Some people might find business trips boring, but he always enjoyed them. It wasn’t the long days spent in meetings that he enjoyed, though. No. What he really liked about these trips was the opportunity to explore the culinary delights of new cities. He always took it as a personal challenge to hit as many spots as possible. After all, it might be his only chance in a particular location, so it was best to make the most of it!

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.

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It’s date night, and we go out for an early dinner to one of our favorite spots, a casual local place with decent food for decent prices. As usual, you pick out an appetizer, finish your entree and mine too, and we skip dessert in favor of driving through somewhere on the way home to get you a sugary drink you can dip on for the rest of the evening.

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.

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The rain pattered softly on the roof of the white painted porch. The earthy smell kicked up by the rain permeated the air, and a gentle breeze brought some relief to the summer heat and mugginess. A man sat in a porch swing, gently swaying to and fro as he gazed down his long gravel driveway to the unpaved county road in the distance. He loved sitting out here during a rainstorm. 

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.

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He was sitting on the sofa in his parents’ living room, a warm fuzzy blanket spread across his lap. His parents did keep it chilly in their house, but the blanket served another purpose–to hide the fact that he had stealthily unbuttoned his pants beneath it. He felt like a stuffed turkey, or maybe a supersized Christmas goose. No, he felt like a giant, fat HOG.

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!”

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You’re headed to the store for your weekly grocery shopping trip, list meticulously written out for all the ingredients you need for meal prepping for the upcoming week. You even have a couple of cheat items on the list so you don’t feel like you’re depriving yourself. This meal prepping thing you’ve been doing this past month has been doing wonders for your budget and for reducing your tendency to impulsively buy fast food every night. You haven’t weighed yourself since you started, but it’s even possible you might have lost some weight, you muse.

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?

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Your company is having its annual Halloween party tomorrow. Based on the e-mail flyers you’ve seen and previous parties you’ve attended, you know there is going to be the usual department group costume contest, individual costume contest, pumpkin decorating contest, some games, and lunch. You aren’t that big into Halloween necessarily, but the party is always a fun excuse to not work for a couple of hours. Plus, who doesn’t love free lunch? You hope the lunch is going to be good. Last year it was just a little sandwich and bag of chips with a cookie, but some years it’s pizza. 

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.

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You let out a big belch, which relieves a bit of the pressure that has built up in your stomach, but you know she is going to make a comment about it. Another belch comes up, and sure enough, right on cue, she smirks and says, “What’s the matter, pig? Your supper got you gassy 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.”

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I’m lounging in bed watching you get dressed for work. Nothing in the closet really fits you right now, so it takes you some time, more time than you had planned to spend this morning on getting dressed. Throughout the process, I watch you pausing to examine yourself in the mirror, sucking your gut in and letting it back out, running your hands over your burgeoning belly and giving it a little shake, and squeezing your love handles.

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.

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It was past mid-summer now, and you hadn’t weighed yourself since New Year’s because you were scared of what the scale would tell you. The New Year’s weigh-in had left you a bit shocked and embarrassed, vowing to get back in the gym, rein in your diet, and really lose some weight this time. You’d never meant to gain so much weight. It was supposed to be a little experiment, maybe 10 or 20 pounds, just to explore your feedee side.

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.

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I’ve taken you out to eat–no, to overeat–at a restaurant. You’re dressed in a t-shirt that looks painted on and pants that aren’t much better. I slide into the booth beside you, noting how we might need to start sticking to tables soon to give you more room. You seem much rounder than the last time we were here.

“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.

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