you had the life. happy family, good grades, star of the softball and cheer team, eventually picked for your favorite sorority. every frat bro flirted with you, and every one of your sisters was jealous of you. you were a size 0, no one was skinner than you in your whole house and you knew girls envied you for it, you took joy in watching the fatties you were supposed to consider "sisters" run to the bathroom after dinners at the sorority house, the sounds of their puke hitting the toilet as they tried to purge, desperate for a body as perfect as yours. you meet a hot guy at a frat party one night, and he pours a few too many drinks down your throat and for the first time you're bloated: an unnatural roundness on your otherwise stick thin figure. you notice this and when you get back to your dorm room, drunk and stumbling and just barely able to make it into your bed and grab your vibrator, rutting your hips helplessly into your bed. your belly was so swollen, so full, and you could feel the liquid sloshing around in there, trying to making you sick, but all it did was make you horny.
why?
the next time you felt that feeling, it was at a tailgate and you were there with all your sisters & and their boyfriends, waiting for the game to finish so you could go to the frats and party. you got drunk again and this time you got hungry, so you walked over to the guy's side of the area and grabbed a slice of pizza, trying to avoid eye contact with your sisters nearby who you had overheard complaining about how "fat" they were getting (as they went from 100 to 110 pounds after spending every night partying, not eating all day and drinking all night) you laughed at those girls in your mind as you stood there in your size 0 slip dress, flaunting your body to the girls who fought to look like you. you devoured the first slice of pizza with that on your mind, and couldn't help yourself as you grabbed a second one, and with that, a few bread bites. you eyed the snack tray on the table, with baggies of chips and a cooler full of sugary sodas, but then you saw your Big sister glaring at you from across the room and you glanced down, recoiling in horror (and clenching your legs in arousal) your stomach was rounded out, pulling your dress tight across your belly in an almost obscene way. without a word, you grabbed your bag and stumbled off, embarrassed and drunk and so full, but so turned on for seemingly no reason. why would you be turned on by being so bloated from countless beers and greasy pizza, then being caught by one of the other girls there while you made a pig of yourself?
what sealed your fate was over christmas break, when your high school friends wanted to get together again and have a dinner party. you were still as thin as you had always been, but it lately you did feel a little resistance as you went to tug up your lulu pants which was unusual. your friends from high school, however, were not so lucky. your high school best friend had gained at least 40, maybe 50 pounds--a once skinny girl with a flat chest and stomach, now spilling out of a crop top and skirt, a muffin top cascading over the waistband of a skirt. your other friend, a once sporty guy who hadn't gained a day in his life, now walked in with a shirt that clung uncomfortably to his gut, which brought back that hot feeling in your pussy, your clit throbbing as you saw him, pot belly absolutely obscene to you. everyone brought a dish to welcome you home, and they all insisted you try each dish, then seconds, and thirds of this dish, this that one, and then try this one again--
good thing you had drinks.
by the end of the night, you were so nauseous you were convinced were you going to spew. you had ate so much, potato dishes soaked in heavy cream, the thickest mac n cheese you had seen in your life, cheesecakes, and at least 48 chicken wings, you had lost count after the first two dozen you had shoved down your throat in between cans of beer. you were seeing double, but you saw clearly the face your best friend was making as you chugged down another beer and before you could stop, there was a deafening pop! and the button on your jeans fell to the floor, bouncing off the cabinet and landing square in the center of the kitchen. you were so embarrassed, tears welling to your eyes. in a rush, you screamed for your friends to leave, refusing to listen to them as they tried to reason with you. after you kicked them out, you walked back into the kitchen, still crying and hot with shame, staggering as you try to bend over and grab the button that taunted you from the floor. you held it in your palm, then looked down at your belly, which was rounded out further than it ever had, and obscured your view of your feet as you glanced down, the movement sloshing all the countless cans of beer in you. your crop top couldn't hide the actual belly you were forming now, and you looked up to your reflection in the black tv. fuck. you looked pregnant. you looked at the cheesecake on the counter as you wiped your tears, one hand grabbing and the round gut spilling out of your jeans. you reached out for the tray, and without pausing ate the rest, not even bothering with silverware as you glutted yourself. before you could stop yourself, you had finished the whole cheesecake, then the rest of the mac n cheese, and then stumbled over yourself to grab the last two cans of beer, pouring them into a big cup together, throwing your head back in desperation as you drank both in seconds. you fall over chairs and tables to get over to the couch, belly so distended you let out a whimper whenever its jostled, and pass out there.
ten years later, you're 29 years old and stepping off the scale in front of your fridge. your mark your weight on the fridge, and open up while reaching for the closest bottle of wine. despite your attempts to lose weight, you've gained 15 pounds in the past month. you're 302 pounds, you wear a 4XL and a 24 in jeans, which are barely hanging on. your ass barely fits in the drivers seat of your car and your bed creaks when you lay on it. you've broken your computer chair so you moved a dining chair into your bedroom, but your thighs spilled over the side, so you had to give up the computer. you hadn't talked to most of your friends in years, probably not since new years after that christmas, where you first fell into your gluttony and addiction. you spent the rest of that break stuffing your face to cope with your feelings, and by the time you were supposed to back to school you were 30 pounds heavier and not a single item of clothing fit your growing body. you were 140 pounds, and the moment you stepped out of your car on shaky legs in front of your sorority sisters, you knew it was over. they all began to laugh, heaving and pointing in malice at the inches of overhang you had falling over your skirt, which was only zipped up halfway, covered by a shirt that looked like it was painted on. you dropped out within a few days and spent the days partying, drinking, and stuffing your face at the end of the night, rubbing your pussy until you came. you couldn't resist the feeling food gave you.
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Numbers that don't define your worth:
The number of people you have or haven't slept with.
The number on the scale.
The height of your heels.
The length of your dress, pants, shorts, or skirt.
The depth of your neckline.
The width of your waistline.
The measurements of various body parts.
Your BMI.
Your fasting glucose, cholesterol, A1C, or any other labs.
The number of children you've had.
How many of those children are boys.
How many relationships you've been in.
How many times you've been married.
How many days you've been sober.
The number of trophies on your shelf.
Your income.
Your credit score.
How many extracurriculars you're involved in.
The number of likes you have on whatever content you post.
The number of followers you have on social media.
The number of friends you have in real life.
How many parties you get invited to.
Your age.
How much weight you can lift bench press.
How many push-ups, sit-ups, chin-ups, etc. you can do.
Your height.
The numbers on your clothing tags.
The number of degrees and certificates you have.
The number of houses you own.
The number of hours you work each week.
Your GPA.
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