Eat | Weight Gain Story

I’ve been noticing you watching me for about twenty minutes, but I have to assume it’s been longer than that.

Your gaze is undoubtedly flirty as we wind between women with high-piled hair and backless dresses, and men in suits brighter and louder than they would normally wear — bold red with black loafers. One in full gold. Well, ‘tis the season. But as obvious as your lustful gaze is, it takes me a moment to realize it. People don’t really look at me that way. Not anymore, at least.

And tonight, I’ve been eating. Hopping between roving waiters accepting their wordless offers of expensive canapes. Going back and back and back so many times that I almost feel I should don a fake mustache, but nobody cares how much I take. It’s the only good thing about this stupid Christmas party. This is such a wanky part of town. Imagine hiring waiters to come into your house. I don’t fit in here. A harsh, biting truth which frankly stings like honey — sweet and delicious… but the reality is there, too. I know I embarrassed myself showing up here in a shirt I’m just a bit too big for. Warning no one of my… considerable weight gain, putting rich aunts and uncles and cousins in the uncomfortable position of not being completely sure they recognize me. Enduring the excruciating painted-on smiles, painful silences and conversations rushed to their amicable conclusion. This is polite company. No one’s going to address the elephant in the room, not to my face, anyway. But oh, the whispers. The way I feel naked while fully dressed. I know I look a sight. A spectacle. It’s thrilling, but it’s also deeply nerve-wracking.

So I turned to the hors d'oeuvres. Ate until my cheeks were flushed and my buttons were straining even more, ambling around with a champagne glass in my other hand to at least look like I’m mingling. Going from devilled eggs, to profiteroles, to bruschetta, to salmon mousse, back to profiteroles. Feeling my new belly get heavier, escaping from the thinly-veiled scrutiny into the heady world of eat, eat, eat.

And that’s when I noticed you.

You’re not trying to be particularly subtle. Gazing at me from over the rim of your champagne glass with heat in your eyes. The kind of heat that rises off of the sizzling, melting tarmac of a desert road. But you can’t be. No one looks at me like that anymore. That doesn’t upset me — it’s part of the fun. Something flipped in my brain one day when I decided it would be the hottest thing in the world to ruin the sleek, attractive lines of my lean face and body, and the waning sexual attention has been an exciting mile marker of how far gone I’m becoming.

And yet, there you are. When I move, you move. Your steps are like a waltz — controlled and graceful, almost predatory — as I waddle from tray to tray. Eating and eating and eating… but now, also trying to catch a clear glimpse of you, as well. You interest me, only because the lust that seems to be pouring off you can’t possibly be that. You’re attractive, conventionally so, with a nipped-in waist and bright eyes and a sharp, slender jawline. No, people don’t look at me like that anymore, but especially not people like you.

I begin my rounds again at the devilled eggs, and you stalk me across the marble floors — making it playful now. Making sure I can see you. You sip your champagne, and I down two eggs in quick succession. I can feel your heat closing in on me, but I can’t see where you’ve gone. I go for the profiteroles, and suddenly, there you are. You’ve figured out my pattern and beat me to it, nabbed the last one off the tray as the waiter moves off and now you’re standing there, face to face with my blushing cheeks, my confused frown, holding the little profiterole in its fluted paper liner.

“You like to eat.” There’s no hesitation before you say it. Either you’ve been planning it, or you don’t have much of a filter. It’s such a striking change of pace from the strained, false pleasantries I’ve been enduring from everyone else this evening, that it almost gives me whiplash.

I stammer, not quite knowing what to say, eventually settling on, “Is that a question?”

For all my posturing and fantasizing about what everyone must always be thinking and saying about my shocking weight gain, no one has ever really confronted me about it.

Like I said — polite company.

“No.” You tilt your head. “It’s obvious.”

Your small smile, and the way you’re still looking at me like a hungry lion, makes me want to hear more. I still don’t know what you want, but it’s intriguing. I say nothing, standing still as you slowly walk towards me, holding the little profiterole like it’s the top-selling jewel at a diamond auction. You’re well-dressed, good posture. Attractive. It makes me feel like a swollen hog, more aware of the reality of what I’ve done to myself than ever, and my heart begins to pound.

You stop in front of me — close, but not as close as you could get if my large belly wasn’t in the way, and gaze up at me, pupils blown. You raise the pastry. “I thought you’d probably want this.” You say, sugary voice barely a whisper, and take it from its paper with nimble fingers. Lifting it up, up…

No… you’re going to..?

You do. With the mechanical efficacy of putting a ball into a plastic laughing clown head at a sideshow, you pop the profiterole into my mouth — granted access only because my jaw is hanging open in disbelief. I don’t know what to do.

“There.” You coo, one hand going down to softly pat the very bottom of my hanging stomach, and my face erupts in a violent blush. Your hand feels rare and sudden on my untouched fat — touched only by me until now. My jaw starts to twitch. I have no idea what’s happening. I chew the profiterole, and swallow.

You seem genuine — a bit too genuine. Open and unguarded in a way that transcends normal behavior. But still, I have to ask.

“Are you…” I swallow, trying out different ways of phrasing the question, liking none of them. Taking the piss? Having a laugh? “..making fun of me?”

Still standing incredibly close, gazing up at me, you shake your head, then a little excitement flares in your eyes. “Would you like me to?”

What you actually seem, is crazy. But a hot, surreal, exciting kind of crazy, and just the antidote to this wan affair that I need right now.

“..maybe?” I answer, surprised at myself.

•

The first door we try that’s far enough away from the party ends up being the library. Glorified study, really. Deep teal walls and dark wood furniture. Heavy drapes making it feel soundproof, even if it isn’t. It’s perfect. No one’s going to come in — the books are surely all just for show, like everything else in this five bedroom McMansion.

Your lips are on mine before the door’s even closed, but your back slams it shut as we turn and you pull me against you, against it. I feel my body press around you like dough, blanketing you with my soft blubber. It’s still so new for me to be like this. Your hand is back on my overhang, kneading, feeling at the deep press of the buttons into my fat as our tongues surge around each other.

“What, do you just go around holiday parties looking for hookups?” I ask, already breathless — though for once it’s not entirely due to my waning fitness. You’re attractive. And the way you’re touching me is… unfathomably good.

“Yeah.” You coo, wrapping your arm behind my head, beginning to move against my hanging stomach in a way that feels hot and gratuitous. You tap the cupid’s bow of my lips, pouting. “Why? Did you think you were special?”

“Well…” I hum, though I’m unable to find the will to be disappointed that this is just another Tuesday for you. Not when your legs are wide around my heavy lower roll and grinding. “This just hasn’t happened to me in a while.”

You grin, even though your cheeks are flushed with arousal, too. “I bet. Not since…” You tenderly lift my belly, still straining in my too-small shirt, and look at me with mock sympathy. “..not since you grew this, right?”

The lift makes me stutter and bark out a guttural cry of pleasure. I like it. Your hand picking up my heavy stomach from beneath like an overstuffed cushion is a sensation that shoots straight to my cock, and if I wasn’t ready before, I sure as hell am now.

“What’s your name?” I ask, the words slipping out between peppered kisses down your slender neck.

“Uh-uh.” You scold lightly. “You don’t get to know my name. What use would a dumb little pet have for my name, hm?”

You move, shifting my belly out of the way so your hand can reach underneath it, letting it drape over your wrist, and you begin to stroke, feeling me firmly through my dress pants. “And I don’t need to know your name, either.” You coo as I begin to unravel. “I already know it. It’s Fatty, isn’t it?”

I bite my lip, nodding so vigorously I can feel the roll of my double chin wobble beneath my face.

“Oh, is it?” Your voice is thick yet light, like the scent of honey and jasmine floating on a spring breeze. “What’s your name?”

“Fatty.” I gasp obediently. “My name’s Fatty.”

“I thought so…” You say, and deliver a squeeze with one hand to my belly and the other to my cock, simultaneously. I shout, loud, with my head snapping back and my palm slamming down against the side table by the door. When I recover, I expect you to shush me, but you don’t. I watch you, working down my front, slowly undoing each of the straining buttons. You really are crazy. You don’t care if we get caught.

“What are you, some kind of… fat fetishist?” I ask around panting breaths, fighting against my swollen face, overstuffed with fat, to look down at you.

Your grin is wide and your eyes hold a spark that scares me a little when you gaze up at me and answer, “Oh yeah.”

You flick each button open, making my tender fat quiver with each release and I blush. The open shirt reveals my heavy moobs, my stretch marks, and I feel an overwhelming sense of being exposed. You’re going to examine my stretchmarks like the rings on a tree, too bright and copious to be overlooked, and see that my weight gain was fast and recent. And if you do, maybe you’ll also figure out that it was…

..deliberate.

You leave just one button still fastened — the third from the bottom, the one that’s positioned right over the largest, roundest part of my belly. The one that’s straining the most.

“Pop it.” You command.

I like this shirt, but I don’t hesitate to breathe in and use my lapsed stomach muscles to force my already globular gut outwards, putting so much outward pressure on the button that it has to fly off.

But it doesn’t.

I’m surprised to realize that disappoints me, and I try again, pushing my stomach out as far as I possibly can. The mental image of my soft, pendulous belly bursting the single button that still cradles it, to fall outwards in a heavy flop of dough is too delicious not to fight for. I strain, and the button presses deeply, almost painfully, into my soft fat, but it doesn’t release.

“Sorry.” I mutter, releasing the breath and craning my neck to try to peer over my belly. “It’s a well-made shirt.”

“Oh… don’t worry, little pet. You tried so hard.” You kiss me again, and one finger drifts across my chest to tease at the sensitive nipple tipping my moob. My buried core contracts in a euphoric shudder, and then your hands are on me.

You pull me across the room by the sides of my open shirt to the emerald green chaise that complements the teal walls, and dump me onto the velvet. The button still doesn’t break. Your eyes are hungry, watching the waves and ripples that run through the ocean of fat I’ve turned my body into, bouncing as I land.

Then you’re in my lap, kissing me. It’s a hot, needy kiss, and I don’t hesitate to return it. My chubby hand goes around your slender back, your legs forced wide to straddle my fat thighs. Your tongue tastes sweet. For all the chocolate I’ve gorged myself on this afternoon, I’m sure mine does, too.

“It still won’t pop.” I half-laugh, half-gasp against your mouth. The button digging into my tender dough is starting to pinch.

“Let me get you something to help you.” You purr in my ear, nipping at my earlobe with your teeth, and push yourself off me. Your energy is frenetic, alarming. Exciting.

“Get what?” I ask, hazy, sweating already. Panting. It’s frightening how dramatically I’ve let myself go. My fat body’s still new enough to be a constant thrill, but also a constant shock.

You don’t answer, on your feet now and tugging your dress down from where it had slipped up over your thighs as you straddled me. “Get what?” I ask again.

“Wait here.” You instruct, strappy dress practically hanging off your skinny body as you cross to the door. We’re so different. “Don’t pop that last button.”

I watch you open and close it behind you, leaving me alone in the room, heart still hammering. You were hardly a buffer of comfort, but without at least someone else present, I feel deeply vulnerable with my shirt mostly open and my lap full of a quivering hang of sensitive gut. Reality sets in. I begin to wonder how long you’ll be gone, if you’re coming back, if this was all a joke. What if someone comes in when I’m alone in here like this?

But you’ve got me too turned on to worry much. My hand plays over the soft new fat that stretches my shirt button, careful not to release it, then it’s not long before I’m grabbing in a fever, giving myself desperate little wobbles. I do this at home, virtually all the time. I’ve gained so much so fast that I can hardly keep my hands off myself when I’m alone. But here, in this unlocked room, the excitement is deeper, the stakes are higher. What I’ve done to myself is more… real. I feel every new pound as it bounces, all tender and nothing like the body I left behind. A cry builds in my throat as my head tips back.

The door clicks open, and I almost have a heart attack — but it’s just you. I look over guiltily, once my initial panic has melted away, a thick roll clutched tightly in my hand, cheeks flushed, and lingering jiggles still trembling through my gelatinous hips from my handling.

“Oh my God.” You say, eyes sparkling. The door clicks closed behind you, excitement radiating from your very bones. “Oh my God, you like this, don’t you? You really fucking like this.”

There’s not much point in denying it. “Yeah.” I admit, voice husky with lust. I feel so exposed, it’s such a thrill. No one’s ever seen me like this. No one knows this transformation they all pity me for is something I chose.

“Oh my God, Fatty.” Your eyes cloud over and you bite your full lip. “Then you’re really going to want to eat this.”

And it’s only then that I notice what you’re holding.

A cake. A big one, looking heavy on its marble platter. It’s one of those cakes that you could unironically refer to as a gateau. Tall and dramatic, whipped cream piped in neat swirls between the two chocolatey slabs, thick buttercream slathering the top and sides. Curls of Belgian chocolate piled on top. Strawberries. More cream. My aunt’s handmade gingerbread man cookies arranged in a nativity tableau.

My jaw drops, landing softly on my double chin, and I start to get nervous. “Where did you get that?”

You smirk and shrug, sliding a fringed lamp out of the way and placing the gateau down on a side table as you come back to me. “Let’s say I brought it from home.”

“Hold on…” I begin, trying to struggle into a more upright position, but my body isn’t cooperating. “Someone’s gonna notice that’s missing.”

“So?” You say, not in the least deterred. “Fuck them. I saw the way they all looked at you.”

“Yeah, fuck them, but… I’m the only fat guy here. If a whole cake goes missing—”

“How many calories do you think are in this? 5,000? 6,000? More?” You ask, not listening, caught up in your own world. If I’m completely honest, it’s a world I’d much rather be caught up in, too. Where all the fear and doubt that’s accompanied my weight gain so far just turns to pure, unfiltered sexual electricity.

You settle yourself back on my lap and bring the cake, placing it on the crest of my belly. I blush and stutter as the platter sinks down into the soft table of my gut. Your eyes are dark with lust. “Mmmm, oh God, what’s it gonna do to you?”

My jaw trembles as I see you won’t be drawn on backing down, and that excites me. “...did anyone see you?” I finally ask. You’re already sliding the fork into the thick, chocolatey ganache, and you shake your head, thrill written across your face.

“Nuh-uh.” You say, then hold the fork to my lips. “Open up, Fatty.”

So I do. And everything becomes a blur.

Forkful after forkful passes my lips, producing moans that you echo. I barely move — a heavy pile of dough, though internally I’m frenzied. You writhe atop me, rolling your hips slowly as you keep a steady rhythm, going back for more cake before I’ve even finished chewing. That slightly too-fast pace keeping my mouth ever full, struggling to keep up.

And my stomach pushes outwards.

I was already full. I was already overfull. But what you’re doing to me now is pushing me past a threshold I’ve never even seen before, and I’m reaching nirvana. A heady, high fullness in which fat and size and pleasure are all indistinguishable from one another.

The button presses deeper. The cake getting pushed into my mouth seems like an endless stream. My belly feels impossibly heavy in my lap, and when you reward me with your small hand on it, squeezing, lifting, I buck and almost send the cake flying.

“That’s it.” You coo, breath hot in my ear as you stop it from falling and slide another piece into my mouth like nothing happened. “Just eat, Fatty. Just eat.”

I’m so overwhelmed with pleasure that I can hardly think. But when I do, I think about what we’re doing to me. How the fragile control I’d managed to maintain throughout my weight gain so far might have just been shattered. I want you to devour me. The precipice I was teetering on seems to be far above me now, and I hadn’t even realized I’d gone over the edge until I was falling.

“Eat, eat.” You’re whispering. Your tongue swipes my earlobe as you push more cake into my mouth.

Your palm slips over a thick, soft roll. Your knees push into my fat hips. You press a kiss to my double chin. Tweak a tender, puffy nipple. I’m falling apart but you won’t let me stop eating, so I don’t. Overcome by food and fat and hot, hot shame. The delicious kind I’ve always been chasing.

My hands are on my own belly, feeling at the convex sides that are pushing out. Frightened by my own gluttony, by the realization that I’ve entirely lost control now. Perhaps forever.

“Eat, eat, eat.” You’re begging me now. The pace is impossible, shoving me full of cake, but I’m desperate enough to want more.

Eat.

Then, the button bursts.

My heavy belly falls outwards, hanging, sloppily filling my lap, and flopping against you. My eyebrows knit as we hold shocked eye contact, and my mouth opens into a scream of pleasure as the exquisite agony that you’ve been building in me bursts right along with the button, and I’m flooded with it.

Ecstasy explodes through the top of my head like blinding light, and everything turns white.