The plates have stacked up at our table, because she has waved away the waitstaff whenever they attempt to clear them away. She coaxes me to eat one more bite, and just one more bite, and then another, all the way until I reach the point of raw pain from eating so much. I have exceeded my previous plate count record, and I’m feeling every bite of it sitting like lead in my belly.

She discreetly pops the top button of my pants, resting her hand softly on my swollen belly, reminding me to take slow, deep breaths. I find it so endearing the way she does her best to take care of me in these moments when I am nearly sick from her stuffing me. I close my eyes for a moment, breathing shallowly to try to gain some semblance of control over myself, and she slides out of her seat to go up to the counter to pay.

When she returns, she helps me waddle out to the car, cheerfully saying thank you to the waitstaff as I stare at some arbitrary point on the horizon, struggling to take one semi-coordinated step after another. I’m slow and breathless, waddling painfully. She helps me collapse into the passenger seat of the car.

Driving home, she’s careful not to accelerate or crest a hill too quickly. One hand gently rubs my aching belly, but every once in a while, I feel her fingers stiffen, nails digging into my belly with longing. It’s only for a fraction of a second, but this isn’t our first feeding expedition, and I have felt that momentary lapse in restraint before. I know full well where this is leading.

After she helps me waddle in the front door, she kneels and helps me remove my shoes. I’m too full to bend over, still in a food daze. She takes me by the hand and leads me to the bedroom, laying me down on the bed and snuggling up next to me. She caresses my ballooning belly and observes as my body language slowly transitions from pain into hunger–for her. I remain flat on my back, arms and legs spread wide, as she begins squeezing and probing my swollen food-filled belly with increased fervor.

“I’ve turned you into my fat prize pig,” she murmurs into my ear before she straddles me, careful to avoid putting pressure on my full belly, letting her weight rest on my thighs. She reaches for my chest, one hand cupping each moob.

“Remember when your chest was hard? Look at you now,” she coos as she fondles my now-soft chest. “Now you’ve got a real handful here.” Her hand moves lower to my belly. “It’s not just your chest that’s gotten soft. Look at this belly. It’s hard to believe you used to have abs here. All this eating has turned it into a fat gut.”

Her hand moves even lower, and as she slides me into her, she says, “I can’t wait until you’re even bigger.”

***

A submission from justkeeprunning at Feabie. He wrote about 70% of it, and I edited and fleshed it out.

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There is an empty pie tin on the table in front of you. Judging from the guilty look you give me and the smear of pie filling at the corner of your mouth, you’re the sole culprit responsible for the consumption of the pie.

My suspicion is confirmed a moment later when you tell me, “I didn’t mean to eat the whole thing. I just couldn’t stop.” Your jeans are unbuttoned and unzipped, the open sides framing the belly that’s encroaching onto your lap. If your previous binges are anything to judge by, the pie isn’t the only thing you’ll have eaten this afternoon.

“Do those pants even still button?” I ask, eyeing your gut, certain it looks larger and rounder than it used to, even taking into account the fact that you’ve just stuffed a whole pie into it.

A flush spreads across your cheeks. “They will if I really want them to,” you insist stubbornly.

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Prove it,” I say, trailing a finger down your bulging belly and kissing the sticky pie filling off the corner of your mouth.

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Are you sure you can eat this, baby? You can tell me if you want to stop. You don’t have to keep going just for me. I know you want to make me happy, but you’ve already done such a good job of that today, and I don’t want to make you sick. You’re sure? Ok, open wide, babe…mmm, that’s it! I love it when you eat for me! You sure do love these cupcakes I made for you. I never thought you’d eat so many of them! I figured some would survive until tomorrow, but I guess you’re too greedy to let cupcakes go stale.

Let me rub your belly. Oh wow, your stomach is so firm and bloated. You must be so uncomfortable. Just say if you’ve had enough… really? You’re so good to me, baby. Another cupcake? Here you go, I’ll feed it to you. Lean back, that’s it.

I can’t believe how much you’ve eaten today. I’m so glad we took an entire day to ourselves to do this. I’ve never been so happy to spend half my day in the kitchen cooking. Well, it wasn’t so much the cooking that made me happy as watching you fill up with every plateful of delicious fattening food I put in front of you. You really impressed me today, especially when you ate that whole chicken in, like, what was it, 20 minutes maybe? It’s not like it was even a small chicken. It barely went in the oven. With all that mash and gravy too, it’s no wonder you fell asleep right after, snoring away like you’d just burned yourself out at the gym.

Another cupcake?! Seriously? Honey, you’re going to get something special from me tonight when we go upstairs… if you’re even capable after all this food. I mean, you can bank it if you like. You’re making me so happy with all this gluttony. This big overfed belly of yours just spilling out between your legs is such a turn on, I can’t even tell if you’re wearing underpants…are you? Oh, I see. I get to find out. Fine by me.

Here, the last cupcake. Now, while you eat that I have to confess something. I’m really sorry, but I lost count of how many calories you ate today. I know, I know. Half the reason we did this was to see how much you can eat in a day, but you were eating faster than I could write it all down and I’m pretty sure I’ve missed some things. I mean, the good news is you put away at least 11,000 calories today, so that’s a hell of an achievement in itself. But the bad news is we are going to have to do this again. Oh, that’s not bad news, huh?

Now, come on, before you go into that food coma I need you on the scales. Come on, you promised. I’ll help you up on three. Ready, one, two…oh boy, you’re getting heavy. That’s it, waddle forward. They’re right here. I know you can’t really see them past your tummy. Let me guide your feet. Let’s see if I hit my goal of getting 10 pounds of food in you today. 

Oh wow, baby…you are exceeding ALL my expectations tonight, aren’t you?!

***

A submission

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You take a break from your dinner to survey your vastness in the mirror. You think you did well this month. You can hardly wait until your monthly weigh-in. It’s only a week away. Will you meet the goal? You’re sure you will. It was only five pounds this month. Your feeder has pushed you harder before. You will probably exceed the goal. The question is by how much.

It’s amazing how just five pounds here and ten pounds there can add up over time—especially when you keep exceeding the goals. What a whale you have become! Every day it gets harder to heave your obese body out of bed. You long for the day when it’s no longer possible without aid. Never mind your feeder’s small monthly goals. This is your own goal. 

You’re lucky how well fed your feeder keeps you and how well you are rewarded for meeting and exceeding each goal set for you. You have fast food many times a week—any time you want it, you receive it. The amount you can eat has increased so much since you first started gaining. Your original portion sizes are almost laughable now.

Speaking of which, you reach for a fry from the fast food bag on the vanity and dip it into the ketchup. Must finish your dinner like a good pig, after all. Not that you’d dream of letting any of it go to waste, anyway, not now. You didn’t get this huge by wasting food. You’re actually not sure if you’d be able to let any of it go uneaten. It’s been a long time since you were able to stop eating what was in front of you. There are moments that losing such total control of your appetite gives you a glimmer of worry, but the doubt always passes as you get excited and aroused thinking how much closer you get to your goal with every bite. 

Giving in to your inner gluttonous pig and becoming a blob incapable of getting out of bed and doing anything but eating and eating and eating and keeping your stomach stuffed to capacity is your dream come true. Every time you think of it, you feel flushed and aroused. You touch your belly apron. That’s much easier to reach these days than anything beneath it. You’d have to lose weight to pleasure yourself properly—and that’s never going to happen. You couldn’t lose an ounce even if you wanted to try. You’ve become far too addicted to being stuffed and to seeing the number on the scale go up, up, up.

You have no limit.

The last fry disappears in your mouth. You wish you had more.

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Give up yet? I can tell from the way you’re having trouble breathing that you’re more than full. Are you sure you want to keep going? Ok then, you’re the boss, open wide. This week has been a big challenge for you, hasn’t it? For both of us really, I guess. My feet are killing me from all the cooking and back and forth to the kitchen. 

It’s crazy that you managed to hit every goal this week. I never really thought you’d do it. I was expecting you to give up before the end of Tuesday. Monday you were over 10,000 calories, then Tuesday it was over 11,000…that should be enough in two days to make anyone sick to their stomach. But you, you woke up Wednesday morning ready and willing to eat 12,000 calories. Then 13,000 calories, 14,000, 15,000…so here we are, Sunday night and you still think you can hit 20,000 calories. You have hardly moved all week and I doubt you could even get up out of this armchair. 

Look at you, you can barely speak, just grunting and panting…damn this is so sexy. I want you like this all the time. Have a rest and drink some of this shake I made you. It’s very thick, but you’re going to love it. Here, let me help you. That’s it, chug a little more, that’s my guy. I’m sure you’ve gained more weight this week. You look enormous. It’s such a shame you’ve been too full for sex all week, but I guess that’s going to make your reward all the more satisfying. I just hope I can still find your dick tucked away in all that soft heavy flab later. You want to keep eating? I’ll order you a couple of pizzas and we can nap while we wait for it? Let me rest my head on that big belly. I can’t wait until this is every day.

***

A submission

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You are trying to be disciplined because of how snug your jeans are fitting and how your belt buckle is digging into your belly lately. You know you’ve put on a little weight, and you’re thinking you really gotta take it easy, try to lay off the sweets and slim back down a little. You barely eat during the day, sticking to some fruits and veggies, maybe a little tuna for protein. That even works for a few days. And then…well, you catch a whiff of some good Texas barbecue. Your stomach growls. Your mouth waters. When was the last time you let yourself have any? Well, diets aren’t ruined by one dinner. But what a dinner it turns out to be! Later, trapped beneath the weight of your heavy, meat-filled belly, struggling to think straight and breathe properly as your cock nudges your underbelly, you wonder how this happened again.

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(Sigh) it’s so nice to get into bed after a long day like this, especially when I can snuggle up to my big snorlax. Come here, let me squeeze you. Oh, sorry, is that uncomfortable? You’re too full again, aren’t you? I’ll be gentle on your belly, don’t worry. It’s just hard not to squish it when we hug now, it’s much bigger than when we first met. Is it aching? Let me rub it better. Gosh, it feels so firm, there’s so much in there, you’re such a good boy.

You shocked my parents tonight, that’s for sure. When they invited us over for dinner, I had to warn them to cook a little extra. Mom wondered why, and I said, “Just trust me, his appetite is crazy since he started lifting.” I mean, you lift a couple of times a week…ok, maybe more like a couple of times a month. It wasn’t a total lie, though.

They hadn’t seen you since Christmas, remember? You wouldn’t think you’d put on a noticeable amount of weight since then but…well, they sure seemed to notice. Mom took me to one side in the kitchen and asked if everything was ok between us, like were you depressed or something. It’s sweet that she cares, but I told her straight you just enjoy your food and I love you this way. Dad even spoke about getting you a referral for his gym. Can you believe that? I said you have a gym membership.

Probably time we cancelled that, though, if we’re honest. I mean, you get home from work and get straight on the sofa, and you’re there ‘til we go to bed. I don’t mind, I love how soft you are. I love how your belly is spilling out onto my side of the bed right now while I rub it. I can feel all the weight of my home cooking when I lift it to get my hand under it. You don’t need a gym, do you babe? Wouldn’t you rather lay here and let me look after you? I’ll be fit for the both of us.

Are you enjoying your belly rub? Yeah, I bet you are, you brought up some wind just now. You know what I say to that, any wind is you making room for more. I’ll just pop downstairs and make you a milkshake. Don’t fall asleep, you can’t fall asleep until you’re full. And you’re not full ‘til I say so.

***

A submission

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You wake up in the morning feeling ravenous. It’s a bit ridiculous to feel so hungry right now, you think, considering that last night I coaxed you into stuffing yourself until it hurt. Your stomach still feels bloated and heavy this morning—yet all you can think is you want EVERYTHING for breakfast. You glance over at me, one hand idly fondling your growing belly roll. You feel no sign of the abs that used to adorn your stomach. I’m still asleep on my side, facing away from you. Trying not to wake me, you carefully maneuver yourself out of bed and then come around to my side. You stick your swollen stomach in my face. I open my eyes groggily and hear you demand, “What’s for breakfast?”

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I know you’re feeling really full right now and you’re ready to quit, but I’m not ready for you to quit yet. You aren’t stuffed enough for me. I know it’s hard, but I need to know you’ve eaten until you couldn’t possibly eat another bite. I need to know your belly is the heaviest and tightest it’s ever been. And you need to know it too. You yearn to be achingly full. Being so full gets your dick the hardest it can possibly be.

So are you going to allow yourself to fall short of that goal just because you’re tired of chewing and the food isn’t as delicious as it was with the first few bites?

No, I didn’t think so. Stop avoiding finishing.

Now take another bite. Chew it. Swallow it. Now do it again. You’ve got this.

Think about my hands on your tight, tight belly, lightly rubbing it and distracting you from the ache as you get more food down.

You’re my eating machine, and I know you can finish every morsel you have in front of you. Sit back and imagine I’m bringing the last bites to your lips. You take them and chew them almost mindlessly.

You feel fat as fuck, like a beached pregnant whale. Your stomach feels like a lead beach ball in your lap. It’s hard to breathe. But you’re finally satisfied. Nothing less would do.

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The shirt won’t button. It’s the tight shirt, your smallest one, the first one you noticed getting tight when the weight started creeping on. And now it won’t button at all. I splay my hand over the curve of your softening belly. “I need you to suck this in,” I tell you, pressing gently. Obediently, you do. I manage to do up one button and struggle with the next. I used to be able to help you do up the buttons, but I can’t manage it now. There’s still a significant expanse of belly flesh that can’t be bridged by the fabric. Unable to hold your breath any longer, you let it all out with a whoosh, your belly surging through the gaping shirt. “Guess I got a little fat,” you say sheepishly.

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