#wg kink writing

[gain-stuff-eat]

that's it, give in

i want you bigger

i want to see how much you can eat, glut yourself, having so much you can barely move

so much that you surprise yourself

i want you insatiable, gorging and mindless, feeling how heavy you're becoming with every bite and swallow you cram in

i mean it, feel yourself

how fucking fat you are.

the way your belly curves and bends, the way your pudge gives beneath your chubby fingers. don't stop eating while you do this, keep stuffing yourself as you explore your body and what you're doing to it, to yourself, squeeze where you've grown, where you want to grow more

it's intoxicating, letting go, isn't it?

no longer holding yourself back from desire and pleasure, embracing softness and wobbling fat, edging and expanding your concept of fullness until it takes so much to satisfy you

making all those noises. can you hear yourself? the moaning, the panting, the pleased sighs, the grunting, the burps and the overfull groaning. greedy, needy sounds. all coming out shamelessly as you put more and more in

i want you to get fatter

be good, keep eating

until fullness and pleasure, just the thought of food, makes you wet and wanting and desperate

until you're spilling out of all your clothes. until they're ill-fitting, your navel indent obvious and deep. until pulling and tugging and readjusting is futile. your body barely contained by straining fabric and struggling buttons, your gaining undeniable with every riiiip and pop

i want to see the aftermath of your hedonism

you struggling to sit up. short breaths and satisfied exhales as you rub your overtaxed tummy. the only evidence of your gargantuan meal being empty containers and cleared plates. you, shocked at your uncontrollable appetite, that you ate all of this by yourself, that you're clearly so submissive to being filled and only slipping deeper into gluttony

barely able to process how turned on you are, pinned back in your seat, slapping and jiggling your fat as you get off to how tender and sensitive and fucking heavy you are

and after all that?

i want you to ask for dessert

[feedybot]

The Pill

You stand in front of the mirror, running your fingers absently down the front of your shirt, still tasting the creamy garlic sauce clinging to your tongue from dinner. You’d eaten more than you meant to—again—but your husband had cooked your favorite. How could you resist?

Your stomach feels a little heavy, but nothing unusual. You sigh, rubbing the slight bloat with one hand. The house is quiet. Your reflection stares back at you, familiar, unchanged—until something shifts.

A flicker of warmth blooms in your belly. Subtle at first, like a blush deep under the skin, then spreading fast—hotter, heavier. You blink. Is the room warmer?

Then your shirt twitches.

You freeze.

It’s nothing dramatic, just a soft, slow stretching across your middle. You frown, watching as the fabric that had moments ago hung loosely now clings ever so slightly tighter. Another heartbeat. Then tighter still. You press your hand to your belly and find it—rounder. Firmer. Swelling beneath your touch.

“What the hell…” you whisper, barely breathing.

It doesn’t stop.

Your belly pushes outward in real time, the pressure building as if someone’s slowly inflating you from the inside. You watch in horror as a soft roll forms just beneath your waistband, spilling over it with each passing second. You feel your jeans biting into you—really biting now—your thighs swelling against the denim like overfilled dough.

You stumble back a step, clutching your stomach with both hands. It’s warm. Soft. Heavier than it was even moments ago.

A terrible realization begins to form. Something’s wrong. Something’s happening to you.

And then your eyes widen.

Your arms.

They’re thickening too, puffing slightly with a layer of soft new weight. You raise them and feel the fabric of your sleeves tug uncomfortably against your growing biceps. Your upper arms jiggle with the movement—they never used to jiggle.

You suck in a shaky breath, only to feel your chest press forward, filling your bra more than it had all day. You gasp, watching your reflection as your breasts swell with the rest of you, your neckline dipping lower, roundness threatening to spill over.

Your stomach lets out a loud, wet glorp, and suddenly your waistband gives way with a sharp snap. The top button of your jeans launches across the room, and your belly surges forward into the open space. Round. Soft. Heavy.

“Oh god—” you whisper, hands trembling as you try to cup the bulge, but it’s no use. There’s too much of you now. Your belly is growing faster by the second, overfilling your hands, drooping downward, wobbling with weight it didn’t have just minutes ago.

You grab your shirt, trying to tug it down, but it won’t stretch far enough anymore. It’s halfway up your stomach now, clinging like plastic wrap around your expanding torso. Your hips flare wider, thighs ballooning beneath you, and the seams along your jeans cry out—stressed, breaking.

You can barely think. Your breathing is shallow. Panicked. Your cheeks feel hot—no, not just from fear. They’re… fuller. Rounder. You see it now in the mirror: your jawline softening, a second chin beginning to bloom as your face catches up with the rest of you.

“Please,” you breathe, not even sure who you’re pleading with. Yourself? The mirror? Him?

Your husband.

He cooked dinner tonight.

You gasp again, clutching the wall for balance as another wave hits. It’s like your entire body is pulsing, every beat of your heart pushing more fat onto your frame. Your thighs rub now with every shifting step, denim stretched nearly to splitting. Your belly jiggles with every tiny movement, heavy and pendulous, the lower curve resting against the tops of your thighs.

You feel helpless—trapped in your own skin as it continues to grow. The magic pill he must have slipped you… it’s still working.

You meet your own eyes in the mirror, wild and wide with disbelief.

You’re huge. You’re getting huge. Right before your eyes. Right before his.

And somehow—beneath the panic, the shock, the embarrassment—

You feel something else stirring.

Something you don’t want to name yet.

Something that’s growing just as fast as the rest of you.

You’re still staring at yourself, paralyzed, panting lightly as your overworked clothes cling for dear life. Your belly has ballooned into something obscene, rounded and soft and bouncing faintly with your breath. Your legs feel like overstuffed sausages in denim, your thighs touching in places they never used to. Everything feels foreign—alien and overfull and yours.

You’re so wrapped up in the surreal sight of yourself swelling that you don’t even hear him at first.

Then:

“Oh, wow…”

You whip your head around—too fast. Your face wobbles. Your chin brushes the soft swell of a new double beneath it.

He’s standing in the doorway. Watching.

Your husband.

There’s something in his eyes. Not fear. Not concern. Something warmer. Darker. Almost—proud.

“You—you did this,” you stammer, pointing at your distended stomach. Your voice cracks, half in disbelief, half in fury. “You put something in my food, didn’t you? What the hell is happening to me?”

He doesn’t deny it. He walks slowly toward you instead, calm, composed, like he’s admiring a painting in motion.

“It worked faster than I thought,” he says softly, eyes roaming your rapidly expanding form. “I thought it’d be gradual. But this…” He pauses, gaze settling on the rounded shelf of your belly. “This is incredible.”

You stagger back a step, belly sloshing with the motion, face burning. “I’m huge!” you shout, voice almost shrill. “I don’t even recognize myself!”

You try to tug your shirt back down, but it won’t budge—it’s practically painted onto your bloated form, the hem now hovering far above your navel. Your jeans dig in painfully at the thighs and hips, the zipper holding on by some small miracle.

“I know,” he says, stepping closer. “Look at you. You’re… breathtaking.”

“You drugged me!”

“I helped you,” he replies, voice gentle but firm. “You never let yourself go. You were always worried about control, about calories. I just gave you a little… push.”

Another wave of heat rolls through your body. You groan, clutching your belly as it lurches outward again, visibly rounder even in the space of seconds. Your thighs press tighter, your stance forced wider. A seam at the side of your jeans splits with a loud rrrrip.

He watches it happen. You see his throat bob as he swallows.

You whimper—truly whimper—backing toward the mirror again. You can’t escape it. You’re in it. Becoming it.

“What’s happening to me…” you whisper, voice cracking. Your legs are trembling under the added weight. “I’m still growing. It won’t stop.”

He’s close now, almost within reach. You feel him before you see him—his hands, warm and steady, gently cradling the underside of your belly. Holding the weight you can barely support.

“Twenty minutes,” he murmurs. “That’s all the pill needed. Just twenty minutes to show you who you really are.”

You shudder in his grip. The touch sends something through you—humiliation, horror, heat. You try to pull away, but your body’s too slow now, too heavy.

“I—I can’t walk right,” you mutter, tears stinging your eyes. “I can’t breathe in these clothes.”

“I know,” he whispers, voice laced with something deeper. “You’ll need new ones. Much, much bigger ones.”

You whimper again, helpless, heavy, bursting at the seams.

And when he leans in—presses a kiss to your swollen cheek—you realize he’s not going to stop this.

And deep down, a part of you doesn’t want him to.

His lips leave your cheek, warm and lingering, and you feel your breath hitch in your throat. You’re still growing—barely, now, but enough that the waistband of your jeans feels like a noose around your hips. You shift your weight and wince at the pressure digging into your belly, your thighs straining against the confining denim. Another seam gives out with a sharp rip down the side.

Your hands flutter uselessly at your sides.

“I can’t even get out of these,” you whisper, shame burning behind your eyes. “I’m stuck.”

“Then let me help you,” he says softly.

You should resist. Scream. Demand answers. But you don’t. You stand there, flushed and trembling, as he sinks to his knees in front of you and gently brings his hands to your thighs. His fingers move with surprising reverence, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he handles you too roughly. Which is ridiculous—there’s nothing small about you anymore.

He traces the torn denim with his fingertips before gripping the zipper, now warped and strained. A quick tug and it gives way, bursting open like a dam. Your belly surges forward with a sigh of relief, freed at last. The button’s long gone, but now even the fly peels open, baring the lower swell of your stomach and the beginnings of your overgrown underwear.

“God,” he breathes, more to himself than you. “Look at this belly.”

You close your eyes in shame. But you don’t stop him.

He works the jeans down, inch by inch. It’s not easy. Your thighs resist, soft and heavy, and your calves protest as the fabric peels away. You lift one foot, then the other, wobbling unsteadily as your balance shifts with the movement of your bulk. He steadies you without a word, hands always warm, always firm.

When the jeans are finally off, you hear him exhale softly. You’re left in stretched, overworked underwear—your panties nearly buried between your thighs, waistband folded beneath the curve of your belly, everything riding far too low to be comfortable.

Your shirt is next. You hesitate, instinctively tugging at the hem, but it barely covers your ribs anymore. You glance down at your arms—plumper than ever, dimples and softness in places that used to be firm—and then up at him. He just nods, gently lifting the hem.

The fabric sticks slightly around your chest, now heavier, fuller, pushing out in ways that strain your bra. But he’s patient, guiding it upward over your body, baring inch after inch of pale, soft skin until finally the shirt comes free over your head. He tosses it aside, and there you stand—barely clothed, more exposed than you’ve ever been in front of him, and easily twice the size you were just twenty minutes ago.

You’re panting softly, your hands fluttering over your middle, your hips, your chest, like you can’t decide where to hide. But there’s too much of you now. No matter what you cover, more spills out.

“Come here,” he says gently, stepping back and offering his hand.

You shake your head. “I don’t think I can… move. Not well. I feel so… heavy.”

He only smiles. “Then we’ll go slow.”

It takes effort. Every step is a shuffle. Your thighs rub. Your belly wobbles. Your center of gravity is so different that each movement feels like a negotiation with your own body. But he stays close, one hand at your lower back, the other sometimes guiding under your belly to help you forward, always steady.

He leads you to the bedroom.

The bed looks smaller than usual—or maybe you make it look that way now. You ease yourself down with his help, gasping slightly as your belly pools across your lap, thighs spreading wide. You can’t sit quite the same anymore. You’re bigger in every direction.

And you feel his eyes on you the entire time. Not with judgment.

But with awe.

He steps away for a moment—then returns, holding a digital scale.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I’m not ready—please—”

But he kneels beside you, brushing your cheek with his fingers. “Just once. So we know. Then I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

You hesitate. Swallow. Nod.

Getting up is awkward. He helps. Every wobble, every jiggle is met with quiet admiration. When you finally step onto the scale, your belly hanging slightly, breasts resting on its upper swell, you hold your breath.

The number appears.

And it’s massive.

You gasp.

He exhales, his hand wrapping gently around your side.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice low and reverent. “And this is just the beginning.”

You stare at the number on the scale, your breath shallow, your mind racing. It can’t be real. It can’t be.

But the number glows back at you, undeniable.

You’ve gained over fifty kilos in twenty minutes.

You cover your mouth with both hands, a soft moan escaping—part horror, part awe, part something deeper, darker, harder to name. Your belly trembles slightly as you stand there, wobbling under your own new weight, skin flushed, thighs pressed tight together.

He’s still kneeling beside you, hands at your hips, anchoring you in place.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, gently rising to his feet. “Come. Let’s get you off your feet.”

He guides you back toward the bed, slow and steady, his hands never leaving your skin. You’re starting to feel it now—not just the mass, but the effort of carrying it. Your legs are unsteady, your back aches faintly from the pull of your belly. When you reach the edge of the mattress, you nearly collapse onto it, the springs groaning beneath your added heft.

You lean back on your elbows, breathing heavily. Your belly spreads across your lap like soft dough, your breasts resting on top of it now, their weight undeniable.

“I can’t believe this,” you whisper. “I can’t believe how big I am.”

“I can,” he says simply.

You meet his gaze. There’s no shame in his expression. Just admiration. Hunger. Devotion.

He kneels again, now between your spread thighs. His hands glide over your knees, which now touch when pressed together. He helps you shift further back onto the mattress, then gently nudges your legs open. You let him. You’re too tired to fight it, and too curious to stop.

The way he looks at you…

It’s not just lust.

It’s reverence.

He crawls onto the bed with you, leaning forward, placing a slow, deliberate kiss on the underside of your belly.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to see you like this,” he murmurs against your skin, voice muffled by soft flesh. “Full. Heavy. Glowing.”

“I—I didn’t ask for this,” you protest weakly, but even to your own ears it sounds like you’re grasping. Your body is trembling, but not from fear. His lips move lower, trailing kisses across your stretched skin, hands cupping your hips with care.

“You didn’t have to,” he whispers. “You just needed help letting go.”

You let out a shaky breath. He’s undoing your stretched underwear now, easing it down your hips, over your thighs—moving carefully, slowly, like undressing a precious gift. He kisses your inner thighs, marveling at how plush they’ve become.

“Look at you,” he says softly. “There’s so much more of you now.”

You’re blushing furiously, but you don’t stop him. Your hands drift to your belly, lifting the soft mound slightly just to feel its weight, then letting it fall again. It jiggles. Sloshes faintly. It’s real.

You’re real.

And so much bigger than you were.

Time slips by in a haze.

You don’t know how long you lie there afterward—sprawled across the mattress, your swollen, overstretched body sinking into the sheets, your skin slick with warmth, tingling everywhere he touched. He lies beside you, one arm curled around your waist—what part of it he can reach, anyway—and the other hand gently stroking the underside of your belly, as if still marveling at the size of it.

You breathe slowly. Shallowly. You have to. There’s so much of you now that even lying still feels like work.

You’re naked, exhausted, sticky—and starving.

Your belly lets out a low, insistent grumble.

He chuckles softly beside you. “That didn’t take long.”

“I shouldn’t be hungry,” you mumble. “It hasn’t even been an hour…”

“You burned a lot of energy,” he says, brushing your hair from your cheek. “Your body’s working overtime. Growing like that… it takes fuel.”

You close your eyes. Part of you wants to resist. The other part?

You gave up that fight the second your jeans burst open.

After a few minutes, you make a soft sound and try to sit up. It’s difficult. You feel heavy in ways you never have before—your belly drapes over your lap, breasts wobbling with the effort, thighs too close together to shift easily. You grunt softly, struggling.

“Here,” he says immediately, rising to help you. His hands slide under your arms, lifting with care as you grunt your way upright. Even that little motion leaves you panting. You’re sore, inside and out.

Your old clothes are hopeless. What’s left of your jeans lies in a tattered heap on the floor, your bra stretched out beyond saving. Even your underwear seems to have lost all elasticity.

He disappears for a moment into the closet.

When he returns, he’s holding a shirt—one of his. The biggest one he owns. It used to hang off him like a curtain.

Now, it might barely cover you.

You hesitate, reaching for it. He slips it over your shoulders instead, pulling it gently down your body. It’s soft and smells like him, and even though it’s enormous, it still stretches tight across your belly, hugging your hips, clinging to your chest like it was never meant to fit someone like you.

You sit on the edge of the bed, panting slightly, cradling the swell of your gut. You feel full. Soft. Fed.

Changed.

And then you see it.

On the nightstand.

A small, familiar-looking capsule. Sitting beside a glass of water. Waiting.

You stare at it.

“You left another one?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t answer at first. He kneels down in front of you again, taking your hands gently in his. “I wanted you to see. To feel what it’s like first. To know what you’re saying yes to.”

You swallow. Your heart thuds loud in your ears. You look down at yourself—thighs squished together, belly hanging over the edge of the mattress, shirt riding up your hips already.

You’re enormous.

And you could be bigger.

“Just one more,” he says softly. “No pressure. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it away.”

But he doesn’t move.

You reach for the pill slowly, fingers trembling.

It’s still warm from the light. Waiting. Promise glinting in the smooth curve of it.

You glance back at him. “If I take this one…” You trail off. “Will it do the same thing?”

“Maybe more,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Your body’s used to it now. It might not even take twenty minutes.”

Your belly grumbles again, louder this time. A sharp hunger, as if the first transformation only whet your appetite.

You stare at the pill. Then at him. Then back at your stretched body.

And you pop it into your mouth.

Swallow.

His fingers tighten gently around yours.

“Good girl,” he whispers.

And already, the warmth is blooming in your core again.

You barely have time to set the empty glass back on the nightstand before the warmth returns.

It starts low in your belly, like a coiled ember flaring to life. You inhale sharply and press your hands to your middle, feeling that telltale pressure again—not pain, not exactly. Just the sensation of something swelling, stretching, filling from the inside out.

Only this time, you don’t panic.

You wait.

You watch.

You’re still sitting on the bed in his oversized shirt, the hem resting high on your bare thighs, your body already overgrown, overstimulated, sore from what he’s done to you. The fabric stretches tighter with each passing second. Your belly begins to push further into your lap again, softening, rounding, growing heavier with every slow breath.

“Oh god,” you whisper. “It’s happening again…”

He’s standing in front of you, hands on your knees, eyes locked on your body with reverence. “You’re doing so well,” he says softly, rubbing circles into your plush thighs. “Just breathe through it.”

You moan—helpless, already shifting to make room for yourself. You can feel the fat returning, piling on in slow waves, your skin buzzing with it. Your thighs spread further, belly sliding over them now. The shirt rides up inch by inch, clinging desperately to your swelling frame, the fabric bunching beneath your breasts.

You bite your lip as your hips widen against the bedspread. Your love handles begin to push outward, your backside thickening beneath you with soft, delicious weight. Your arms are heavy now, your upper arms dimpling, the sleeves of the shirt growing tight.

He watches you like a worshipper in church.

“You’re—watching me grow,” you murmur, voice thick.

“Yes,” he breathes. “And you’re letting it happen.”

You nod, dazed. You are. And that’s what makes this different.

You chose this one.

You shift, trying to lift yourself slightly, but you’re already heavier than you were minutes ago. Your belly quivers as it shifts, spreading wider across your lap, pressing against your thighs. Your breath catches as you feel the underside brush the tops of your knees.

“How big…” you ask between gasps, “How big will I get?”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Big enough to forget who you were before. Big enough that you’ll need my help. For everything.”

Your body responds before your mind does—thighs clenching, belly heaving, nipples hard beneath the tightening shirt. Your second chin is thicker now, brushing the top of your chest when you glance down. Your cheeks are round and flushed. You look stuffed, decadent. And you’re still growing.

Another wave hits you, heavier this time. You fall back into the pillows with a whimper, one hand on your belly as it rises higher, firmer, deeper. Your thighs shake. The seams at the sides of the shirt groan in protest.

“I can’t stop,” you gasp. “It’s not slowing down—”

“You don’t need to stop,” he whispers, crawling onto the bed beside you. “You’re beautiful. Every inch. Every pound. You were meant for this.”

You close your eyes and surrender to the feeling—his hands gliding over your newly forming rolls, his fingers sinking into your waist, your hips, your middle as they all bloom under his touch. He lifts the shirt, baring your belly as it swells, warm and flushed and trembling beneath his palms.

And you feel it now—not just the growth, but the power in it. The weight. The surrender. The strange, addictive pleasure of becoming something more than you were.

“I’m getting… so fat,” you moan, voice high and broken.

“Yes,” he murmurs, kissing the curve of your belly. “And you’re not done yet.”

[janeborowski]

Ahhh..first post as new host officially.

Doesn't feel good to scroll through here and see so many people discussing getting fatter? Ruining their bodies and mobility willingly cause they enjoy it? You read all of these and laugh to yourself, thinking that could never be you. You're too good for it. You can never put on weight.

Look at you and your rail thin twiggy form. You see yourself as a cute feeder don't you? You just love feeding little tubby cuties to obesity. That could never be you.

Few months pass, you haven't been going out, you've been flooded with work, trouble going to the gym and staying active. Oh your clothes feel tighter? You don't remember your thighs and ass feeling so soft? Must be your imagination...

A year passes..you've gone up two sizes. Workout routine gone, staying at home for work is better. Though you still embarrassingly wear your clothes you wore a year ago. They still fit as the sweat stained, torn at the pits shirt rides up your little breasts and tummy. Sweatpants torn at the inner thighs...no this is fine. You are still the same weight. Haven't a lot of feeders been hitting you up lately?

Two years pass, you've officially hit the point of no return haven't you? Feeder caught your attention and whisked you away into a relationship with them. Struggling to keep your appetite at bay, constantly needing a fourth, fifth, sixth meal. You can't even go out a job anymore. Your thighs push each other constantly, it hurts to walk when they constantly rub against each other. You can't even see your feet anymore can you? Barely even able to wear anything around that titanic ass, let alone something to cover your chest. You gave up any kind of working out, it's too hard. You struggle to even get up.

But no....it's all normal and fine isn't it? Keep telling yourself that...let that thought run wild. And soon...you'll never get up again.

[constantnbpreg]

god pregnant college student stories drive me wild for no good reason. i just love the idea of a pregnant trans boy. he goes off to college, excited for the new gained freedom and being on his own for the first time. ready to get the grades and become an independent adult

until a handful of hookups the first month of school leads to him getting pregnant.

at first it’s fine, right? he gets away with wearing bagger clothes. it’s getting colder after all. him getting hungrier could be blamed on the freshman 15 too! but then he finds out it’s twins and suddenly he feels like he’s growing much faster.

before he knows it, he’s waddling across the quad with his sixth month belly pushed forward. hand on his lower back to try and help with the heaviness of his gravid form. making slow steps as he can’t see his feet anymore, breaths deep and heavy as he carries that weight of his belly that stretches out his college hoodie. the hem of the sweatpants pushed underneath it and a strip of skin being exposed because the end of the hoodie can’t reach the hem of his sweatpants.

and as he’s huffing and puffing his way to his next class, his other hand rubbing the huge growing swell in front of him, he can feel everyone’s eyes on him. all watching his wide hips pass by and knowing how he got himself that way. first year away at college and he went and got himself stuffed full of babies. making bets on how long it’ll take him to not fit in the desk seats anymore, if he’ll even make it to finals with how fucking round he’s gonna be by then

it’s embarrassing. and he secretly loves every second of it

[secretbigboylover]

Buffet Date

CW: Weight gain, rapid weight gain, teasing.

Trevor was trying to ignore how full his belly was and how good it felt. His big belly spilled over his lap and pushed his favorite button up shirt to its limit. It was a sky-blue shirt with yellow rubber duckies dotted all around it. His boyfriend, Max, had picked it out as a gift when they first moved in together. The same Max that confided in him that he liked his men chunky, the same Max that kept buying Trevor’s favorite snacks even though Trevor was on a diet. The same Max that innocently suggested a buffet for their date night.

Trevor knew he’d over eat, but couldn’t help himself and he was sure Max did too. The food just smelled amazing. There were so many options from pizza to pasta, stakes to hotdogs, every fried savory food he could think of, and the desserts were so mouthwatering. Trevor didn’t used to be a big guy, but boy did he have a big appetite. He had played football in high school and in college. Trevor had a wide build that made him the first pick on any team. He even had the good looks to make any man swoon or at least he used to. Now, thanks in part to dating Max, Trevor felt he had lost some of that. He was still broad and tried to be athletic, but had started developing a bit of a gut. Sure, some of his gym buddies when through bulking phases and got a bit chunky before getting ripped, but Trevor didn’t do any body building stuff. He liked to keep a lean muscle look. Now staring at an orb of a gut he groaned. He was so full and the food was so good. Rubbing his taught stomach only showed just how much of a pig he made of himself, but it also felt good. He didn’t want to admit it, but a part of Trevor really liked this feeling of being over stuffed. It was a good excuse to let Max dote on him while he just digested. He knew he should be more active, but Max always looked so happy when Trevor ate too much. Maybe it was time to give in? That though vanished when he looked down at the sad state of his favorite shirt.

The day he had gotten the shirt Max had taken him on a magical date to the winter fare. They had gone ice-skating, Trevor had tried to win Max a stuffed animal, they had hot chocolate, and road the Faris wheel. They had stopped by a little boutique before going home. It was filled with all kinds of crazy and goofy shirts. When Trevor saw the rubber ducky shirt he fell in love and he was over joyed when Max bought it for him. They took it home right away. Trevor was so swept up by how cute it was that he didn’t realize it was a size too big. Max had ensured him that he still looked cute in it and the bigger size only gave him room to grow.

Now diamonds of doughy flesh poked between the buttons. Trevor leaned back and stroke his belly. He couldn’t imagen taking another bite. He had already stuffed himself with four full plates. Trevor vowed this would be the last buffet date for the year. He would get back on his fitness grind and fit back into his favorite shirt. Once Max came back, he would tell him his master plan about getting his summer beach bod ready.

Max came back with three plates, one with a few slices of pizza, one with a slice of cheesecake, and the other stacked with two slices of strawberry cheesecake and warm brownies.

          “Sorry for the wait. I heard they were bringing out a fresh batch of brownies and I know how you love them.” Max said.

Trevor completely forgot about his aching belly the second he smelled the brownies. They were so rich. He could smell the semi-sweet chocolate and could almost taste it. His summer body forgotten he chowed down on the brownies. They were even better than he imagined. So dark and rich, with the perfect smooth fudge texture. They practically melted in his mouth. Trevor inhaled the last few and the cheesecake. Without a second thought he got up and raced towards the brownie station.

They had set out two massive sheets, still steaming. Like a child possessed, he quickly loaded his plate high with brownies. As he walked back to his table he had to peak over the mountain of brownies and had missed Max’s massive grin. Max was full on laughing by the time Trevor came back to the table.

“What, did I take too many?” Trevor said.

“No baby, your shirt.” Max said as he tried, and failed, to keep in his laughter.

Trevor looked down and saw two buttons in the middle of his shirt had popped off, his soft belly exposed to the air. He turned the deepest shade of crimson and hid behind his tower of brownies.

“Aw baby, no need to be embarrassed. I think you look very sexy with that soft belly.” Max said.

“Then why were you laughing?” Treavor said.

“Because I got an email that your new shirt had arrived.” Max said.

This did not quite answer Trevor’s confusion and Max recognized that and continued.

“I know how much you love that shirt and I know it has been fitting a little snug recently. So, I found out that store had a webpage and, on a whim, bought it the next size up. I’m just laughing because right as I got the email your buttons flew off.” Max said.

Trevor was still embarrassed but touched. He looked down at the plate and a had a wicked idea.

“Well let’s see if you can pop the rest of my button’s off.” Trevor said.

Now it was Max’s turn to be flustered.

“Wait what?” Max said.

Trevor wasn’t sure what came over him. He still wanted his lean summer bod, but loved seeming Max flustered and new this would do the trick.

“Yea, just feed me till I pop.” Trevor said as he pushed the plate of brownies towards Max.

Still flustered, but now definitely horny, Max picked up a brownie and popped it in Trevor’s mouth. Instantly Trevor was in heaven. The brownie was still as good, but the extra edge of having his sexy boyfriend feed them too him was doing wonders. Trevor knew in that moment his new shirt wouldn’t last very long.

[gain-stuff-eat]

i love when a stuffed feedee tries to get up and just... can't at first. like they try rock up onto their elbows but it's just too much that they sort of collapse back down. extra points when their hands flies to their stomach in obvious discomfort, patting and feel the swell of their belly in satisfaction or rubbing to soothe it for some relief.

then they try again and the effort is immense, obvious with their concentrated, determined expression and harsh exhales as they prop themselves up and repeat the same cycle, maybe bouncing a bit just to feel how engorged snd heavy they are. head thrown back, jiggling their fat and moaning a little pleasure and pain, like they know they can't stop, that their meals are only going to get bigger, that this situation will only happen more and more because they're addicted to feeling, the voice in their head getting quieter and quieter that they won't get this out of hand again

when, yeah, it absolutely will

[feedybot]

The Clean Plate Club

It started with leftovers.

“Just finish the rest of mine, babe. I’m stuffed,” he said one night, nudging his plate toward her. She blinked, fork halfway to her mouth, then glanced down at the extra potatoes smothered in butter.

“I already had so much,” she murmured.

He smiled. “You’re always saying you hate wasting food.”

That was true. She gave a half-laugh and shrugged, then pulled the plate toward her. She was full, but not too full.

Just a little extra.

It became a habit—small at first. He always seemed to cook a bit too much, or claim he wasn’t as hungry as he thought. “You’ve got a better appetite than me,” he’d say with a grin. “You’re my Clean Plate Queen.”

She rolled her eyes the first time he said it, but… she did finish it. Every time. Even when her stomach felt heavy afterward. Even when her jeans started pinching a little at the waist.

*

He kept cooking.

Big breakfasts on weekends. Second helpings at dinner. Desserts he “just wanted to try out” from recipes online. She never asked for them, but somehow, she always ate them. And he was always there, smiling, proud of her clean plate.

He never said anything when she started sighing more after meals. When she groaned and patted her stomach, teasing that she was too full to move. When she unbuttoned her pants under the table without thinking, then quickly did them back up before standing.

And always—always—he praised her.

“You’re amazing.”

“Such a good appetite.”

“I love seeing you enjoy it.”

*

By the time spring rolled around, the weight had significantly gone up. She didn’t know that, of course—she hadn’t stepped on a scale in ages.

But she felt it.

In the way her belly pressed against her tops now. In the way her bras left deep indents on her back. In the slight bounce she caught in the mirror when she walked past in just underwear.

She tried a few half-hearted workouts. Skipped dessert a couple nights. But he always noticed. He always comforted.

“You work hard. You deserve to relax.”

She smiled. She finished her plate.

*

She stopped taking full-body selfies.

Not on purpose at first—it just happened. A cropped shot of her hair. A cozy photo in a big sweater. A mirror selfie that conveniently cut off just below the bust.

She still looked good. She knew that. But things had changed. The sweaters she loved last winter now clung oddly at the stomach. Her thighs had started to rub, just enough that she noticed when walking uphill. And sometimes, late at night, she’d catch herself cupping her belly with one hand without even realizing it.

“Do you think I’ve gained weight?” she asked one night, voice casual. Too casual.

He looked up from the couch, eyes warm. “Why?”

She shrugged, poking her stomach through her t-shirt. It gave under her finger, soft and pliant. “I dunno. Just feels like I’m a little puffier lately.”

He tilted his head, studying her with a faint smile. “You’ve been eating well. Sleeping better. Not stressing all the time. Maybe your body’s just… settling in.”

She rolled her eyes. “That sounds like something people say when they don’t want to admit someone’s gotten fat.”

He laughed. “It’s something people say when they like what they see.”

She blushed. Didn’t push it further.

*

A few days later, she tried to slip into her old high-waisted trousers for a meeting. The zipper stopped halfway up.

She stood there in shock, staring down at the gap, belly pushing forward like it had a mind of its own. She sucked in and tugged—but the waistband bit in deep, creating a bulge above it.

Her boyfriend walked by just as she was struggling.

“Those look tight,” he said gently. “Why not wear the black skirt instead? You look killer in that one.”

She hesitated.

Then changed.

Then, like always, she cleaned her plate at dinner.

*

The hallway smelled like old wood and floor polish, and the elevator looked exactly like she remembered—ancient, narrow, with a grated folding door and tarnished buttons that stuck when you pressed them.

“God, this thing still works?” she asked, shifting the tote bag on her shoulder.

Her boyfriend chuckled. “Barely.”

She hesitated in front of it. The mirrored interior panels showed her reflection from multiple angles, more than she liked. She caught a glimpse of her profile—her soft belly pressing into the fabric of her dress, the gentle curve beneath it rolling forward just enough to peek past her hips.

“I think I’ll take the stairs,” she muttered.

“C’mon,” he said easily, already opening the gate. “It’s five floors.”

She hesitated—then sighed and stepped in. The space was cramped, just enough for the two of them to stand shoulder to shoulder. As the door clattered shut, she felt her back brush the wall and her belly just barely graze the front panel. The metal seemed closer than it used to be.

Halfway up, the elevator gave a little groan and jerked. She squealed and grabbed his arm.

“It always does that,” he said calmly. “It’s not the weight.”

She blushed. Hard. “I didn’t say it was.”

He looked down at her, then ever so subtly, let his eyes drop—trailing over the roundness of her stomach, now clearly outlined by the taut dress fabric. She crossed her arms, as if it might hide her midsection, but all it did was press her breasts up tighter and deepen the visible crease of her belly underneath.

When the elevator stopped, she stepped out quickly, tugging her dress down. He followed her, watching the way her thighs rubbed slightly as she walked ahead, faster than usual.

Her sister greeted them at the door, all smiles and hugs, but the moment had already done its damage. She spent most of the visit shifting uncomfortably on the couch, adjusting her dress every few minutes. Snacking, yes—but with a distracted air, chewing slower, lips pressed tight.

He stayed quiet, letting it sink in.

She was starting to feel it.

Not just in her jeans or in the mirror—but in her body, her movement, the way the world interacted with her. The elevator had made sure of that.

*

She didn’t say much on the way back.

The car hummed beneath them, city lights drifting across the windshield in smudged streaks. Her arms were folded tightly over her middle, pressing her belly into an awkward shape beneath the seatbelt. Every bump in the road made her feel jiggly, aware.

“That elevator was stupid,” she muttered after a long silence. “Why would anyone still use something that old?”

He glanced over, but didn’t reply.

She sighed. “I just… I felt huge in there.”

Still, he said nothing. Just let the radio fill the space between them. She stared out the window, lips tight.

After a few more minutes, she spoke again, voice lower.

“Can we stop at McDonald’s?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I just… today’s already been crap,” she added quickly. “And I’ve been trying to be good. But right now, I just want to eat something terrible and not think about anything.”

He nodded once and turned the car without a word.

In the drive-thru, she ordered without hesitation.

“Double cheeseburger meal. Large. With nuggets on the side. Oreo McFlurry and please add a chocolate milkshake - large - as well.”

He didn’t blink. Just paid.

By the time they were back on the road, she was already digging in. She ate in silence for the first few bites, chewing angrily, wiping ketchup off her lip with the back of her hand. But with every mouthful, her shoulders sank a little more. Her breathing slowed. The food did what it always did—dulled the edge.

Halfway through the fries, she let out a soft groan and rested a hand on her stomach.

“Ugh. I’m gonna regret this.”

“You always say that,” he said quietly.

She smiled—barely. “And you never stop me.”

“Why would I? You’re beautiful when you let go.”

She gave him a look. “You’re weird.”

And she kept eating.

*

Back home, she moved slower.

The food had settled like a stone in her belly, heavy and bloated. She rubbed it absently as she stepped into the bedroom, kicking her shoes off with a sigh.

“I need to change,” she mumbled, tugging at the hem of her dress. It clung to her more now than it had earlier, riding up along her thighs, the fabric stretched tight over her middle like plastic wrap.

He leaned in the doorway, silent, watching.

She pulled the zipper down a few inches, then tried to wriggle out of it—but the dress didn’t budge. The fabric creaked as she twisted, her full stomach in the way, her backside resisting every inch of movement.

“Jesus,” she huffed, breath catching. “It’s stuck.”

Her hands worked furiously—tugging, pulling, shifting side to side. But the dress wouldn’t slide over the swell of her belly, or the soft roundness of her ass. Every motion just made it ride up more, bunching awkwardly under her hips. Her face was flushed now, damp with sweat.

She let out a frustrated growl. “Why is everything so tight all the time?!”

Then, trying one last time, she gave the dress a sharp yank upward—and lost her balance. She stumbled backward and collapsed onto the edge of the bed with a heavy thump.

That’s when it happened.

Rrrrrrrrip.

A sharp, unmistakable tearing sound echoed through the room. The seams at her side gave out all at once, the fabric splitting wide over the fullest part of her belly. Her skin, hot and flushed, pushed through the gap, soft and pale and unignorable.

She froze.

So did he.

Then—

“Oh,” he said, grinning. “Oh wow.”

She stared down in horror. “No. No, no, no—this was new.”

“You really thought that dress still fit?”

“I wore it last month!”

“Babe…” He stepped closer, eyes trailing over the exposed skin, the deep crease of her belly now spilling freely onto her lap. “That wasn’t last month. That was January. And you’ve been quite… busy ever since.”

She looked up, wide-eyed.

He crouched down in front of her, eyes hungry, voice soft and low. “You’ve been stuffing yourself for months. Always finishing your plate. Always just a little more. Or a lot more. You thought you were being good—counting calories, walking once a week. But all the while…” His fingers brushed along the exposed curve of her belly, tracing the stretch marks. “All the while you’ve been growing. Rounder. Softer. Fatter. Your belly started ever so slightly to bulge out and never stopped expanding.”

Her mouth opened—but nothing came out.

“You hardly noticed,” he whispered, reverent. “And now look at you. All of you. There is so much now… belly taking up half of your lap, thighs at least twice as wide and don’t get me started on those hips of yours…”

Her dress was pulled taut around her chest and hips, but utterly surrendered at the middle. Her belly rose and fell with each breath—swollen from food, shame, and something she couldn’t quite name.

“I—I don’t know how I let this happen…”

He smiled. “I do.”

Then, eyes locked on hers, he let his hand drift over her tight belly. She could feel herself blushing. Was it unease she was feeling? Humiliation? Panic? Probably all the above.

,,Look at what you have made of yourself. You really couldn’t help yourself, could you? You’ve grown so much so fast… so well.”

That was the moment her body completely betrayed her because she leaned into his touch and pushed as much of her belly into his arms as she could. He couldn’t stop the groan he let out.

Next thing she knew the dress was finally ripped off her body. And her boyfriend? He got into what he did best - worshipping her body.

[bellyyearner]

Office life at 550+ lbs Part 2

Word Count: 1050

Gender neutral POV, mobility issues, extreme obesity, stuffing, feedee perspective

Part 1

As soon as you reached your car you felt like you were gonna pass out from exhaustion. You can't remember the last time you needed to do that much activity in one shot. Gripping your meaty fingers around the door handle you swing it open and practically collapse into the driver's seat. The chassis of your car groaning loudly with the sudden burden. One leg on the ground, the other barely inside the car, and leaning back onto the center console you huffed and puffed. Trying to pull enough air into your lungs so that you don't pass out, the reality of your situation finally sets in.

You were filling the space completely. With your hips and love handles compressed between the driver's seat and the steering wheel, pushing your belly slightly higher but still pooling around you and filling all available space. Your heaving chest resting against your throat, forcing your breaths to be haggard and loud, you can hear the cars suspension creek with every rise and fall of your lard ladened gut. Your legs were burning and your joints were crying, your body giving you a harsh reminder of why you don't push it this hard. But that didn't matter to you, digging your fingers into the soft and doughy fat of your overhang, you felt elated. Jiggling and massaging the delicious fat you worked so hard to grow, the pleasure and pain your body was experiencing is the same high you've been chasing for over a decade. Almost losing yourself in it and adding even more treats to your mental grocery list you snapped out of it as you heard another car pull in.

With a sudden moment of clarity you remember you're in public and not that far from the front door of your office, "quickly" you begin to reposition yourself. A puffy left hand gripping the steering wheel for leverage you begin to heave yourself up, pulling one leg inside before taking a deep breath, pushing yourself off the passenger seat with your right. Gas rose up from the depths of your gut and you could taste the cherry cola as the burp ruptured out of you. Instinctively your left hand went to your belly as you tried to massage another out of you but to no avail.

Pulling your left leg into the car and wiggling your ass around the seat you were able to slip into position. A whole multiple minute process just to get into the car, you can't help but feel the endorphins rush through you and send shivers down your spine. The thing about getting this morbidly obese and loving it is that everything you do becomes sexual, to you at least, to others they see you struggle with the basics and feel sorry for you, but you? When you closed the car door but needed a second try because you're just so wide that your fat fucking ass gave resistance and you didn't pull hard enough? Your crotch got hotter, the blood that's usually stagnant from a lack of movement was flowing, and you desperately wanted to handle that immediately. And when you remembered that you couldn't even though you wanted to because you lost the ability to reach without toys, you decided to stop at an extra drive thru on the way home.

Pulling out of the parking lot you take one last look at your office, resolutely determined to never see it again. The familiar bumps in the road jostled your body around like waves in a pool, despite the fear for your suspension, you didn't try too hard to avoid potholes on your way to lunch. Once you had placed your order at the drive thru, you were placing your Walmart order online, adding literally anything that looked tasty with no regard to cost. This is a celebration after all, why not splurge a little. Once you arrived at the window you outstretched your fattened saggy arm to grab a grease covered bag of burgers and large soda. You wondered if the drive thru worker had served anyone as fat as you this week. The thought faded as the scent of your meal hit your nose, quickly pulling into the parking lot to devour everything before heading off to a second drive through only to repeat the process again.

Once you arrived home you spent the first few minutes in the driveway just caressing your fattened form, massaging out little hiccups and burps as you do so. With your gut pressing against the steering wheel you wondered how long it would be before getting into the car would be impossible. You didn't need the car now but decided to keep it anyways so you could track your gaining progress in a fun way. You then repeat the process of left leg out, shimmy ass cheeks towards the door, turn, right leg to the edge, and rise for what you hope is the last time for at least a few months. Waddling to your front door you enter your home and kick off your shoes, another thing you hope to abandon.

With a slow but relaxed waddle you enter the kitchen, grabbing a 2 liter, a bag of chips, and a plastic tin of blueberry muffins before heading to the couch and falling back into the you shaped dent that you've been gorging yourself deeper into. Sips of soda between salty chips you eat with passion, topping yourself up despite having eaten enough for a family of 5 on the way home. When the chips are gone, the muffins follow right after and you can feel the bread expand with soda once it reaches your over worked stomach. With the pressure in your gut rising and supplies running out your hands explore your body and trace the stretch marks you wear as trophies. Deep guttural burps escaping your lips when you find the right spots.

As the weight settles in and your eyes grow droopy from the excess sugar you bite your lip and moan, enjoying the fact that you are the smallest that you will ever be. Pulling out your phone to reorder the most recent door dash delivery because you don't care what it is that slides down your throat, you just want more

[feedybot]

Sizing Up

You tug the zipper up the back of your jeans and feel a sudden resistance.

“Huh,” you mutter, sucking in your stomach. You shimmy, bounce slightly on your toes, even try lying back on the bed. But the denim doesn’t budge past your hips. It’s not even close.

“Need help?” Felix leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching with a faint smirk.

You glare at him, flushed from the effort. “Did you dry these on high heat or something?”

“Nope,” he says, and crosses the room in a few lazy strides. “Maybe they shrunk from all that honeymoon pasta… or maybe you filled them out a little.”

You throw a pillow at him. “Rude.”

He catches it, grinning. “Not complaining.”

You turn back to the mirror, squinting. The jeans are halfway up your thighs—any further and you’d tear them. You give up with a sigh and flop onto the bed. “Ugh. Nothing fits.”

Felix sits beside you, running a warm hand along your bare thigh. “You’ve been looking extra soft lately,” he says gently. “I kind of like it.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “I knew you liked it. You keep offering me second helpings like a villain.”

“Guilty.” He leans in, presses a kiss to your cheek. “But I love seeing you happy. Relaxed. Fed.”

You bite your lip, unsure if you’re more embarrassed or flattered. You’ve definitely been indulging—nightly desserts, his rich cooking, lazy mornings in his arms instead of at the gym. Your stomach’s a bit rounder, your thighs thicker… and now your jeans are laughing at you.

Felix brushes a hand over your lower belly. It’s subtle, but firm. “We could go shopping tomorrow. Get you something that fits just right.”

You laugh nervously. “You mean bigger.”

“I mean comfortable,” he says. “And hot. Just wait.”

You don’t know whether to roll your eyes or melt into him. Maybe both.

You end up in one of Felix’s oversized T-shirts and a pair of stretchy black shorts you forgot you owned. The waistband digs in a little, but at least it fits. Kind of.

He’s in the kitchen humming to himself when you walk in, pulling your hair into a messy bun. The smell of something rich and buttery hits you immediately.

“You didn’t have to cook again,” you say, eyeing the pan.

He shrugs. “You had a long day. Figured I’d make you something cozy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You mean caloric.”

He just smiles—that charming, infuriating smile that always gets him his way—and slides a full plate in front of you. Creamy mushroom risotto, piled high. A slice of garlic bread balanced on the side. No measuring, no calorie counting. Just pure indulgence.

You sit slowly, feeling the waistband of your shorts already object. “You’re trying to ruin me.”

Felix leans against the counter, watching. “I’m trying to take care of you.”

Your fork clinks softly against the plate. You’re halfway through before you realize it. The risotto is too good. Creamy, buttery, laced with cheese. Comfort food, through and through.

When you finish, Felix appears with dessert like it’s choreographed—thick chocolate mousse in a chilled glass, topped with a swirl of whipped cream.

“I shouldn’t,” you murmur, running a hand across your stomach. You can feel it—full, distended. You shift in your seat, suddenly aware of the tightness under your shirt.

“But you will,” he says, pressing the spoon into your hand.

You eat it slowly, watching him the whole time. He sits across from you now, chin resting on his hand, eyes drinking you in like you’re the dessert.

“You’re watching me,” you say, mouth full.

“Of course I am,” he says, voice low. “You’re beautiful when you let go.”

The spoon falters in your hand. For a moment, your heart kicks up—not just from the weight of the food, but from the way he’s looking at you. Possessive. Hungry. Like he sees something you haven’t fully realized yet.

You finish the mousse anyway.

Later, you’ll fall asleep on the couch, head in his lap, shirt riding up slightly to expose the softness of your belly. And Felix’s hand will rest there like it belongs.

*

You stand in front of your closet in a towel, dripping from the shower, staring at your clothes like they’ve betrayed you.

Everything looks small. Unreasonably small. Shirts that once hung comfortably now feel like crop tops. Jeans mock you from their hangers. Even your bras pinch.

You try on three outfits before settling on leggings and an oversized sweater, cheeks flushed and heart tight. You don’t say much when Felix joins you at the door, car keys in hand, but he doesn’t press.

“You ready?” he asks. His eyes flick down—brief, but lingering.

You nod, tugging the hem of your sweater.

The store is well-lit, overwhelming. You usually shop alone. But Felix is right beside you, quietly patient, holding hangers, making suggestions. And somehow, you keep finding yourself drifting toward the larger racks.

You pick up a pair of jeans—your usual size—and hesitate. “Should I grab the next one up too?”

Felix leans in, voice soft. “Try both. Just in case.”

You take a breath, heart pounding, and head for the changing room with two pairs in hand: your old size, and one size larger.

You start with the old size. Nope. They barely come over your hips. You don’t even try to zip them.

Next size up: better. But snug. Too snug for comfort. The denim bites into your soft middle and squeezes at your thighs. You twist and turn, trying to convince yourself they’ll stretch. But the mirror is honest.

There’s a knock at the door. “Everything okay in there?” Felix asks, voice careful.

You pause. Then crack the door and pull him in. “I think I need to go bigger,” you whisper, cheeks flushed.

Felix takes one look at you—stuffed into the jeans, sweater pulled tight over your rounder middle—and smiles like he’s just won something. He steps close and runs his thumb along the waistband, where your soft belly bulges slightly over the top.

“These don’t look bad at all,” he murmurs. “But you’d feel better in the next size. Trust me.”

Your stomach flutters. You don’t know if it’s shame, arousal, or both.

So you go back out, grab the next size up—two sizes up from your old ones—and try again.

This pair slides on smoothly. No jumping. No struggling. The denim hugs you in a way that’s… cozy.

Felix sees the way your body relaxes and smiles. “There she is.”

You buy the jeans. And two new bras. And a couple of flowy tops, because… well. Everything’s just been tight lately.

Felix carries the bags.

On the way home, he stops for pastries “to celebrate.” You don’t argue.

Felix didn’t say much after dinner. He helped you clean up, kissed your temple, then mumbled something about needing a quick walk. “Just to clear my head,” he said, like he was trying to outrun something.

Now you’re alone on the couch in your new jeans—the ones that actually fit—and a soft tank top that clings a little too tightly over your belly. You’ve been wearing it anyway, because Felix couldn’t stop staring when you put it on earlier. His hands lingered. His eyes dropped. And when you asked, “Too tight?” he just shook his head and muttered, “Perfect.”

You’re halfway through a second glass of wine when you hear the front door click.

He walks in slowly, a white box in his hands.

Your heart skips. “What’s that?”

“Dessert,” he says simply. His voice is calmer now, more certain. “From that bakery you like.”

You shift on the couch, tugging your shirt down instinctively. “I’m still full from dinner…”

Felix just smiles and sits beside you, box on his lap. “I know.”

He opens it, and you see it: a rich chocolate tart, glossy and decadent, with thick whipped cream and a dark caramel drizzle. You groan softly just looking at it.

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, slicing into it. “Open up.”

You laugh, but the fork’s already at your lips. You take a bite. It melts on your tongue—too good. Your belly groans quietly under the tight press of your jeans.

“I shouldn’t…” you whisper.

“But you are,” Felix says, his voice low, eyes heavy-lidded. “You always do.”

He feeds you another bite. Then another. He watches your mouth, your throat, the way your belly rises slightly with each swallow. His hand finds your thigh and squeezes, thumb brushing just under the swell of your stomach.

“You’ve been growing,” he says, barely above a whisper.

You go still.

“What?”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You’ve been eating everything I give you. Letting go. Filling out so beautifully.”

Your heart thunders. You should feel humiliated. You should push the tart away.

But you don’t.

You lean back instead, lips parted, waiting for the next bite. Felix laughs softly, something dark and adoring in it. He feeds you again.

“You’re softer every week,” he murmurs, sliding a hand over the dome of your belly, feeling how tight and full it is. “Do you know how good that feels to me?”

You whimper.

“I wanted this,” he says. “All of it. I’ve been feeding you for months. Pushing you gently. You didn’t even notice, did you?”

You shake your head slowly. You’re dazed, full, stretched taut, and suddenly aware of every pound you’ve put on.

“Felix…”

“Shh.” He lifts your shirt, presses a kiss to your belly. “Let me admire what I’ve done.”

You’re lying on your back, legs parted slightly, breath shallow under the weight of dessert and discovery. The empty tart plate sits on the coffee table, licked clean. Your shirt is bunched under your breasts now, your belly bare, flushed, and softly rounded.

Felix kneels on the floor beside you, eyes fixed on your stomach like it’s sacred.

“You’ve gotten so soft,” he says, both hands splayed across your middle. His thumbs stroke slowly along the outer curve, dipping gently into the center, feeling the subtle give of your full belly. “It’s more than I hoped for.”

Your cheeks burn. You don’t know what to say—how to even begin unpacking what he’s just admitted. All you can do is lie there, heavy, too full to move, and let him touch you.

“How much?” you whisper.

He looks up at you, brow lifted.

“How much have I gained?”

Felix smiles—genuinely, not smug, not teasing. Just in awe.

“I don’t know exactly,” he murmurs, fingers sinking gently into the doughy edge above your waistband. “But I can see it. Feel it.”

His hands slide over your hips—wider now. Up along your ribs—less defined. Then back down again, resting at the bottom of your belly where it swells over the waistband of your new jeans.

“You’re so different,” he breathes, more reverent than you’ve ever heard him. “And so beautiful like this. I didn’t think I’d love it this much, but watching you change… watching you grow for me…”

His voice trails off into a groan. He presses his face into your stomach and kisses it softly, slowly, then again, harder. You gasp.

You want to protest. Say you didn’t do this for him. That it was just pasta and lazy weekends. But deep down, you know—he was always nudging, always watching. And you let him. You let yourself go. Maybe part of you wanted this too.

Felix pulls your waistband down slightly, exposing more of your belly, letting it rise freely with your breath. His lips find the stretchmarks beginning to bloom at your sides. He kisses them like secrets.

“You’re perfect,” he says.

You moan softly as he rubs, kneads, worships. His hands are everywhere, and your body is too full to resist, too full to hide. All you can do is lie there, overflowing under his touch.

“You were stunning in your wedding dress,” he murmurs, voice dark. “But now? Now you’re mine.”

You reach for him with trembling hands, pulling him up to kiss you—deep, hungry, tasting chocolate on his tongue. Your belly presses into him between your bodies, soft and heavy. He growls into your mouth and grinds against you like he’s starved.

“Next time I buy you clothes,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear, “we’re skipping two sizes. Just to be safe.”