⚡️ Dry Lightning | Weight Gain Story

There’s a spell that blew in on the wind tonight.

It's a curse I should have stayed away from, or the escaped fumes from a witch’s brew. Something dangerous and intoxicating, and I think I breathed it in.

I'm good, most days. I sit at home and I eat my little feasts and I chug my cream. I stand on my little scale and gasp my little gasps. Quietly. In private. But ohh... some days. To be seen, to be seen, to be seen.

It takes me like a fever, not a rational thought in my mind as I wrench open draws so desperately the coasters squeal, searching for something shameful, something provocative, something wrong. The thin fabric of a medium t-shirt slides between my fingers. I test the stretch. It hasn't fit in a long time. I wonder if it'll even go on.

There's only one way to find out.

The street is cold tonight. Mid-autumn, and the sun had left the sky hours ago. It's only under cover of darkness that I have the courage to slip from my building with a flop of new dough against the front of my jeans, hanging low like a forbidden fruit. The street's not empty. It's Friday night. That 'cover of darkness' isn't quite as full cover as I was imagining. But I don't even consider going back inside. I need it. My heart is pounding and my face is burning, and I need it.

I live on the city fringe, and it’s alive with shouts and music, yet not quite as bustling as downtown. The bass from the clubs drifts on the breeze across the harbor and, skulking through the shadows in my fattened body, I've never felt more divorced from my old life. That life of laser lights and heady bass that trembles my ribcage. Of hands and eyes and teeth that want me. Of vanity, a proud peacock.

Well, I'm still a peacock. I still love to show.

The sky flickers—a dry autumn lightning storm kindling in the night sky. I relax my stomach out further. My pulse throbs in my fattened face. My thighs rub, my ass wobbles, and when I find the right gait, my stomach begins to bounce. Up and down. I make the waddle slow enough to keep it rebounding—salacious and utterly conspicuous. Gentle downlights illuminate the harbor along the edge of the boardwalk, and at this point the only thing the darkness is truly covering is the heat in my cheeks. The occasional person wanders by, enjoying the balmy evening in their normal little life, and I fight not to make eye contact, though I desperately want to know if they're looking. If they've noticed what an obscene spectacle I'm making of myself.

People don't dress like this. Normal people don't allow themselves to look like this in public. I feel my stomach pull. My t-shirt strain. The uncomfortable wideness of my hips brushes the inside of my fat forearms. Of course they're noticing.

I’m needy, but that’s not new. Trembling in my cold sweat. Eyes darting like mad blowflies trapped behind glass. Fighting to keep the excited curve off my lips. I don’t want people to know I wanted this. I want them to see what they always see when they look at me now.

Poor fatty. Can’t fit in his clothes.

I can feel the fabric pull. So thin and stretched I feel the chill against my belly as if it was bare. It makes a spectacle of my indulgence as I plod the windy streets made empty by the gathering storm. The swollen promise, hanging overhead. I wonder if it’ll rain and soak me through, stick my clothes to my rolls, my moobs, the cellulite on the backs of my thighs, and make me look my delectable worst.

Wobbling fat eclipses my thoughts, my shame on show, so I grow braver. I push my stomach out, straining it to a size I can’t hold for long, but I need to, because I have to be seen like this. I’m an addict, mortified and desperate. The clubs are full, but the streets are empty so I take them as my own exhibitionist’s playground. Angry seas toss in the harbor, and just across it, life goes on. Normal life. Right there. Almost in touching distance, but never in my grasp.

Not anymore. Normality had always been so safe and familiar. Always so available to me.

Until…

Until, until, until.

A particularly heavy wobble makes me grit my teeth to stifle a gasp. A reminder of my bold indiscretion. At what point does public obesity become public obscenity? When I’d deliberately dampened my shirt with a spritz of water before I left, so it clung to every vulnerable dip and bulge? When I’d chugged the remainder of my gallon of milk to force my belly heavier, to make it so I wouldn’t be able to suck in even if I wanted to? I want to feel my body exposed beyond modesty, and myself helpless to hide it when the embarrassment gets too much.

The path veers into a more well-lit area that runs alongside a dog park, zipping with red and blue LED collars. The eyes of all the people out tonight feel like floodlights, soaking me through. I accidentally make eye-contact, and they are looking. Scarlet shame bursts in my fat cheeks. But I can't suck in. I made sure of that. I can't make it better.

I might as well make it worse.

A full breath and a push of my near-atrophied stomach muscles makes my shape obscene. I balloon out, and it's too much, but I want too much. I feel the huge swell make me front-heavy. This humiliation, it's like a tightrope. The perfect balance delivers the sweetest, deepest, most intoxicating pleasure imaginable. It's heady, full-bodied, and sharp.

The sky sizzles with white light, a dangerous display, just like mine. Like my audacity offends the gods themselves.

Rough denim rubs against the underside of my trembling hang. My shirt has slipped up—I can feel it. The hem sits somewhere halfway over the rise, revealing my navel like a deep thumbprint in pizza dough. Showing the fold on the side where my stomach falls over on itself. My face floods in an instant. This is wrong. But I’m in ecstasy, too much so to put a stop to it. I have no idea if my face is neutral, but the storm inside rivals that in the sky and the sea. The sight of me must be obscene. I refuse to let myself look down. If I do, it’ll become too real. I’ll panic too much, the spell will be broken.

I want to panic just the right amount.

The hot breeze grazes my stomach, freshly shaved, blaring with stretch marks. My fat thighs rub, nudge my hang from beneath. My nipples brush the shirt, fat and flopping on the tips of self-inflicted tits. The hem rides higher. I want to sob, and I want to come.

My teeth grind against each other, but I can’t bring myself to think about baseball. This feels too good—too disgracefully bad. Everything that pushes me to this kind of brink writhes with contradiction. I want this, but I don’t. I need it, but I can’t. My face is swollen, my stomach is low, my rolls are pressing, my clothes don’t fit, my body’s changed so much and I need it.

I need it now.

Oh, fuck.

I’m on the edge before I can do anything about it—so violently aroused that it would be easier to die than to pull myself back at this point. My face goes numb. This wasn’t the plan.

This close to the precipice, my sin-soaked brain flashes with only fragments of thought, and none helpful. I drag my gaze across the boardwalk in front of me, and it looks surreal like I’m looking at a picture. The Normal World—So normal that I must be seeing it in a crystal ball. There are seats and benches, all far too public. But to the right, large concrete steps stagger their way down to the water, where the black ocean breaks itself against the base. It’s my best chance for privacy and my only option. Fat slaps and heaves as I heft myself down the oversized stairs, body uncooperative by design.

I lower onto the bottom one, cold concrete sending shivers through my hot pancake stack of rolls as I lean my back against the one above. It’s relative privacy, still terrifyingly public. The crest of my belly domes up, barely covered, white fat bursting from the surrendering hem. At the sight of it, the panic surges to swallow me like I thought it would, but I’m already a hurricane, and I swallow it first. I absorb it into my maelstrom to grow larger, more dangerous, closer to breaking. My cheeks swell, pressing my hoggish lips into a pout and my face begins to throb with the pressure of looking down. What have I done to myself? It’s the question that always slips whispered from my lips when I crave a torture good enough to eat. I spit it, sob it, wrench it from my gut to feel the truth of it. What have I done? What have I done to my body? It’s an agonizing symphony of sensation—none of them familiar, none of them comfortable. I haven’t been myself for a long time, and if this is how it feels, I hope I never will be again.

I don’t unzip. I’m too close. My hand grapples for something, ends up clutching a fist of stomach, bare fat oozing through the fingers like fondant. My face crumples.

There’s so much.

The sky bellows, then opens.

My agony breaks.

My back strains under the weight of myself to arch against the concrete steps, fattened face stretched, screaming into the sky. My hands scrabble at myself, palming the ocean of consequence slopping between my thighs. I devour the shame, the horror, the gravity—all of it an acquired taste, all of it delicious. And my hips buck, pounding a rhythm through my big new gut that makes me scream again and scream harder.

Some time later, when the steps and the ocean and the night blink back into focus, I’m slumped sideways and big drops of rain are dyeing the concrete dark in polka-dots. They thump against my belly, and the rounded thick slab of my shoulders. My arms curl in. It stings on my still-throbbing skin. I see where I am. What I just did.

What I am now.

The laser lights and the hands that want me never seemed so far away.

I strain my body upright, underbelly rubbing across my thighs until it sits in the valley like a boulder. My hands come to settle on the pillowy top, both comfortable and uncomfortable. My eyes blink, face too hot, and too cold. The current of my body sings with ecstasy, and wails with shame. And I swear to myself that what just happened will never, ever happen again.

And again.

And again.

And again.