bloat of your gut.
The morning is gloomy and grey; the rain is falling heavily. Your stomach grumbles loudly as you begin to awaken, greeted by a growl from your endless gluttony. You rub your soft tummy and sigh, basking in the early-morning sunlight. You grunt and push yourself up with a slight struggle and head toward the kitchen in a daze. You stop in the hallway and inhale sharply as you turn to face the mirror.
You can’t believe you’ve let yourself go with this much consequence. But you can’t help but be turned on by your fat, bouncing belly when you look at your reflection. You pull your shirt up and grab at your fat gut that spills over your tight boxers. You are in awe as you jiggle it. It’s almost as if you were meant to have this thick body, considering how perfectly your round gut and thick rolls suit your figure.
The smell of coffee hits your nose as you enter the kitchen. You look at me in surprise due to what I’m wearing (see photos 1-10).
“What’s the occasion?” You ask, smacking a hand down onto your bulbous belly. The fat jiggles beneath your hand and our faces flush from arousal. You’re still stuffed from the night before. This makes me wet and you can tell by the fire that appears in my eyes.
“Well, I wanted to make you breakfast. I wanted to see if I could make you five pounds heavier in one day.” I say with a blush. My face screams innocence, but my voice is passionate and intoxicating. You take a seat obediently at the kitchen table. “Good piggy.” I smile at you as you rub your gut that is beginning to sit in your lap.
(pt. 2 will be on my next upload) 😈💞
My tits are threatening to spill out of my new piece already hehe. I can’t wait to see what 50 more pounds brings 😈 my current weight goal is 130, so I’m only 17 pounds away hehe… 🤭
Just got this new piece! Ft. my kid’s medium size fairy tee lol. It’s starting to get a little tight in the chest area hehe 😈 More pics of the lingerie piece I got will be posted soon! 💞
“I’m so full, Nico.” You groan, rubbing your tight stomach. “Hand me that?” You ask me as I stare at you with an intensity that you can’t deny is beyond sexual. I look at you and your distended gut like you hold the world in your hands. I turn around to where you are pointing at a plate with a donut.
“But aren’t you full?” I quietly ask, mouth going dry. You just ate the other 11 in the box. You grow impatient, eager to eat for me, and inch forward with a grunt to grab it.
“Not full enough.” You smirk, taking a bite of the donut. I can’t do much but stand and watch in awe as you shovel in bite after bite ravenously.“Fuck.” You moan and throw your head back, reaching your hand down toward the dome of fat at your waist. I grab your wrist and you look up at me with wide, lustful eyes.
“Just. Let me help.” I whisper seductively. “Let me take care of you.” I lean forward and grab the donut, then push your hands above your head. I bring the pastry to your lips and you oblige obediently, and God forbid you take the whole thing in your mouth like a champ when I shove it in. My breath hitches and you pant through the rest of the chewing. You’re determined to be my big, good feedee.
“‘M so full, Nico.” You mumble once you swallow and I let go of your wrists. I lightly place one hand on your throat and push your chin up to look at me.
“You’re so good. No touching unless I say so, okay?” I ask with my voice low, and the sudden dominance makes you shut your eyes and nod to contain yourself. I move in to straddle your lap and the plush of your thighs fill out the chair delectably, bringing me to push my hands up them. You bite your lip and eye me longingly, feeling me move my hands up to slip them under your tight shirt. You groan from the pleasure of being touched after being so full.
My breathing heightens when I push up your shirt to reveal your swollen belly, unwrapped and gorgeous like a present. “Fuck, baby.” I groan. Your belly is hard at the top from being stuffed to the brim, but the bottom is soft and rests in your lap. Your sides push over the waistband of your shorts and I can’t help but grab the thick rolls that sit there. I massage them and my hands roam from your belly to your breasts, which are becoming more like two large peaks perched upon the top of your gut. My fingers circle the dip of your navel and I pinch at the thickness of it between that and your belly button. I press a kiss to the top of your belly and suck on it.
“Nico, oh my God.” You groan. You lean forward slightly and I match you in the middle to kiss you. It’s deep and passionate, but it’s also needy and filled with longing. I bite your lip as both of my hands grab your underbelly and give it a shake. “Nico,” you moan into my mouth, “so full.”
I can’t help but rut my hips into your big belly in response, in need of friction. I place one hand under your gut and use my other hand to stroke you over your shorts. You squeeze your eyes shut and push your belly further into my hold on it. I caress the side of it where the fattest roll sits and my other hand slips into your underwear.
“Getting kinda big.” You moan into my neck where you’re sucking. I get needy from the thought.
“Yeah you are.” I growl. “So big.”
“Am I getting fat?” You ask, and if it weren’t for the way you deviously smirk when you ask the question, I would’ve been more hesitant to answer.
“Yeah, babe.” I hiss, noticing how fucked out my voice sounds. “You feel so good.”
“I feel big.” You exhale.
“You are big.” I point out, licking a stripe up your neck. My hand grabs at the bottom of your belly desperately, like a drowning man seeks a rope.
“I don’t normally feel it,” you groan, “but I feel huge right now. Don’t even think,” you pause, getting more turned on from knowing how crazy you are about to drive me, “I don’t even think I could get up right now. I’m just so full.” I squeeze my eyes shut and throw my head back in arousal.
I kiss you roughly and step back, standing in front of you. You can see how flushed my cheeks are as I demand, “Stand up for me.” You obey, placing both hands on the armrest and rocking in place in preparation to stand. You try to push yourself up, your round belly sloped down between your thighs and your butt barely lifted off the chair, but you can’t get the momentum. I bite my lip. “Try again, babe, c’mon.” You push forward again, getting up even less this time as you fall back with a thud. You place your hands on your fat stomach and knead it desperately. “You’re so fucking hot.” I speak through gritted teeth, crawling back on top of you as you catch your breath.
“God I’m fat, Nico.” You mumble. You thrust your hips up to connect them with mine, my hands pushing into your belly and grabbing the fat that spills over your sides. I wrap my fingers around the waistline of your underwear and pull them down to your knees, exposing you to me completely. You take my hand and place it back on the navel of your big belly. “Touch me, Nico. Feel how big I am. Tell me why you like it.” You demand eagerly.
