Gainer Brain

Gaining weight is my sex, my ambition, and my pasttime. The fatter I become the more my mind is caught in an endless loop of fat fantasy. A year ago I struggled to up my caloric intake and lately I struggle to do anything else. Feeling my body expand day after day is my reward and consuming delicious food is the cherry on top. Eating is an orgasmic experience, sensuous and erotic. As my belly becomes engorged with food, so does my cock. These days I’m always eating, expanding, eating, expanding…

I’ve been in the kitchen for two hours crafting my dinner. Lately, it feels like my whole days are spent either cooking or eating. That's all I want to do. I work so that I can eat so that I can grow fatter. Standing in the kitchen, I am drenched in sweat despite the recent snowfall outside. My white T-shirt has pools of sweat beneath my armpits, around my neck, my lower back, and my tits. The food stains spread when they’re greeted by the damp sweat.

My sweatpants also have a sweat stain down my ass crack. The threadbare cotton clings to my cheeks like a second skin. It’s not the most comfortable, but the physical exertion required to remove them renders the act not worthwhile. A pig must accept certain things after a certain size. One of those things are the oil burns on my overhang.

I never seem to learn that frying bacon shirtless is never a good idea. Or that allowing my belly to hang out of shirt, however erotic that might be, can be dangerous when you’re slaving over an open stove. For instance, right now I have all four burners and the oven going. I eat out a lot during the week so in the evening and on the weekends I like to treat myself to expansive home cooked meals.

I’ve discovered this is what it means to be a gainer. Not just to grow fat, but to develop your cooking skills too. Undeniably, gaining is an art: cooking rich fatty foods, enjoying the sumptuous flavors, molding your body into the shape you desire. I am a master craftsman and my medium is gluttony. I’m so good that even some of my friends have started gaining weight. It turns out that guilt-free eating and an open admiration for larger people is contagious. So much so that my three ex-boyfriends, all civilians, are now connoisseurs of the art of gaining.

As I work in the kitchen beads of sweat fall from my forehead and salt the food. I can feel their liquid trails run down my back into my ass crack. My ass is a perpetual swamp. The cheeks generate enough friction and heat to keep a small child warm. My ass is the body part I have the least control over. Unlike my belly, which is always in full view, my ass is always bumping into things. In the last hour it nearly knocked the fridge over when I bent down, landed in a puddle of grease on the counter, and knocked some utensils onto the floor.

When I first started getting fat, this would happen with my belly as well. We all go through growing pains. It takes time adjusting to taking up more space in the world, but I learned how to compensate. Now, I’m so entranced with my growth, measuring and squeezing and relishing every succulent inch, my belly never gets in the way. I’m always aware of its presence as I’m working hard to facilitate its growth. Every inch I expand is like a permanent trophy I carry around on my body for all to see.

As I finally begin plating the food my mouth starts to salivate in anticipation. Ever since food and sex became fully enmeshed in my psyche, my mouth waters at the thought of either. I’m a drooling pig when confronted with a good meal or a fat man. Sometimes I even drool over myself, like when my clothes don’t fit or I’m looking especially bloated.

With a heaping plate of food I waddle over to the dining table. I used to eat in front of the TV. It was easier to get more down that way as I became distracted from the fact that I was full or my stomach was stretching beyond its capacity. However, in the last hundred pounds or so I’ve found that I can’t even concentrate on the television if I’m eating. I’m too consumed, too aroused, by the process of growing larger.

I sit down slowly so as not to miss the chair. It’s old and wooden and creaks beneath my weight. I’m waiting for the day it completely collapses beneath me. My ass cheeks ooze several inches off each side of the chair. It’s uncomfortable to not be fully supported but I relish the reminder that I’m becoming too fat for normal seating.

My belly, heavy and warm with perspiration, fills my lap and presses against the table. It burns with hungry anticipation for a full blown stuffing. I scratch an itch skittering across my overhang, likely a stretch mark. It encourages me to get going, to blow my body up even more. The first bite of food electrifies my senses. And I can barely wait to swallow until I’m shoveling more into my mouth. My bites are so large, so ravenous, that I chew with my mouth open. I masticate like a pig facing starvation.

Although I eat quickly I am relishing every bite. When you increase your intake as much as I have, you can do both because you have a surplus of food. I can feel my stomach slowly begin to fill up and a warm pleasure prickles my skin. A sort of euphoria clouds my brain, intoxicated by calories. It’s almost as though my vision is blurred, or at least my brain is not concentrated on sight. It is concentrated on other senses, on tasting and smelling the food, on the sensations of my body.

My gut begins to swell as I stuff myself. The upper crest of my belly expands outward in every direction. It pushes harder against the table and is somewhat uncomfortable, though I enjoy the reminder of my gluttony. It feels heavier and heavier with each bite, weighing down my lap like a warm animal. I can sense my fat encompassing me, my stomach at the epicenter, an appendage unto itself.

This sensation causes my cock to begin swelling as well. Blood rushes to my groin encouraging me to pick up the pace of my eating. I probably look frantic, piling more food on my plate and heaving it down my throat with greed. I can’t get enough. I need more. I need my entire being to be completely swollen, on the verge of bursting.

By now my cock is fully hard, pulsing with the erotic knowledge of my fattening. It’s stiff as a board beneath my grey sweatpants, yet you would never know. I’m too fat to pitch a tent. My cock is swallowed up by the lard surrounding it. My fat pad flows innumerable inches forward nearly swallowing the head of my own dick, while my balls are insulated with the fat that wraps around my taint and turns into my ass that’s pouring out of the chair. My cock is probably the hardest part of my body, outside of my bones. Everything else is soft as dough. I’m a pile of lard expanding with each bite.

The sweating picks back up as it always does when I eat this much, which is daily. My body is so full of food that it turns into an overloaded radiator. All the creases that compose my body generate friction from my subtle movements while gobbling up grub. I rub my belly as I feel myself getting closer and closer to my capacity. I wish I wasn’t wearing clothes but there’s no slowing down. I must keep going.

I pause and ponder if I’ve hit my capacity. With great difficulty I hoist myself onto my feet. My legs quiver beneath the weight of my body. I take a few heavy steps towards the refrigerator. I open the door and grab a jug of whole milk, tossing the lid onto the floor and holding the rim of the jug to my lips. I gulp and gulp and gulp. The milk fills in the cracks in my tank, the spaces between all the food I tossed down my gullet. All of it becomes compacted with milk. I belch and take a breath. I belch again. Then I chug a bit more.

I finish up, milk dripping from my wet lips, and go back to my chair. I drop my body onto the seat, hoping it will splinter beneath me but it doesn’t. I’m still not big enough to break the chair. I’m still not big enough. With imprecision, I scoop food from the plate to my mouth. Some it misses, lands on my shirt. I keep going. I’m losing stamina but my cock wants me to keep eating, keep growing.

My shirt is completely drenched in sweat now. It clings to me like a second skin and my sweatpants are not far behind. I place my hand on my wet cushioned thigh and notice that the seam of the sweatpants is opening up. My flesh is bulging outward for fresh air. I belch again, creating more space in the tank. I fill the space back up. I’m almost dizzy from feeding.

I groan a little bit. Out of pleasure and also to relieve the tension in my overstretched stomach. I groan some more. It feels good to let something out. My hands explore the fatty rotundity of my thigh bursting out of my sweats. My skin is soft and supple, slowly stretching to capacity with every stuffing, growing bigger and bigger.

I can’t help but tear the hole wider and wider until I can reach cock. Precum has combined with sweat so that I’m completely soaked down there. I even wonder if I came and didn’t realize it. No, I didn’t, I still need to come. I need to stroke myself.

My hand struggles to reach around and under all of my chub, around the mountains of fat that compose my body. My cock is well-insulated and pulsing with vigor. I begin stroking, my body’s own natural fluids providing the lubrication. With my other hand I shove some slop into my mouth and then rub my belly as I gulp it down.

My skin feels tight and swollen, warm to the touch. I finger the indentations of stretch marks traversing my overhang. Every day there’s more, with every stuffing they turn a deeper red. My body cannot keep up with my greediness. I’m outpacing even myself as I transform into a complete hog.

Waves of pleasure wash over my cock and expand outward into my chub. The larger I grow the more pleasure I can generate. I softly thrust my hips while continuing to feed and rub myself. This motion is hardly perceptible, my bones and muscles floating in a sea of fat, completely insulated. Nevertheless, such little motion requires much energy of a swollen pig and I begin developing a cramp. Once again, my body cannot cope.

I groan again as my pace quickens. My fat quivers with pleasure. My overhang jiggles above the motions of my hand and my tits bounce. An even louder moan escapes my lips and the vibration is felt in my double chin. My lips are wet and greedy for more food. If I wasn’t stroking I probably would have tapped out, but once my cock is stimulated I become a bottomless pit.

I slap whatever food remains onto a single plate and drop it messily onto the floor next to me. With some difficulty, I move from the chair onto my knees. It causes my stomach to lurch and a bout of nausea hits me that is quickly dissolved by the fire in my loins. I grunt as I position myself on all fours.

My gut hangs off of me and rests on the floor. It is beyond heavy. It pins me down. I wonder if I could even get out of this position if I wanted to right now. I begin polishing the plate clean with my mouth, completely hands free. My arms support my weight as I gorge myself like a pig. I want to keep jerking off but I doubt my ability to hold myself up with one arm. I’m too heavy. Too engorged.

So to pleasure myself I begin thrusting forward while I eat. It’s uncomfortable at first and I struggle to breathe, but eventually I get the hang of it so that my belly swings forward and back like a pendulum. This is just enough force to create some friction between my cock and the fat that encumbers it.

I’m becoming so full that I fear vomiting. My cramp has intensified and I’m bent over in a pool of my own sweat. Still, I can’t do anything else but feed. Eat, eat, eat. Grow, grow, grow. That’s all my pig brain can compute. I’m in an absolute frenzy.

As I’m licking the plate clean I am unable to control myself and I reach for my cock. I fall slightly off kilter and my face rests in the near-empty plate. I’m on the verge of orgasm and my whole body is trembling, causing my fat to undulate in waves. The overwhelming jiggle of the chub encasing my body brings me to ecstasy. Guttural moans escape my throat as I lie awkwardly on the ground, a pile of absolute lard, and begin to come. The intensity of my orgasm causes my body to clench and bounce uncontrollably, shaking the table and plates and chairs around me. I become an absolute force of gluttony. Everything around me is an effect of my need to feed, to grow larger. With the last squirt, I collapse on the floor. I’m a mountain of fat, a monument to food.