feedybot

[feedybot]

One Rule For You

Chapter 1 — The Rule

It started, like most traps do, as a joke.

She was sitting across from him at their small kitchen table, arms crossed, pretending to glare while he nudged a plate toward her. A slice of cheesecake, glossy under the kitchen light, heavy with cream. She had already eaten dinner, already unbuttoned the top of her jeans when she thought he wasn’t looking.

“I’m full,” she said.

His mouth curled into that crooked, self-satisfied smile she always found dangerous. He slid the plate closer anyway, the fork balanced on top.

“Then just one bite.”

She groaned. “That’s what you said about the tiramisu last night. And the pancakes this morning.”

“And weren’t they worth it?” He leaned forward, lowering his voice as though coaxing a child. “Come on. Just humor me.”

She hesitated, eyeing the cheesecake. He always did this — testing, pushing. She liked to think she had the upper hand, that her refusals meant something, but lately he had a way of whittling her down.

With an exaggerated sigh, she dragged the plate toward herself and took a forkful.

The sound he made — a low chuckle — hit her harder than the sugar.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured. “You know, we could make this easier.”

Her fork stopped halfway back to the plate. “Easier?”

“Yeah. No more back-and-forth. No more pretending you’re not going to give in anyway.” His eyes glittered. “One rule. Just one. From now on, if I offer you something, you don’t say no. Simple as that.”

She blinked at him, half-amused, half-alarmed. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” He leaned back in his chair, arms folded, daring her. “But tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you won’t end up eating it anyway.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. The cheesecake was soft on her tongue, melting away while she stalled.

“It’s ridiculous,” she muttered.

“It’s honest.” His smile sharpened. “Think of it as… a pact. You trust me, don’t you?”

That word. Trust. He’d laced it with just enough weight to make refusal feel childish, ungrateful. She hated that he was good at this — at turning indulgence into intimacy, temptation into proof of loyalty.

She stabbed the cheesecake again, eating faster than she meant to, as if to shut him up.

His eyes followed every bite. When the plate was empty, he leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, smug and merciless.

“There,” he said softly. “That’s how it’ll be from now on. No refusals. No excuses.”

She swallowed hard. “And what if I say no anyway?”

He grinned. “You won’t.”

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. She felt her stomach press against her waistband, a dull ache from the extra sweetness, but she couldn’t deny the strange thrill buzzing beneath her irritation.

One rule. So simple. Too simple.

She should have laughed it off. She should have told him no.

Instead, she dropped her gaze to the empty plate, and in that quiet, damning gesture, the rule became real.

Chapter 2 — Slippery Slope

It was amazing how quickly a joke could become routine.

Within a week, she stopped even pretending to resist. At breakfast, he slid an extra croissant onto her plate. At lunch, he ordered fries and onion rings and watched her eat both. At dinner, he poured her a second glass of wine, then set down a plate heavier than his own. Each time, he waited for the flicker in her eyes — that hesitation, that useless instinct to say no — before reminding her of the rule with just a look.

It was never loud, never cruel. He didn’t need to be. A raised eyebrow, a smirk, the barest murmur of you know the rule was enough to make her falter and obey.

And she hated it — or at least, she told herself she did.

By the second week, her body was starting to notice.

Her jeans cut into her hips faster than usual, denim biting into the softening ring around her waist. When she sat, the button dug sharply, reminding her of every indulgence. She caught herself tugging her shirts lower, smoothing fabric over the faint curve of her belly that hadn’t been there before.

He noticed too. Of course he did.

One evening, she came home from work, already tired, already craving nothing but sleep. But he had cooked — creamy pasta, thick with sauce and butter, garlic bread dripping oil onto the plate. He set the dish in front of her without a word.

She stared. “This is… a lot.”

“Mm.” He sat across from her, plate in hand, eyes sharp. “Good thing you don’t have a choice, huh?”

Her cheeks flushed. She gripped the fork, stabbing half-heartedly at the pasta.

“I’m not—” she began, then stopped herself. The rule.

His smile widened. “Not what?”

She shook her head, twisting noodles around her fork. She could feel his satisfaction radiating across the table as she lifted the bite to her mouth.

Halfway through the plate, she slumped back in her chair, breathing heavier. “I can’t,” she muttered.

He leaned forward, voice low and merciless. “Yes, you can. Finish it. You don’t get to stop halfway — not with me. Not with the rule.”

The words sank into her like another weight in her stomach.

By the time she cleared the plate, her belly was tight and swollen, pressing against her waistband until the button threatened to give. She unfastened it under the table, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

He noticed.

The smirk on his face was devastating. “Comfortable now?”

Her face burned. “Shut up.”

“Don’t be shy. You earned it.” He reached across the table, his fingers brushing her wrist before taking her fork. He set it gently back down on the empty plate, the gesture strangely final. “This is what happens when you play by my rules.”

She swallowed, every nerve buzzing with humiliation.

Later, in bed, she curled away from him, one arm resting protectively over her bloated stomach. But even then, she couldn’t escape the sound of his voice echoing in her head — soft, smug, inescapable.

You don’t have a choice.

And the worst part? Deep down, a traitorous part of her didn’t want one.

Chapter 3 — The Spiral

She knew she shouldn’t have agreed to dinner.

Not after the way her jeans had fought her that afternoon, seams biting into her thighs, zipper resisting her tug. Not after she’d stood in front of the mirror, tugging her blouse down, trying to hide the soft bulge that refused to stay hidden.

But saying no wasn’t an option anymore.

He’d told her they were meeting friends at the new Italian place downtown. “Big portions,” he’d said with that infuriating grin. “You’ll love it.”

The rule hummed like a chain around her neck. She couldn’t refuse.

They arrived late. The table was already filled — laughter, chatter, half-finished glasses of wine. She slid into her chair, heart thudding, while he sat close, too close, his hand already resting on her thigh under the table.

“Order whatever you want,” one of their friends offered.

He leaned in before she could open her mouth. “She’s starving,” he said smoothly, waving the waiter over. “We’ll start with the bruschetta, the calamari, and the stuffed mushrooms. And for mains… she’ll have the lasagna and the chicken parmesan.”

Her head snapped toward him. “Two entrées?” she hissed.

He tilted his glass, smirk never fading. “One rule, remember?”

Her stomach sank lower than her blouse could cover.

The appetizers came first, stacked high and dripping oil. She tried to pace herself, taking careful bites, but his hand on her thigh squeezed whenever she slowed. Each time she gave in, he chuckled low in her ear.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, just for her. “Keep going.”

She flushed, painfully aware of the table chatter swirling around them, the way her friends laughed and talked as if she weren’t quietly shoveling food down beside them. Every time she set down her fork, he nudged another plate closer.

Then came the mains.

Two steaming dishes, both obscene in size. The lasagna sagged under its own weight, layers oozing cheese, while the chicken parmesan sprawled across the plate, drowned in sauce.

Her friends laughed. “That’s ambitious.”

She wanted to die. “I didn’t—”

“She can handle it,” he cut in smoothly. “Trust me.”

Halfway through the lasagna, she felt her stomach revolt, tight and hot against the fabric of her blouse. She shifted, thighs pressed against the edge of the chair, belly swelling uncomfortably.

He didn’t let her stop.

“Don’t slow down now,” he teased, his hand sliding higher on her thigh, pressing. “They’re watching. Show them how well you follow the rules.”

Her face burned scarlet. She speared another bite.

The chicken parmesan loomed untouched. He dragged the plate closer, cutting a piece, and held the fork to her lips. “Open.”

Her friends were too deep in conversation to notice. Or maybe they noticed and pretended not to. Either way, she parted her lips, cheeks flaming, and he slid the bite inside.

“Good girl,” he whispered.

By the time she gave up — stuffed beyond sense, belly taut and aching — both plates were empty.

Back at the table, her posture sagged. She couldn’t sit up straight, her stomach rounding heavily against the table edge. She shifted, hoping no one noticed, but his hand moved under the tablecloth, bold and merciless.

He patted her.

A firm, deliberate pat on her swollen belly, slow enough that she felt every ounce of humiliation. Then another, softer this time, almost affectionate.

She jerked, eyes wide, hissing under her breath. “Stop—”

But he didn’t. His palm pressed flat against her belly, rubbing in circles, as if soothing her after all that indulgence.

“Full?” he asked casually, loud enough that she panicked someone might hear.

Her face burned hotter than the wine in her veins. She nodded once, sharply.

His grin was lethal. “Good. That’s the rule, sweetheart. You finish what I give you. And look at you—” another pat, firmer now, claiming her in front of everyone, even if they couldn’t see — “you’ve done exactly that.”

She sat frozen, stuffed and humiliated, the sound of laughter around the table buzzing in her ears.

And when his hand lingered on her belly, warm and unrelenting, she realized the rule wasn’t just hers anymore. It was public. It was permanent.

It owned her.

Chapter 4 — Owned by the Rule

The night after dinner with friends, she told herself she’d resist. She couldn’t keep doing this — not when her clothes barely fit, not when her reflection betrayed her with every new soft curve.

But he knew better.

When she came home, the table was already set. Candles burned low, shadows flickering across two plates. Both were piled high — obscene portions of pasta, bread still steaming, a cake waiting at the end like a promise.

Her stomach clenched at the sight. “I can’t,” she blurted.

He looked up from his chair, eyes glinting. “You don’t get to say that.”

Her breath caught.

“The rule,” he said smoothly, standing now, moving toward her with unhurried steps. “Remember?”

She backed up against the wall, heart hammering. “Please, I’m—”

He pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her. “No excuses. No refusals. You agreed.”

She shivered. He wasn’t angry — worse, he was calm, certain, as if the outcome had already been written.

Dinner blurred into a haze of bites forced past her lips, his voice coaxing, mocking, relentless. Every time she slowed, he leaned in close.

“Another. Don’t stop now.”

“Eat your fill.”

“Look at you. How far you have come.”

“Obey the rule.”

By the time the pasta was gone, her belly strained against her waistband, button digging cruelly into the swell beneath her blouse. She gasped, one hand clutching her middle.

He crouched beside her chair, lips at her ear. “Undo it.”

She froze.

His voice sharpened. “Do it. Now.”

Shaking, she slid the button free. The relief was instant, but the shame was worse — her stomach surged outward, round and heavy, no longer held in.

He laughed low, resting his palm on her exposed softness, giving her a deliberate pat.

“There you are,” he murmured, fingers spreading across the curve, pressing just enough to make her squirm. “All that food, right where it belongs.”

The cake was next. Thick slices, one after another, while he sat beside her, feeding her himself. Frosting smeared at the corner of her lips; he wiped it with his thumb, then pushed another bite in before she could speak.

“You thought you could resist me,” he said softly, almost tenderly. “But you can’t even resist dessert.”

She whimpered, full to bursting, tears prickling her eyes. “I can’t… I can’t anymore—”

He tilted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Say it properly.”

Her voice broke. “I can’t say no.”

He smiled — slow, merciless, triumphant. “That’s right. You can’t. Because the rule doesn’t allow it.”

He patted her belly again, harder this time, making her gasp. “This—” pat “—is proof.”

By the end, she was slumped in the chair, belly round and obscene, blouse riding up to reveal the soft, overstuffed dome. She was taking up so much space…

He leaned back, arms folded, admiring his work. Then he bent forward, his hand resting heavy on her stomach, fingers digging just enough to remind her who put it there. And who would continue to do so.

[feedybot]

Liquid indulgence

The glass is cool in her hand, beading with condensation like it’s trying to seduce her before she even tastes it. She lifts it to her lips, and the first swallow is molten cream and sugar, thick as velvet, rolling over her tongue with sinful weight. It clings there for a heartbeat, leaving her lips glistening before she swallows.

The drink is deceptively sweet—honey and vanilla at first, then something darker underneath, like caramel coaxed almost to burning. The richness presses down on her, but she doesn’t stop. She can feel it settling low in her stomach already, like a warm hand encouraging her to keep going.

Halfway through, her breaths are slower. The glass feels heavier, but so does she. Her body, already softened by quiet indulgence, feels as though it’s yielding even more with every mouthful—hips relaxing wider against the chair, her middle pressing just a little fuller against her dress.

By the last sip, it’s not just a drink. It’s a promise—thick, heady, and irresistible. The sort of magic that doesn’t fade with the night, but lingers in curves and softness long after the glass is empty.

She starts returning to that glass as if it’s calling her. Every evening, the same chilled weight in her hand, the same rich, silken flood spilling over her tongue. But what was once a single serving soon feels too brief—too much pleasure left untasted. So she pours more.

One glass becomes two. The second goes down easier than the first, like her body has already learned to make room. By the third night, there’s no pause between them—just the steady, heavy rhythm of swallowing, her throat working greedily while her eyes half-close in bliss.

By the end of the first week, the change is already visible, though she tells herself it’s only the richness of the drink sitting in her. After each glass—each heavy pour—her belly swells forward in a gentle arc, pressing against the inside of her clothes until seams whisper in protest. She leans back in her chair afterward, breathing slower, her hand idly cupping the warm, rounded curve as if to soothe it.

But the swelling doesn’t vanish as quickly as it once did. At first it’s just a slight pooch that lingers into the morning. Then it’s a small dome, soft and pliant but undeniably there, rounding her silhouette before she’s even touched her next glass.

Night after night, the ritual continues. Each gulp sends another slow, molten wave into her middle, pushing it outward by degrees. Her belly is no longer a gentle curve—it’s becoming the centerpiece of her body. It rises from her lap in a taut, rounded mound after a heavy evening, the skin stretched smooth under her palm.

By the third week, it has claimed space she didn’t know she had. Sitting, it presses firmly against her thighs, spreading outward as it rests there. Standing, it juts forward in front of her, announcing itself before the rest of her follows. Even the smallest movements cause a subtle sway—an inertia that wasn’t there before, a reminder of the weight she now carries.

When she drains her glass these days, she can feel the expansion in real time: the pressure growing beneath her ribs, the swell pushing against the waistband until she must ease it down under the dome. The drinks are still decadent, still irresistible—but now they leave her so distended she moves slowly, as if her body needs to adjust to its own roundness.

It’s no longer just a belly. It’s a claim.

The magic has gathered there, shaping her into something fuller, heavier… and still hungry.

She notices it most on a morning when she tries to dress as she once did.

The blouse hangs in her closet, crisp and neat, a relic from when her middle was only a polite curve. She slips her arms through the sleeves, but when she draws it around her, the fabric halts mid-belly, gaping wide. The dome beneath is firm from the night’s indulgence, rounded high enough to catch the bottom hem and push it upward.

She tries the buttons. The first few close easily enough over her chest, but by the time her fingers reach the swell below her ribs, the fabric is straining like a drumskin. The next button barely catches—her belly already bulging between the fastenings, soft flesh squeezing outward in pale crescents. By the one at her navel, it’s hopeless; the dome juts too far, its curve untamed.

She steps to the mirror and sees what the magic has made of her: a proud, heavy mound pushing forward, leading her body’s motion. It rounds out in every direction, not just front to back but from side to side, hips now framed by the low drape of its weight. When she shifts, the belly moves with her, swaying just slightly before settling back into place like it owns her stance.

Reaching for a skirt is no better. Once it would have slid over her hips in one smooth pull; now she has to wrestle it up past the widest point of her belly, the waistband catching and rolling as it tries to contain the soft, full curve. Even when it’s on, the fabric skims tight over the mound, leaving no doubt that it is the centerpiece of her figure.

She presses her hand into the swell, meaning to smooth it, but the flesh simply yields and then pushes back, taut from last night’s three-glass ritual. It’s not just size—it’s dominance. Her belly decides how she moves, how she dresses, how she stands.

And when she steps away from the mirror, she already feels the craving stirring, deep in her chest. The magic calls again, promising to push her even further out, to round her into something more decadent still.

That night, she doesn’t just pour her usual three glasses—she lines up six.

The first few vanish as always, slow and luxuriant, the cream coating her throat, the sweetness blooming on her tongue. But with the fourth, she begins to feel it—her belly, already softened and eager, pushing outward faster than she’s used to. Each gulp adds another slow surge of weight inside her, a spreading warmth that forces her to shift in her seat as her waistband tightens.

By the fifth glass, her middle is tight. Not the gentle, pliant swell she’s come to adore, but a firm, stretching dome that resists her palm when she presses it. She can feel it climbing higher under her ribs, rounding forward like it’s been inflated. The bottom curve presses so firmly into her thighs that her legs angle slightly apart, forced by the fullness.

The sixth glass is pure indulgence. She has to pause between swallows now, her breaths shallow as her belly strains for room. When she sets the empty glass down, her hands go instinctively to cradle the swell—taut, high, and impossibly round. It pushes far past where it was when she sat down, a glossy mound that forces her spine to arch just to balance it.

She tries to stand, but the fullness commands her to move slowly. The dome protrudes in front of her like a balloon, swaying with her steps. Her top has ridden up, baring the underside of her belly, where the skin feels warm and stretched. She catches sight of herself in the mirror and gasps—not in shock, but in awe.

The magic has claimed her tonight in a way it never has before. The swell is so pronounced, so forward-thrusting, that she can’t see her own toes. It dominates her reflection, a perfect, distended curve that announces exactly what she’s done.

And even through the ache of fullness, she wonders—what would happen if she tried eight?

Morning light spills across the room, but the first thing she notices isn’t the sun—it’s the heaviness.

She rolls onto her back and feels it instantly: the dome hasn’t gone down. Where once a night’s swelling would melt away to a softer, smaller curve, now her belly remains high and forward, a rounded hill rising above her hips. It feels dense under her hand, the skin stretched smooth from the double-ritual of the night before. When she sits up, it tilts outward, swaying just slightly before settling into her lap with full, assertive weight.

Standing is a slow process. The protrusion commands her balance, forcing her to plant her feet wider. Her nightshirt, loose just weeks ago, now clings to the swell’s forward slope, the hem riding high enough to leave the undercurve bare. She runs her palms over it, tracing the sheer distance it juts from her body. There’s no disguising it now—not from herself, and not from anyone else.

And that’s when she feels it—the craving, sharp and insistent, far too soon for her nightly indulgence. Her stomach isn’t hollow; it’s still full from last night. But it wants. It wants the thick sweetness, the molten creaminess sliding down her throat, the steady push of pressure as it fills her further.

She pads to the kitchen, the sway of her belly dictating her steps, and pours her first glass of the day. It’s almost surreal—morning light glinting off the creamy liquid as though it were just a harmless treat. She drinks it slower than usual, savoring it, feeling the already-prominent mound grow firmer beneath her touch. The pleasure is almost dizzying.

When she’s done, she doesn’t stop.

A second glass follows, then a third—her hands moving on instinct, the sound of the liquid filling the glass like a lullaby she can’t resist. By the time she leans against the counter, the dome is straining even higher, her nightshirt now a wrinkled band beneath her breasts. She rubs the sides of the swell, feeling the tautness, the undeniable claim the magic has over her.

Breakfast has a new meaning now. It’s not a meal—it’s an expansion, a start to the day she can no longer go without.

By midday, the morning’s indulgence has barely settled.

She moves through the house with a slow, deliberate gait, her belly leading every step like a proud, heavy prow. Even the smallest turns or bends force her to accommodate it—feet angling wider, back arching to balance the forward pull. She can feel the weight of it in her core muscles, a constant, solid presence pressing outward against the waistband of her softest skirt.

When lunchtime comes, she doesn’t even think of “food” in the old sense. She wants the drink. The mere thought of it makes her mouth warm, her hands almost fidget with anticipation. She sets out a tall pitcher instead of a single glass—why bother pretending she’ll have less?

The first pour is gone in a minute. The second takes longer, each swallow adding to the firm swell she’s carried since breakfast. She strokes the slope of it absentmindedly, feeling how high and forward it sits, the surface stretched enough to make her skin gleam. Her skirt waistband is already rolling under the bottom curve, the mound too assertive to be contained.

By the third glass, she’s leaning back in her chair, breathing deeper. The fullness is mounting again, that dense, tight ache that makes her belly feel like a drum. She can see it from where she sits—her breasts now resting lightly atop the high crest of it, her lap completely consumed by its curve. It domes upward in the center before flowing down to her sides, wide and heavy against her thighs.

The fourth is pure indulgence, a surrender she no longer questions. Each gulp sends a pulse through her middle, the pressure mounting until she feels stretched from rib to hip. She can’t even pull her skirt back up over it now; the belly owns the space, warm and gently throbbing with fullness.

When she finally pushes the empty glass away, she stays there for a long time, hands spread across the mound as if claiming it—or perhaps acknowledging that it has claimed her. The thought of waiting until evening to drink again seems unbearable. The magic isn’t a ritual anymore. It’s a constant hunger, and her swelling belly is the shrine it feeds.

Evening settles in, and by now the dome has never once emptied, never softened back to what it was before. The morning and lunch indulgences have stacked inside her, building layer upon layer of fullness so that when she lowers herself into her chair for dinner, her belly presses tight and proud against the table’s edge.

She should be satisfied—she is already heavy, already round, already brimming. But the thought of stopping now feels absurd. Tonight, she isn’t just going to drink until she’s full. She’s going to drink until she’s unmovable.

The first glass is ceremonial, warm and thick, a familiar greeting. The second and third come fast, building pressure in her middle until it feels like her skin is straining to contain her. The dome rises higher, pushing her breasts up and out, making her shift just to keep breathing steadily.

By the fourth, she has to lean back; her belly is so taut it presses unyieldingly into the waistband of her stretched skirt. She pushes the fabric down beneath it, freeing the curve so it can round fully forward, unencumbered. The swell is vast now, the surface tight and hot under her palms.

The fifth is slower. Each swallow sends a deep ache of expansion through her core, her body’s instinct to stop warring with the magic’s siren pull. She rubs her sides, feeling them bow outward as the mound claims more and more of her lap, forcing her knees apart.

And then she pours the sixth. She can’t lean forward without the dome colliding with the table, so she draws the pitcher to her, drinking directly from it in slow, heavy gulps. By the time it’s empty, her belly is a perfect globe—smooth and distended, so forward-thrusting she cannot see the table’s surface in front of her. The sides swell wide, pressing firmly into her chair arms, while the crest rides high enough to nestle under her ribs.

She tries to shift, but the size and weight root her in place. Each small movement makes the mound sway sluggishly, as if it takes a moment to catch up. Her hands cradle it from underneath, feeling the unyielding fullness, the immensity she’s built through the day.

And then comes the realization: she isn’t getting up. Not for a while. The drink has done exactly what she promised herself—it has made her belly so round, so distended, so utterly filled that she has become part of the chair itself, a decadent, immovable centerpiece.

[feedybot]

Bloated denial

She stood in front of the mirror, twisting sideways, tugging at the hem of her T-shirt.

“It’s sitting weird today,” she muttered. “This shirt never used to bunch like this.”

From the bed, her partner barely looked up from their phone. “Looks the same to me. Maybe you’ve just… filled it out a little.”

Her head snapped around. “Excuse me?”

They smirked — that maddening, deliberate little curl of the lips — and gestured vaguely toward her midsection. “Not in a bad way. Just saying it looks… snugger. Cute.”

“It’s not snugger.” She tugged at the fabric again, flattening it against herself. “It’s just the dryer. Or I’m slouching. Or—” She straightened so abruptly her shoulders clicked. “See? Totally fine.”

“Mmhm.” They rolled onto their side, still watching her in the mirror. “Definitely not because you had that entire plate of pancakes yesterday morning.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she shot back, but her voice had gone too quick, too defensive. “One breakfast doesn’t do anything. I’m exactly the same as last week. Or last month. Or last—” She hesitated, tugging the shirt down again.

Her partner hummed like they’d already won. “Of course you are.”

She turned back to the mirror, inspecting herself with a sharp, suspicious squint.

It was exactly the same as last week. Obviously.

She was halfway into her jacket, keys in one hand, when her partner appeared in the doorway with the laundry basket balanced on their hip.

“Found your belt in the closet,” they said, holding it up like a relic.

“Oh, thanks,” she replied, distracted. She reached for it without looking, but they didn’t hand it over. Instead, they twirled it lazily by the buckle, leather gleaming faintly.

“Wait,” they said, voice light but deliberate. “Before you take it… humor me.”

Her brows pinched. “Humor you how?”

They stepped closer, the laundry basket now on the floor, the belt dangling from their fingers. “Just—stand still for a second.”

“I’m trying to leave,” she protested, laughing in that half-defensive way people do when they’re not sure if they’re the butt of the joke.

They didn’t answer. Instead, they looped the belt around her waist over her T-shirt, the leather whispering as it slid through the buckle. “Just checking something,” they murmured.

“Checking what?” she asked, suspicious now.

They tugged the belt snug, not uncomfortably tight, but firm enough to feel. The soft click of the buckle sounded sharper than it should have. They fastened it, then leaned back to look. “Huh.”

The sound was casual, but it landed on her like a verdict. “Huh what?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” they said, way too quickly. Then, with a faux-thoughtful frown: “Just… I could’ve sworn this went in another notch last time you wore it.”

Her ears went hot, and she forced a scoff. “That’s absurd. I haven’t changed. The belt probably… shrank. Leather does that.”

“Mm.” They tilted their head, the tiniest smirk forming. “Sure.”

“Don’t ‘sure’ me,” she shot back. “I would know if anything was different.”

“Oh, I’m not saying it’s bad,” they added, and somehow that made it worse. “Just an observation.”

She took the belt from them, slid it free, and buckled it herself — deliberately one hole tighter — looking them right in the eye. “There. See? Same as always.”

They held her gaze for a beat longer than was polite, that infuriating smirk lingering, before stepping back. “Thrilled,” they murmured.

She left the apartment wearing it like that all day, even though by the afternoon she’d quietly loosened it when no one was looking. And when she hung it up that night, she told herself she’d only done it because the leather felt stiff from the dryer.

Not because it had actually felt snug.

*

She had been putting off wearing the jeans for weeks.

Not for any particular reason — at least, that’s what she told herself. They were just shoved toward the back of the drawer, under a stack of leggings and soft lounge pants that were easier to reach. But now, with the weather finally cool enough, she dug them out.

The denim felt heavier than she remembered. Stiffer, maybe from not being worn. She stepped in and pulled them up, the cool fabric rasping against her thighs. They reached her hips… and then stopped.

She tugged again, harder this time, doing that little hop in place she’d seen other people do in movies. The waistband inched upward, catching against the soft give of her stomach. By the time the button was aligned with the hole, she was already holding her breath.

And still — there was resistance.

“Come on,” she muttered under her breath, giving one last sharp yank. The button slid into place with a strained pop, and she exhaled through gritted teeth. She could feel the waistband pressing into her midsection, firm enough that it left no question about how it would feel sitting down.

She stared at her reflection. The jeans didn’t look… bad. Not exactly. But they sat differently. She told herself they’d probably just shrunk in the wash — even though she couldn’t remember the last time they’d been washed.

“Wow,” came a voice from the doorway.

Her partner was leaning there, one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. She hadn’t even heard them come in.

“What?” she asked, too quickly.

“They look… snug,” they said, in that maddeningly casual way, like they’d just noticed the weather was nice.

“They’re not snug.”

“They look snug.”

“They’re not. They’re just… stiff. From the drawer.” She smoothed her hands over the waistband, tugged the hem of her shirt down an extra inch. “It’s the fabric. Or maybe I… I don’t know. I haven’t worn them in a while.”

Her partner’s smile curved slow, like they were savoring each second. “When’s the last time you did?”

“I don’t keep a log of my outfits.”

“Mm. I bet I could check your Instagram.”

She glared. “Don’t you dare.”

They stepped into the room, circling just enough to glance at her from the side. “Huh. You know, I’m not sure it’s the jeans.”

Her pulse spiked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” they said, voice dripping with false innocence. “It’s just… you’ve been really comfortable lately. Cozy. I’m not surprised your clothes want to hug you back.”

She made a face and turned toward the mirror again, pretending to check her hair. “You’re ridiculous. They fit exactly the same. It’s all in your head.”

“Of course,” they murmured, heading for the door. But she could feel their eyes on her even as they left.

She kept the jeans on all afternoon, ignoring how they pressed when she sat, or how she found herself unbuttoning them the moment she was alone. And later, folding them to put back in the drawer, she hesitated just a second too long before tucking them under the leggings again.

Not because they were snug.

Because she just… didn’t feel like wearing them.

*

She’d told herself the hoodie was purely for comfort. It was the kind of soft, oversized sweatshirt you could lose an afternoon in, sleeves swallowing your hands. Perfect for running errands on a chilly Saturday. Nothing to do with the fact that lately, her favorite tops felt… less forgiving.

They were in line at the café, her partner behind her, scanning the menu. The place was busy, voices and coffee grinders mixing into a cozy din. She was just starting to relax when she heard a voice nearby.

“Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

She turned to find Mia — a friend-of-a-friend she only bumped into a few times a year. They exchanged the usual greetings, and then Mia’s eyes flicked down briefly before returning to her face with a smile. “That hoodie looks comfy. Hiding a food baby under there?”

It was a harmless little joke, the kind people toss out without thinking, but it felt like the air left the room.

She laughed — too loud, too quick. “What? No. I’m just— it’s freezing outside. This is my winter armor.” She tugged at the hem for emphasis. “If I’m hiding anything, it’s from the wind.”

Behind her, she heard her partner chuckle.

She turned her head just enough to catch their expression — that infuriating, knowing smirk. “What?” she mouthed.

They leaned in, close enough for her to feel the warmth of their breath. “She’s not wrong,” they murmured, just for her.

Her stomach tightened. “Shut up,” she hissed, cheeks warming.

“Relax,” they said, still smirking. “I like it. Little extra softness suits you.”

She shot them a glare that was more panic than anger, then turned back to Mia. “Honestly, people are so dramatic,” she said, still laughing like it was all a joke. “I’ve been the exact same for years. Haven’t changed a bit.”

“Mmhm,” Mia said politely, sipping her coffee, and the conversation moved on.

*

She picked the top carefully — fitted but not tight, just enough to “remind” her partner (and maybe herself) that nothing had changed. Black, so it would be flattering. Paired with her favorite mid-rise jeans, the ones that had always been reliable.

She stepped into the living room, pretending it was a casual choice. “Ready to go?”

Her partner looked up from the couch — and their eyebrows lifted.

“Well, look at you.”

She forced a smile. “What?”

“Nothing,” they said, but there was a weight to it. Their gaze lingered longer than she wanted it to. “Just… you don’t usually wear that one.”

“I do,” she countered, a little too quickly. “You just don’t pay attention.”

They stood, coming closer, scanning her in that slow, deliberate way that felt like being appraised. “Mm. Guess I’ve been missing things.”

Before she could respond, they stepped right into her space and rested a hand casually at her side — except it didn’t feel casual. The fingers pressed lightly into her waist, thumb grazing the slight curve that had formed there. Then, without warning, they gave a small squeeze.

Her breath caught.

Their eyebrows went up higher. “Oh.”

It wasn’t mocking — it was genuine surprise. Like they’d expected the usual firmness under their palm and found something softer instead. They looked at her again, really looked, and she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks.

“What?” she demanded, the word sharp.

They tilted their head, still keeping that hand there as if testing whether the change was real. “Nothing, I just… didn’t realize it had gotten so—”

“It hasn’t,” she cut in, stepping back just far enough to break their touch. “You’re imagining things. You’ve been making these comments for weeks, so now you think you feel something that isn’t there.”

They smiled slowly, like they were turning the moment over in their mind. “Sure. Must be that.”

She crossed her arms, trying to keep her face neutral, even as she was hyper-aware of the way the jeans pressed at her hips when she moved. “Exactly.”

They didn’t press the point — which was somehow worse. The rest of the afternoon, they were just… quiet. Watching. Occasionally letting their eyes drift to her midsection as if replaying that squeeze in their head.

And she told herself it didn’t matter.

That they’d only imagined it.

That if they’d really felt something different… well, she would have noticed too.

*

They were out for dinner at a small, cozy bistro, one of her partner’s favorite places. The kind of place where the tables were close, the lighting soft, and the chairs unforgivingly firm. She’d chosen a dress she loved — a favorite black dress that once hugged her curves perfectly.

The evening started easy enough. Wine, soft music, laughter. But as the plates came and went, she felt the familiar tightness creeping back—around her waist, across her hips, the fabric pulling more than it should.

She shifted in her seat, trying to ignore it.

Then, halfway through the main course, it happened.

A sharp rip, a quick, unmistakable tear along the side seam of her dress.

Her heart lurched.

She froze. The sound echoed just enough for the nearby diners to glance over, curiosity flickering in their eyes.

Her partner’s gaze flicked down to the sudden gap revealing a flash of skin, then back up with an amused, slow smile. “Well.”

She bit her lip, cheeks burning. “It’s… just the dress.”

They leaned in slightly, voice low and teasing. “Just the dress, huh? Or maybe the dress was just too small.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but the sight in the mirror across the room stopped her. The dress pulled tighter now, the fabric strained, outlining every inch of her curves that had quietly grown in recent weeks.

She pressed a hand to her side, feeling the slight softness there — undeniable now.

Her partner’s eyes gleamed with that secret indulgence, the kind that said I’ve been watching this unfold, and it’s more delicious than I expected.

“You know,” they said, reaching out and brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, “there’s something incredibly sexy about a little unexpected growth.”

She swallowed hard, torn between embarrassment and a strange flutter of something else — curiosity, maybe.

“Maybe it’s time to accept that some things have… changed,” they whispered, voice warm but firm.

She glanced down at the ripped seam, then back at their eyes — playful, patient, knowing.

“Maybe,” she said, just barely.

*

The apartment was warm and cozy, the table set for two with an array of rich, decadent dishes—creamy pastas, buttery garlic bread, thick-cut steaks dripping with sauce, and a generous bowl of whipped, cinnamon-spiced mashed potatoes. The kind of meal designed to satisfy every craving and then some.

Her partner watched her with a slow, satisfied smile as she picked up her fork, already knowing how this night would unfold.

“Are you sure you want all this?” they teased, voice soft but edged with mischief.

She hesitated, glancing at the heaping plate, then nodded, determination flashing in her eyes. “I can handle it.”

The first bite was heaven—rich and comforting, filling in a way that made her close her eyes for a moment. Bite after bite, she ate, the meal sliding down easily at first, but soon the fullness began to press on her belly, a warm, growing weight that was impossible to ignore.

Her partner reached across the table, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Looking good,” they said with a wink.

She laughed, but it was getting harder to focus. The pressure inside her belly grew quickly—tight, taut—and she shifted in her seat, the buttons of her blouse suddenly feeling far too snug.

“Are you okay?” her partner asked, eyes gleaming with playful concern.

“Fine,” she said quickly, though her voice was tight. She tried to stand—and nearly faltered. The sudden heaviness, the bloated roundness of her belly, made her movements slow and clumsy.

Her partner stood behind her, steadying her with an arm around her waist. “Maybe just a moment?”

She sank back into her chair with a soft groan, one hand pressed against her swollen belly, which felt like it had doubled in size in minutes. The fullness was almost overwhelming, a tight balloon stretching every muscle.

Her partner laughed softly, low and warm. “See? I told you, this night would be special.”

She looked up, flushed, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and a hint of helplessness. “I… I don’t think I can move.”

“No wonder,” her partner murmured, sliding a hand gently over her belly. “After letting yourself go like this. Swelling out of proportions…”

She let out a shaky breath, surrendering to the warmth, the fullness, the undeniable proof that things were changing—right here, right now. She felt huge. Bloated like never before.

Her hand started slowly rubbing up and down her belly. Almost hesitantly. God, there was just so much of her now…

“Do you feel that? You did that to yourself. Steadily. Over the weeks. And this is the result. I can’t believe how round and big you have grown.” They stopped their little speech, dreamy like expression on their face.

“Having trouble standing up after a meal like this? You better get used to it…”

[feedybot]

Silent exploration

She stepped out of the bathroom in nothing but underwear, holding the old outfit like a challenge. He watched from the edge of the bed, pretending to scroll through his phone. But he wasn’t reading anything.

His eyes followed every movement.

She really thinks this might still fit. Unbelievable. Or maybe she knows it won’t — maybe this is some last test, some final line she’s trying to hold on to. But she’s already lost, and she has no idea just how much.

She slipped the shirt over her arms first — a fitted button-down, pale fabric that used to glide easily over her frame. Now it caught almost immediately at the upper arms, stretching tight across her biceps as she tried to wiggle it down. The material tugged and snapped as she fought it.

She rolled her shoulders, twisted left, then right, trying to shake the shirt into place. But the real resistance came lower. It clung stubbornly at her chest, puckering between buttons, the fabric already whisper-thin over the swell of her breasts. She pulled it down, tugging with more force — and that’s when it got truly stuck.

Just above her belly.

The shirt refused to go any further.

The lower half of her torso remained exposed: soft skin, rounded sides, and that impossibly plush belly she kept trying to pretend hadn’t changed. He saw the way it pressed outward, full and heavy, an overfed dome that had no business trying to hide inside something this size.

God, look at it. Look what I’ve done to her. All that late-night takeout. Every second helping I handed her. All the little indulgences I pretended not to notice. This is mine.

She turned toward the mirror, trying to see from the side. The shirt rode up with the movement, revealing even more of her stomach — lower now, where the softness began to curve forward and hang slightly, resting on her waistband.

Still she tried to tug it down. Her brows knit together with frustration. She yanked at the hem again and again, but it wouldn’t stretch far enough to cover her belly button.

Her body had grown far beyond what this shirt was made to handle, and the fabric was practically screaming. Seams tugged at the shoulders. The gap between the bottom buttons grew wider with each breath she took. The outline of her belly pushed visibly against the last button, testing it.

He didn’t move. Just watched.

It’s not even close. It doesn’t fit now, and it never will again. But she still doesn’t want to admit it. That little voice in her head is probably trying to rationalize this — laundry shrinkage, bad posture, maybe water weight. Anything but the truth. The truth that she’s grown into something… bigger. And I helped her get there. I guided every step.

Eventually, she gave up. With a deep sigh, she peeled the shirt back off — slow, defeated, dragging it over her head with visible effort. Her belly wobbled as she moved, and when the shirt finally came free, she let it drop to the floor like it had betrayed her.

He could have devoured her with his eyes right then. Full, heavy breasts in a stretched-out bra. Soft arms. Faint crease lines where the shirt had tried and failed to hold her in. And her stomach — swollen and plush, spilling forward with no restraint. She stood there, completely unaware of the effect she had on him.

But she wasn’t done.

The jeans came next.

She picked them up like she wasn’t sure they were even hers anymore. They looked smaller than they should have, even folded — and once she started to pull them on, it was obvious they were.

She stepped into them carefully, wiggling her hips side to side as she worked the denim past her thighs. It was a battle from the beginning. The fabric clung stubbornly to her thickened legs, and when she finally got the waistband up to her hips, she paused, catching her breath.

She’s going to try. She’s actually going to try buttoning them. God, she’s persistent. Or maybe desperate. Either way…

She sucked in hard and pulled.

The waistband strained. Her stomach shifted upward with the motion, compressed between her arms and the denim. Slowly, inch by inch, she managed to bring the button closer to the hole. Her belly bulged over the top, soft flesh spilling outward as the jeans pushed into her.

And then — somehow — she fastened it.

Barely.

She exhaled slowly, not daring to move too much. The button stayed, but it looked ready to surrender at any moment. The zipper bowed under pressure. Every seam around her hips was pulled taut. The waistband carved a deep crease into the swell of her belly, making the flesh spill out even more prominently above it.

She took one step toward the mirror — and that was all it took.

Pop.

The button shot open.

She froze. Looked down. The fabric had given up. Her belly spilled forward in a slow, unbothered wave, as if claiming its space back. She reached down, as if she could fix it, but there was nothing to fix. The jeans were done.

That sound. That perfect little sound. All that effort for nothing. She can’t hide it anymore. Not from me, not from herself. That body’s changed for good — and I’ve been there for every step, every bite, every stretched seam. She’s grown and she’s massive now.

She slumped down onto the bed beside him, exhausted. The button lay somewhere on the carpet. Her belly rested heavily in her lap, round and full and entirely unconstrained.

He didn’t say a word.

But inside?

He was ravenous.

She didn’t speak.

Just sat there, breathing slowly, one hand absently cradling the curve of her belly as if trying to make it smaller, to shield it. Her thighs pressed together instinctively, but the heavy overhang of her stomach still pooled visibly over the open fly of her jeans. Her shoulders hunched ever so slightly — a posture of someone trying to disappear inside herself.

But he saw everything.

God, look at you. Trying to cover it up now, like I haven’t already memorized every inch. You’re practically bursting at the seams, and you still thought you could hide this from me. But that belly— it told the truth the moment you stood up.

He moved closer — slowly, but not hesitantly.

His hand found her side. She didn’t flinch, but her posture tensed, shoulders rising with the sudden awareness of being touched like this — now, like this. He didn’t stop. His fingers slid over the soft curve of her waist, tracing the way her body had thickened and spread. He reached around to the front, cupping the part of her stomach that spilled forward most, thumb brushing the heavy lower swell.

Her breath caught.

She looked away.

Her other hand twitched in her lap like she wanted to pull his hand off — or maybe her own — but she didn’t move. The only real reaction came in her body: the flush of color creeping up her neck, the way her belly tensed beneath his touch, resisting, as though she could will it into retreat.

She couldn’t.

He leaned in more, both hands now exploring without hesitation. He didn’t grope; he studied — mapping the changes with slow, deliberate reverence. His palms glided over the subtle dimples at her hips, pressed into the pillowy softness of her midsection, traced the deep crease where her belly folded over her thighs. Every part of her yielded under his touch. And every bit of it was bigger.

This used to be flat. I remember when your stomach barely curved at all — when I could fit both hands around your waist and feel your ribs. Now? My fingers sink into you. There’s give. There’s weight. There’s a whole new you in my hands.

Still, she didn’t meet his eyes.

Her face had turned, slightly downward, toward her lap — where the open jeans framed the exposed underside of her belly. Her gaze was fixed on it, lips parted as she watched the way his fingers molded and moved across her skin.

Her embarrassment was obvious now.

It was in the tight way she held her arms, the slight shake in her breathing, the way her thighs shifted like she wanted to cross them tighter but physically couldn’t. This wasn’t a display. This was vulnerability. Utter, inescapable awareness of what her body had become — and that he was loving it.

You’re ashamed of how far you’ve let it go. And I’m not. That’s what makes this perfect.

He let one hand slide under the soft slope of her belly, lifting it slightly. The weight of it settled heavily into his palm. She exhaled, sharp through her nose, like she was trying not to react.

He leaned closer.

Ran his thumb over the line where the waistband had cut into her skin.

You fought so hard to make these jeans close. And now you’re sitting here, fully exposed, like the clothes gave up before you did. You don’t even realize how much I wanted this. How much I planned for this.

Her fingers dug into the comforter.

Still silent.

Still flushed.

Still mortified.

He stayed close, breathing her in, drunk on the heat radiating from her skin, the sheer presence of her body now — large, soft, conquered by indulgence and denial. His lips hovered near her shoulder, never quite touching, but close enough for her to feel his breath.

You’re not just bigger. You’re mine. This belly, this body, all of it — it’s the result of every quiet decision I made. Every bite I encouraged. Every time I let you believe nothing had changed.

And now?

She sat in front of him — red-cheeked, overstuffed, humiliated — and said nothing.

But she didn’t stop him.

His hands grew bolder.

What started as soft tracing turned to kneading — palms sinking into her sides, fingers exploring the pliant give of her hips. He gripped the underside of her belly again, hefting it gently, as if trying to gauge its fullness by weight alone. It filled both hands easily now. Warm. Heavy. Real.

She still wouldn’t look at him.

But her breathing betrayed her — shallow and uneven, chest rising and falling with quiet urgency. Her arms remained tucked at her sides, tense, knuckles white as they clutched the bedspread. She was frozen. Embarrassed. But she didn’t stop him.

Not when he leaned in further.

Not when he pressed his lips — finally — just below her collarbone. Then lower, a trail of kisses over the top swell of her breast, the softest part of her side. Not when his fingers slid behind her, gripping the flesh just above the waistband — where the back of the jeans had failed to contain her, too.

He tugged at the denim slightly, exposing more of her. Her thighs parted just enough to make room for him. Her belly shifted with the motion, drooping further into her lap.

And still she sat in silence — humiliated, unmoving.

But not resistant.

You’re burning with shame, and yet… you’re letting me do this. You’re sitting there half-naked, fully exposed, belly spilling over and jeans wide open, and still you stay. Still you let me touch what you’re trying so hard to hide.

His mouth hovered over the center of her stomach now.

He kissed the skin slowly, deliberately, and felt the way she tensed beneath him — her whole body stiffening as if trying to disappear. But he didn’t stop. His hands splayed wide across her abdomen, pulling her closer, fingertips indenting her softness.

Her thighs trembled slightly as he pressed inward.

The slight jostle made her belly bounce — just a little, but enough. She inhaled sharply, then let it out through her nose in a shaky breath. Her face was crimson.

He pulled back for a moment, just enough to watch.

She was a sight.

Hair a mess. Skin flushed. Bra askew. Her belly, full and pliant, resting like it belonged there — taking up space, unconstrained, undeniably hers. The open jeans framed it perfectly. Her thighs were thick beneath it, pressed outward by the width of her hips. And her expression — mortified, inward, like she was barely holding herself together.

You’ve never looked more beautiful. Not when you were thinner. Not when you were confident. This—this quiet, desperate surrender? I’ll never forget it.

He let one hand run across the crease where her belly folded when she sat — slow, possessive, tracing the dip with his thumb. Her breath hitched again.

Then he squeezed.

A deep, indulgent grab — fingers sinking into her flesh, lifting it, letting it settle heavily again. He did it again. And again. Greedy now. Needing to feel it, to own it.

Still, she didn’t speak.

She couldn’t.

But her body said enough: the way she shifted under his touch, the way her legs pressed tighter together, thighs twitching, stomach tensing reflexively when he touched certain places. There was shame — deep, red, undeniable. But underneath that, something else.

Sensation.

Desire, maybe.

Confusion, definitely.

And that was when he knew: she felt it too.

She didn’t understand it. Didn’t want to feel it. But she did.

You hate what your body’s become. You’re ashamed of how far you’ve fallen. But when I touch you like this? You can’t stop me. You don’t even want to.

His hands roamed again — broader now, fully claiming her. And as she sat there, struggling with everything inside her, he leaned in once more, kissed the deep curve of her belly, and smiled.

[feedybot]

Plump happiness

It was a quiet Sunday morning, the kind where time seemed to stretch and settle like warm syrup. The kind of morning made for soft blankets and bare feet on hardwood floors. Anny stood in the kitchen, her loose t-shirt just barely brushing the curve of her hips as she reached for the coffee mugs. The fabric lifted slightly, revealing a tender swell of tummy beneath—rounder now than it used to be, a gentle softness she was still getting used to.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the darkened oven door. Her cheeks flushed, unbidden. She tugged the shirt down quickly, even though no one was watching—except Leo, who had been watching her like this more and more lately.

He didn’t say much when he entered the room, just came up behind her quietly, arms sliding around her waist. She stiffened for half a second, as always, until his fingers settled over the soft lower edge of her belly and he gave it a slow, affectionate squeeze.

“Morning,” he murmured into her neck.

“Morning,” she said, her voice breathy.

Anny didn’t know when exactly the changes had started. Maybe it was during those cozy winter months, when Leo insisted on baking every weekend and always made sure her plate was full. Or maybe even before that—when they’d moved in together and the world outside seemed less important than the warmth between them. What she did know was that her body had changed in small but certain ways. Her jeans fit tighter, her bras clasped further out, and she avoided sitting in his lap like she used to. But Leo never complained. Quite the opposite.

He held her longer now. Let his hands roam more. And it wasn’t just her hips or her thighs that he gravitated toward—it was her belly. Soft, pillowy, impossible to ignore.

She used to flinch when he touched it. Now she just blushed.

“You’re staring again,” she mumbled that evening, curled beside him on the couch, a bowl of popcorn balanced on her middle.

Leo smirked, lazily dragging a finger along the curve that peeked from under her cropped pajama top. “Can you blame me?”

She turned her face into his shoulder, hiding the blooming color in her cheeks. He chuckled and shifted closer, letting his palm settle fully over her stomach. It rose and fell beneath his touch—rounder now, fuller than it had ever been. She didn’t say anything when his hand lingered, tracing lazy circles, fingertips teasing the softest edges.

“I love this,” he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear.

Her heart skipped. “You do?”

“Mmhmm. Every part of you, but… this part especially.”

She didn’t know how to respond, so she just looked at him with wide, glassy eyes. Leo leaned in and kissed her temple. Then her cheek. Then, softly, the center of her belly.

Anny felt something melt inside her—shyness folding into quiet delight, into the warmth of being wanted just as she was, and maybe a little more than that. She reached for another handful of popcorn, smiling without meaning to. Maybe she wouldn’t pull her shirt down next time. Maybe she’d let him look a little longer.

And maybe… she wanted to see what would happen if she kept leaning into that softness.

Into him.

Into this.

*

The restaurant was warm and dimly lit, the kind of place where candles flickered in glass jars and every table was tucked into its own little nook. Anny had hesitated before they left the house—her dress, a soft burgundy knit, clung more than it used to. She’d tugged at it in the mirror, chewing her lip, unsure if she looked curvy or just overstuffed.

Leo had only smiled. “You look incredible.”

She blushed, as usual, and tried to smooth the fabric over her belly, which no longer sat flat. It gently pushed out in the front, plush and undeniable.

Their friends were already seated when they arrived, waving them over with a chorus of greetings. The food was rich and comforting—truffle risotto, garlic bread, small bites that kept arriving one after another. Anny wasn’t planning to eat so much, but every time she paused, Leo would gently slide something her way.

“Try this one,” he whispered once, hand brushing her knee under the table. “You’ll love it.”

And she did. Too much.

By the time dessert was being passed around, she felt full. Heavy. Her dress, once stretchy and forgiving, now pressed into her belly with visible tension. Sitting upright was a bit of a chore. She shifted discreetly in her chair, trying to relieve the pressure, but the hem lifted a little each time she moved, clinging tighter over her rounded middle.

Then came a soft, betraying sound.

Tkk.

It wasn’t loud—but Leo heard it. His eyes flicked to her waist, to where the side seam of the dress had begun to stretch too far. The thread hadn’t snapped fully… yet. But it would.

Anny froze, wide-eyed, her face going scarlet. She leaned into him slightly. “Leo…”

His hand was already on her thigh. Comforting. Protective.

“I know,” he said softly. Then louder, to the group: “Hey, sorry—Anny’s not feeling great. Think we’ll head out.”

There were a few sympathetic “aww’s” and offers to pay the bill, but Leo had already stood, guiding her out with a hand low on her back—just above where the dress clung to her fullest curve.

The night air was cool. As soon as they were alone, Anny let out a long, guilty sigh.

“I think it’s ruined,” she murmured, looking down at her stretched middle. “This dress can’t take much more.”

Leo leaned close, lips brushing her ear.

“I know,” he said again. “Let it.”

By the time they got home, she was too full to stand up straight. Her belly jutted out in front of her, tight and round and barely contained. Leo helped her out of her coat and stepped behind her, fingers sliding to the side of her dress.

Another soft sound—tkkk-pop—as one of the seams gave way entirely.

“Oh,” she gasped, startled.

Leo’s hands moved slowly over her sides, then front and center, cupping the swell of her belly. He kissed the back of her neck. “There she is.”

“I… I really overdid it tonight,” she whispered.

“Mmhmm. You looked so beautiful doing it, too.” His voice was low, reverent.

She leaned into him, flushed and full and quietly thrilled. “You really don’t mind?”

“I told you,” he murmured, lips now on her bare shoulder. “I love this part of you. Every soft, greedy, blushing inch.”

And then, gently, he helped her out of the dress. Or rather—he let it give up entirely.

It slithered down her body in defeated surrender, leaving her in nothing but a stretched pair of underwear and the fullness she carried.

He kissed her belly then. Slowly. Thoroughly.

And Anny, blushing fiercely but glowing inside, finally let herself enjoy it.

*

He led her by the hand, wordlessly, fingers laced with hers like he was guiding something precious. Anny moved slowly, her belly taut and sensitive, swaying gently with each careful step. Leo didn’t rush her. He watched the way her hips rocked, how her soft thighs brushed together, how the waistband of her underwear pressed a faint line into the gentle curve beneath her navel.

Once in the bedroom, she paused, arms folded across her front—half an attempt to hide herself, half an instinct she still hadn’t shed.

Leo stepped behind her again, wrapping his arms around her middle, resting his chin lightly on her shoulder. “You don’t have to do that,” he whispered.

She let her arms drop slowly.

He reached down and gave her belly the lightest squeeze—reverent, adoring.

Then he bent low, crouching in front of her like he was worshiping at an altar. His hands cradled her belly from underneath, lifting it slightly to feel its weight. She gasped quietly at the sensation.

“So full,” he murmured, almost to himself. “So round. You don’t even realize how beautiful you are like this.”

Anny whimpered, cheeks burning. “I feel huge…”

He kissed the center of her belly, slow and deep. “You are.”

She should have felt ashamed—but something in his voice made her tremble instead. She was too full to lie down flat, so Leo helped her onto the bed, stacking pillows behind her back until she could recline comfortably. She settled with a soft sigh, hands resting on her taut middle.

Leo climbed in beside her, shirt off, warm skin against hers. He pressed one hand over the rise of her stomach, rubbing slow, lazy circles. The pressure was just enough—gentle, soothing. Intimate.

She moaned quietly, half from relief, half from the way his touch sent heat rolling through her. “You don’t have to…”

“I want to,” he said. “Let me take care of you.”

He kissed the side of her belly, nuzzled the crease where it pooled slightly to one side. Then her hip. Her arm. Her flushed cheek. All the places she tried to hide, he loved most.

For a long time, there was nothing but the soft sound of their breathing and his palm gliding slowly across her swollen middle. Her eyes fluttered shut, but she didn’t sleep—not really. She was too aware of the way he touched her, the way he looked at her. Like she was art. Like every added curve was something he’d been waiting for.

When she finally whispered, “You like me like this… don’t you?”—he didn’t hesitate.

“I love you like this.”

Her breath caught.

“You feel safe with me,” he continued, his hand never leaving her belly. “And it shows. I see it in how you soften… how you grow.”

Anny bit her lip, cheeks warm, belly full and heavy beneath his touch. “I want more,” she admitted, barely audible.

Leo smiled against her skin.

“Then I’ll give you more,” he said, voice velvet-smooth. “More of everything.”

And he kept rubbing, caressing, kissing… until she fell asleep in his arms—blushing, full, adored.

*

Leo wasn’t gone long—just eight days for a work conference across the state. But to Anny, it felt longer. The bed had felt colder without him. The house too quiet. So she kept herself busy. Cooking. Snacking. Napping. Grazing through the afternoons in soft, stretched-out clothes that no longer covered what they used to. She didn’t weigh herself. She didn’t need to.

She felt it. Every morning, every time she stood up or caught her reflection.

She filled out the space around her now—plush, pillowy, slow-moving. She’d grown. There was no denying it.

And she was excited for him to see.

Leo opened the door just after sunset, dropping his bag and calling her name before he even stepped out of the entryway. “Anny? I’m home!”

“In the bedroom,” she called back, voice light, musical.

He walked in and stopped cold.

She was on the bed, propped up against a stack of pillows, wearing a soft bralette and high-waisted lounge shorts that had long since surrendered to the fullness of her middle. Her belly spilled over the waistband, round and swollen and proud. Her arms rested against her sides, too short now to fully wrap around the impressive arc of her stomach. She looked… glorious. Embarrassed and glowing. Plump and flushed. And completely, radiantly full.

“Hi,” she said, biting her lip.

Leo blinked. Then blinked again. “You… you were busy.”

Anny gave a shy giggle and rubbed her hand along her belly’s upper curve. “I missed you.”

He walked to the side of the bed slowly, reverently, like approaching something sacred. “You… grew.”

“I know.”

“Like… a lot.”

She flushed deeper, not looking at him directly. “I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to.”

Leo’s breath caught in his throat as he reached down and cupped the underside of her belly in both hands. It was heavy. Firm. So much more than before.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered. “Look at you.”

She let her head fall back against the pillows, arms flopping to her sides, legs parted slightly to make room. “I really can’t suck it in anymore. Not even a little.”

He leaned down, kissing a stretch mark just below her navel. “Don’t you dare try.”

“I can’t even reach anymore,” she added, half laughing, half groaning as she demonstrated. Her arms moved awkwardly around the sides of her belly, but they couldn’t meet across the front. “I’m just… here now.”

Leo stood, eyes dark with awe. “You’re perfect.”

She pouted. “I’m starving, though. All this belly and nothing in it.”

He smirked. “Say no more.”

Fifteen minutes later, Leo returned with a tray—fettuccine alfredo, warm bread, a bowl of strawberries, and a tall glass of milk. He set it on the nightstand, then climbed onto the bed beside her. “Open,” he said gently, picking up the first bite.

She did. And then the next. And the next.

Her hands stayed on her belly, stroking it as she ate, feeling it expand—bit by bit, bite by bite—stretching tighter, higher. She moaned softly at intervals, breath hitching as she shifted. But she didn’t stop. And Leo, ever patient, fed her slowly, rhythmically, eyes never leaving her body.

“You’ve gotten so big, sweetheart,” he murmured between mouthfuls. “I could watch you eat like this forever.”

Anny groaned, rubbing her side. “I don’t know how much more I can take…”

He leaned in, kissed her deeply. “Yes, you do. Just a little more.”

She let him guide her. Let him keep going.

By the time he set the tray down again, her belly looked impossibly stretched—round and high and wide, rising above her like a monument. She tried to sit up, whimpering at the effort. “Leo, I can’t…”

He was already there, pressing her gently back into the pillows, hands firm but loving. “Don’t. Stay right here. Let me help.”

He climbed beside her again, wrapping one arm under the crest of her belly and the other around her shoulder, holding her in place while he nuzzled her ear.

“You’re so full,” he whispered. “So helpless. So mine.”

Anny’s whole body trembled. “I’ve never been this stuffed before…”

“You’re beautiful,” he said, kissing her cheek, her jaw, her shoulder. “So soft. So heavy. I’ve never seen you like this—and I’ve never wanted you more.”

She couldn’t stop smiling, even as her body ached from fullness. “What happens now? Do you think I’ll get even bigger?”

Leo smiled into her neck. “Oh, I know you will.”

Anny blushed again, hiding her grin behind her hand.

“Can’t wait,” he whispered.

And he meant it.

Because loving her had always been easy. But loving more of her—watching her let go, soften, surrender—was something he would never get tired of.

[feedybot]

Slipping into the next size

You’d been rifling through your side of the closet for ten minutes now. Blouses tugged off hangers, jeans yanked halfway up and discarded in a huff. You tried not to let it show—your frustration, the heat crawling up your neck—but he was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, watching. Saying nothing. Always nothing.

“I swear, the dryer’s eating everything,” you muttered, avoiding his eyes. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

He raised an eyebrow. Just a ghost of a smile on his face, but it was enough. You could already feel his gaze slipping lower, down past the snug waistband of your yoga pants, over the soft curve now folding at your middle. You tugged your hoodie down, too late.

“You know we haven’t done laundry this week, right?” he said casually, voice smooth. “Not since Saturday.”

You paused. Then forced a laugh. “Guess I need to cut back on snacks.”

“Do you?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really.

You didn’t respond to that. Instead, you turned back toward the mirror and focused on smoothing the fabric over your stomach, trying to make the bulge look less obvious. You shifted your weight, arched your back slightly. Sucked in.

Still there.

Still soft. Still unmistakably yours.

His reflection lingered behind yours in the mirror. He hadn’t left. He wasn’t going to.

You cleared your throat. “It’s probably just bloat.”

“Mhm,” he murmured, walking over. You felt the warmth of his presence behind you before you saw his hand move—a light, barely-there touch tracing the hem of your hoodie as it clung to your hips.

“You’ve said that a few times this month,” he added gently, like it was just an observation. Like it hadn’t been haunting you every time you stepped on the scale and then quietly shoved it back under the sink.

You stepped away, faking a laugh. “Okay, Dr. Oz. Maybe I’ve been a little… relaxed lately.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Relaxed. That’s one way to put it.”

You turned sharply. “I’m not huge, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I never said that.” His voice was calm, too calm. “But I didn’t say you weren’t either.”

There it was again—that maddening mix of quiet cruelty and soft affection that only he could get away with. The way he looked at you, like he saw everything… and liked it.

You grabbed your oversized cardigan off the chair and wrapped it around yourself, cinching the belt tight even though it barely met in the front anymore. You could feel the difference. You could see it. It wasn’t just in the mirror, or the fit of your clothes. It was in the way he looked at you now—hungrier, more amused. It made your skin prickle.

And worse, it made your stomach growl.

You hadn’t eaten yet today—too distracted trying to force yourself into pants that didn’t want you anymore. You’d planned to start a reset this week. Less bread, more walking, no late-night snacks. You even told him about it, half-proud, half-ashamed. He just nodded, as always. Didn’t say a word when you brought home pastries the very next day.

You hated how easy it was now. How mindless it had become.

“How about lunch?” he asked, casual. Already turning toward the kitchen.

You hesitated. “I shouldn’t. I was going to skip—”

“There’s leftover pasta,” he said, not looking back. “Your favorite.”

You stood there for a moment, arms folded tight over your chest. The belt of the cardigan pressed into your middle. You exhaled, long and slow.

“Fine. Just a little.”

The next morning, you woke up early, long before him. The room was still, sunlight barely filtering through the blinds. You stayed in bed for a few minutes, listening to his slow, even breathing beside you. He looked peaceful in sleep. Innocent.

You slipped out quietly and made your way to the bathroom.

Today, you were going to face it.

You pulled off your oversized sleep shirt and stared into the mirror. You turned sideways, sucking in your stomach. The swell beneath your ribs resisted you now, doughy and soft. It wasn’t just bloat. Not anymore.

You stepped onto the scale before you could change your mind.

The number blinked once. Then settled.

Your stomach dropped.

Up. Again.

You stepped off, reset it, stepped back on.

Same number.

You reached for your robe, then stopped. No. You needed to see this.

You turned slowly, inspecting yourself in the full-length mirror. Your thighs were thicker. Softer. Your hips had lost their sharp edges. And your stomach—God, your stomach was the worst. Not big, exactly, but undeniably round. A dome of proof, sitting heavy and smug right where your control used to live.

You squeezed at the flesh on your side. You’d always had a bit of curve, but this was different. This was new.

“Still pretending it’s the dryer?”

His voice cut through the quiet like a knife.

You flinched, whirling around. He was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. Barefoot, still half-asleep, but watching you with the same maddening calm.

“Were you spying on me?” you snapped.

He shrugged. “You left the door open.”

You grabbed your robe and pulled it on fast, tying the belt tighter than necessary. “Can’t I have one private moment?”

“You can,” he said. “But then who would remind you that you’re not going crazy?”

You glared at him. “So you have noticed.”

“I’d have to be blind not to.”

The silence stretched. You could feel heat rising up your neck. Shame, anger, confusion—too many things to name.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

He stepped into the room, closer now. “Because I like watching you figure it out.”

You blinked. “You’re sick.”

“Maybe.” He paused, eyes drifting lower. “But so are you, if you think any of this happened by accident.”

Your breath caught.

You wanted to deny it—to scream that he was wrong, that you hadn’t let go, that you were just going through something. But deep down, you knew. You’d kept buying treats. Kept skipping workouts. Kept brushing it off as temporary, as reversible.

And all the while, he’d watched. Not pushing. Just… waiting.

“Is this what you want?” you asked, voice tight.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he walked up behind you, resting his hands gently on your hips. You felt the weight of his fingers there—possessive, warm, steady.

“I want you,” he said finally. “However you come. But I won’t lie to you. I like this. I like what’s happening.”

You stared at your reflection again, his hands framing your fuller hips. You hated how quickly your body responded to his touch—how the shame twisted into something else entirely.

But you didn’t move away.

Not yet.

You had been saving the dress.

It wasn’t fancy—just a soft, fitted wrap you used to wear on weekends out, back when you still went places. Back when mirrors didn’t feel so cruel. You kept it tucked away in the back of the closet, promising yourself that someday soon, you’d be able to wear it again.

Someday hadn’t come. But you were tired of waiting.

You pulled it out on impulse late one afternoon, after a particularly bad weigh-in. You didn’t even tell him. He was out in the garden, trimming something, humming to himself like there wasn’t a single thing wrong in the world.

You stared at the dress for a long time. Then you took off your clothes and tried to put it on.

It clung immediately.

You tugged harder.

The fabric pulled taut over your hips—your newly softened, widened hips—and refused to budge. The sleeves stretched tight around your arms. The waist tie barely reached across the front.

You sucked in, twisted, fought with it. Your thighs bunched. Your belly folded. You held your breath and yanked, heart pounding.

And then, with an awful rip, the seam under the arm gave out.

You froze.

Just stood there, red-faced, gasping, the dress clinging to you like a second skin that didn’t want to let go.

The rip wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part was the mirror.

The woman staring back at you wasn’t just heavier. She looked stuffed. Out of place in her own clothes. Her belly sat round and unapologetic over her hips, the fabric pressing into it so deep it made the skin bulge around it. Her arms were soft and full, her thighs brushing, her cheeks rounder than she remembered.

You pulled at the dress, desperate now, but it wouldn’t come off easily. You struggled with it, cursing, nearly tripping. Finally you ripped it over your head, hearing another seam pop somewhere near the back.

You were still panting, half-naked and shaking, when you heard him at the bedroom door.

He didn’t knock. He just leaned there. Quiet. Watching.

“What happened?” he asked softly, eyes scanning the torn fabric in your hands.

You didn’t answer.

“I thought you were gardening,” you said instead, voice hollow.

“I was.” He stepped closer. “But then I heard something.”

You stood there in your underwear, arms crossed over your belly. The shame was unbearable.

“It’s ruined,” you whispered, not even sure why it mattered so much.

He looked at you—really looked.

“It’s not the dress.”

You glared at him. “Don’t start.”

But he didn’t say anything cruel. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stepped forward and gently took the ruined fabric from your hands.

“You were never going to wear it again,” he said.

“I was trying,” you hissed, voice cracking. “I wanted to go back.”

“To what?”

“To feeling like me.”

He tilted his head, stepping close enough that his breath warmed your cheek.

“This is you now,” he said.

“No,” you said, backing away, breath shaky. “This is someone else. Someone I never meant to be.”

He watched you, unreadable.

“You’re always talking about control,” you said bitterly. “But you never say anything while I lose it. You just sit there, smug, like you knew this would happen.”

He reached out, brushing his fingers over the crease under your belly. So gentle it made you shiver.

“Because I did know,” he whispered.

You hated him for it. And hated yourself more—for the way your body leaned into his touch, aching, needy, craving something more than just food.

You dropped onto the bed, silent now. The dress lay like a dead thing in your lap.

He sat beside you, placing one hand on your bare thigh—soft, wide, warm.

“You can keep pretending,” he said softly. “But your body already knows the truth.”

You looked down at yourself. The rolls. The marks. The bloated middle you swore you’d get rid of months ago.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe your body had known for a long time.

The morning light spilled across the bedroom floor, soft and indifferent. You lay curled under the covers, tracing patterns on your skin, the memory of yesterday’s broken dress still sharp in your mind.

He didn’t rush you. He never rushed you.

Instead, he moved around the house with his usual calm—making coffee, reading the news, tending to his quiet routines. But there was a new weight to his presence, an unspoken watchfulness that settled over you like a slow tide.

You felt it every time you reached for something sweet, every time you debated skipping a workout, every time your hand lingered just a little too long over the fridge door.

When you caught him watching, he’d give you a small, knowing smile. No judgment. No lecture. Just that quiet, dark amusement.

At lunch, you found yourself choosing a sandwich stuffed with cheese and mayo instead of the salad you’d planned. You caught your own hesitation, then shrugged. You deserved it, didn’t you?

He sat across from you at the small kitchen table, eyes calm, hands folded. He said nothing as you ate.

Afterward, he pulled out a pair of jeans from the drawer—your favorite, the ones you still squeezed into when you felt brave. He held them up against your hips.

“Try these on,” he said simply.

You shook your head. “They don’t fit.”

He smiled that slow, quiet smile again.

“That’s why I want you to try.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and shuffled into the bedroom. The jeans were there, laid out like a challenge.

You stepped into them. The fabric stretched painfully tight over your hips and thighs, the zipper struggling to close. Your breath hitched. You fought it. And somehow you did manage to button them.

But you could only hold your breath in for some time. And once you couldn’t, your belly spread forward and began stretching the pants to their limit. Stretching and stretching, there was so much belly everywhere all the sudden.Then the button popped.

You froze, heart pounding.

He was behind you now, steady hands brushing over your waist.

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

You wanted to believe him.

But the mirror told a different story—one of stretched seams, of a body outgrowing its shell, of a quiet surrender you weren’t ready to admit.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close.

“I’m not here to judge,” he murmured. “I’m here to watch.”

And you realized, with a shiver, how much you needed him to.

You stopped fighting.

It wasn’t some grand decision, or a moment of clarity. It was quiet, almost imperceptible—a slow slide down a slippery slope you’d been clinging to for months.

One night, after a long day filled with silent battles and whispered self-recriminations, you sat on the couch and let your hand drift toward the snack bowl without hesitation.

The guilt that used to cut sharp now dulled into a dull throb. You ate more. You ate faster. You told yourself it was okay. It had to be.

He watched with that same dark amusement, never pushing, never stopping. Just letting you unravel.

And your body responded.

Within weeks, your clothes tightened faster. The mirror no longer flattered. Your belly rounded out, pushing against every waistline, every hem, every button.

You noticed your thighs rubbing sooner, your hips widening with stubborn certainty, your arms growing softer.

The scale climbed with startling speed—two, then three kilograms in days, as if your body had flipped a switch.

Each morning you woke to new evidence of surrender: a tighter shirt, a heavier step, a slower breath.

But you didn’t stop.

Because, in some twisted way, letting go felt like freedom.

Like finally admitting the truth you’d been denying.

He sat beside you one evening, fingers tracing slow circles on your swollen belly.

“See?” he murmured. “You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

You swallowed hard, fingers trembling.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe fighting was pointless.

Maybe this was who you were now.

And maybe, deep down, you didn’t want to be anyone else.

Days blurred into weeks, but every morning the changes greeted you like a slow, relentless tide.

Your body wasn’t just heavier — it was different. Softer. Rounder. More demanding.

You felt it everywhere:

The way your belly now pressed forward with a new weight, making the simple act of bending over a calculated effort.

The gentle jiggle of your thighs when you walked, no longer something you tried to hide but something that announced itself with every step.

The swell of your arms, no longer firm but cushioned with a warmth you hadn’t known before.

Your clothes protested. Zippers strained, buttons popped, waistbands dug mercilessly into your skin, leaving angry red marks. You stopped trying to squeeze into old favorites and started seeking out looser fits, but even those felt snug in unexpected places.

You caught glimpses of yourself in windows and mirrors and couldn’t help the sharp pang of disbelief — the reflection wasn’t just different, it was someone new.

And yet, a strange part of you liked it.

There was a softness you craved—the comfort of flesh that didn’t fight back, a heaviness that grounded you. The way your skin stretched taut and then relaxed in folds, the way your body filled the space around you like it was meant to be seen.

He noticed it too.

Sometimes, when you weren’t looking, he’d reach out and trace slow circles along your belly or the curve of your hips, his touch both tender and possessive.

“You’re becoming… undeniable,” he murmured one night, voice low and thick with meaning.

You looked down at yourself—at the way your silhouette had swollen into something lush and full, at the softness that had replaced hard edges—and something inside you shifted.

You weren’t just gaining weight. You were transforming. Becoming something both terrifying and intoxicating.

And though the denial still whispered in the back of your mind, you couldn’t fight the truth anymore.

You were becoming exactly who you were always meant to be.

[feedybot]

Homebody

Chapter One

The first time you realized you were letting go, it was just a laugh between you and him.

You’d tugged your favorite jeans over your hips and felt the faintest resistance—barely anything. A second later, they buttoned. But you paused in the mirror, brushing your fingers over the curve of your belly.

“God, I’m turning into a housewife already,” you joked.

From the doorway, his voice: “A very cute one.”

You looked up to find him watching you, leaning against the frame, arms crossed and smiling like you’d just complimented him.

You rolled your eyes, gave your softening tummy a little pat, and turned away. Harmless. Normal.

It had only been a month since you moved in together, and everything still felt new—your routines, your shared bed, the way you always seemed to be snacking. He cooked more than you expected, insisting on “real meals,” hearty and rich. Sunday pancakes. Wednesday pasta nights. Friday pizza, no exceptions.

You told yourself you were just nesting. Everyone gains a little weight when they settle down.

Didn’t they?

It wasn’t just the food. It was the way he made it feel like you deserved it.

“Long day? Sit down, I’ll bring you a plate.”

“You barely ate lunch—you need to eat more.”

“Come on, just one more bite for me.”

You started noticing changes, of course. A little extra softness at your sides when you lay on your back. Your bras feeling a bit more… full. But he never made you feel self-conscious.

If anything, he seemed more affectionate. Slipping his hands under your shirt while you lounged on the couch. Squeezing your hips as he kissed your neck in the kitchen. Pressing against you in bed, murmuring how perfect you felt now.

And when you mentioned maybe getting back into yoga?

“Sure,” he said, noncommittal, “if you really want to.”

He didn’t bring it up again.

One evening, you caught him staring again—this time as you leaned over the counter, snacking straight from a bowl of leftover pasta.

“Something wrong?” you asked, half-embarrassed, straightening up.

He stepped closer, took the bowl from your hands, and fed you another bite himself.

“Mmm,” he said, as he watched you licking the fork slowly. “Nothing’s wrong at all.”

You swallowed, flustered, and tried to ignore the way your stomach nudged the counter now when you leaned in. Just a little.

Chapter Two

It crept up faster than you expected.

One morning you stood in front of your closet, towel wrapped around your damp body, and realized with a small, sinking feeling that you couldn’t wear any of your jeans. Not comfortably. Not even close.

You tugged at a pair you hadn’t worn in a while—high-waisted, stretchy, forgiving. You managed to shimmy them up your thighs, but when it came time to button them, they wouldn’t even meet. You sucked in. Tugged. Huffed.

From behind you, his voice came—quiet, amused.

“You okay in there?”

You bit your lip and gave up. “Yeah. Just… laundry day.”

You heard the edge in your own voice. The hesitation.

He appeared in the doorway seconds later, mug in hand, wearing that familiar little smirk. “Laundry day, huh?”

Your eyes narrowed.

But before you could fire back, he walked in, set the coffee down, and stepped behind you. His hands slid around your waist, palms resting just below your belly button—right where the softest part of you now sat, plush and warm and undeniable.

“You’re filling out,” he murmured into your ear, voice low.

You froze. That was new.

But then he added, “God, I love it,” and pulled you back against him with a slow, deliberate groan.

Your towel fell. Your breath hitched.

And just like that, the shame was gone.

From then on, it was like he dropped the pretense—just a little. Not enough to alarm you. But enough to make you wonder.

Takeout was a regular thing now. “I’m ordering—you want your usual?” he’d say, and you’d nod, knowing full well it was always too much. He’d always finish what you couldn’t… until you started finishing it yourself.

When you skipped your old morning walk, he didn’t comment.

When you asked him if he thought your thighs had gotten bigger, he looked you in the eye and said, “They’d better have.”

And when you started getting winded going up the stairs?

He just kissed your shoulder and said, “You’ve earned it.”

One night, lying on the couch after dinner, belly round and full beneath your oversized tee, you sighed and said, “I really need to get back in shape.”

He looked over from his book.

“You are in shape,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow.

“A shape I really like.”

You laughed, but something about the way he said it made your stomach flutter—and not from fullness.

He set his book down.

“You want to know a secret?”

You nodded, curious.

“I’ve never seen you look more… yours.”

You didn’t know what that meant exactly, but the way he reached for your soft belly with both hands, the way his eyes darkened as he kneaded you slowly…

You didn’t question it.

Not then.

Chapter Three

It had been almost three months since you moved in.

Your old clothes were packed away in a bin under the bed—“until later,” you’d told yourself. You wore soft things now. Stretchy things. Things that made room for your new normal.

You weren’t stupid. You saw it. You felt it. The way your belly pressed against your thighs when you sat. The way your cheeks looked rounder in every selfie. The way your boyfriend’s hand seemed to always find your softest parts.

You just didn’t talk about it.

And neither did he.

Not formally.

Until one night, curled on the couch, eating out of the tub of ice cream he brought you—your third dessert that week—he looked over and said it.

“You’re really taking to domestic life, huh?”

You laughed around a spoonful, shrugging. “Guess so.”

He reached over, thumb grazing a smudge of chocolate from your lip, and murmured:

“Becoming such a soft little housepet.”

You blinked. “What?”

He smiled wide—too wide.

“I said houseguest. You know, comfortable.”

But your heart skipped. That wasn’t what he said.

A few days later, after dinner—your second plate of lasagna, plus garlic bread and wine—you were lying back in bed, stuffed and lazy. Your shirt had ridden up, exposing the heavy swell of your stomach, round and tight.

He came out of the bathroom and just… stared.

“You really are getting heavy,” he said, voice soft, almost reverent.

You made a face. “Gee, thanks.”

“No—I mean it.” He came closer, knelt beside you. “There’s something about it. Watching you… yield.”

You blinked again. “What do you mean, yield?”

He didn’t answer. Just pressed a kiss into the dome of your belly. You swore you felt his tongue flick across your skin.

Then came the morning he brought you breakfast in bed—fluffy waffles, syrup, whipped cream, the works.

“You spoil me,” you said groggily, already digging in.

He sat at the edge of the bed, watching. Smiling.

“I just like seeing you satisfied.”

You took another bite.

“…And so easy to fill.”

You paused, mid-chew.

He was still smiling, but his eyes were unreadable.

You swallowed thickly. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, and leaned in to kiss your cheek. “Eat up.”

You did. But the butterflies in your stomach weren’t just from food anymore.

Later that week, he pulled you into his lap after dinner, despite your weak protests about being too full.

“You’re heavier than last week,” he whispered, arms around your waist. “I can feel it. You carry it so well.”

You laughed, trying to play it off. “You’re such a weirdo.”

His hand crept under your shirt.

“No, babe. I’m proud of you.”

Your stomach flipped. You weren’t sure if it was pride or pressure that made your chest tighten.

Then he added, barely audible, like a prayer:

“You were made for this.”

Chapter Four

It started with a feast.

You didn’t even know what the occasion was—he just said he was “in the mood to treat you.” The table was full. More food than you could name, more than you could ever finish. Or so you thought.

Pasta dripping in cream sauce. Roasted potatoes slick with butter. Crusty bread, hot from the oven. Three kinds of dessert. Wine. Always wine.

You hesitated when you saw the spread.

“Babe… this is too much.”

He didn’t blink.

“Not for you.”

He pulled out your chair. You sat.

And he didn’t just serve you. He watched you. Every bite. Every slow chew. Every time you paused, he filled your glass or piled more food onto your plate.

By the end, your belly was so full it pressed hard against your waistband. You leaned back, dazed and distended, breath shallow, mouth still sweet from tiramisu.

You whimpered softly, hand resting on your swollen stomach.

He stood behind you, hands on your shoulders, and whispered:

“Look at what you can take.”

You turned your head slowly, confused. “What?”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“All of it. You took everything I gave you. Like you were made for this.”

Your breath hitched.

“You don’t even realize how good you’ve gotten at being helpless.”

You sat up, startled, and gasped at the pressure in your gut. You hadn’t felt the full weight of it until then.

“I—I’m stuffed, babe, seriously—”

He laughed. Soft. Dark.

“You think I don’t know that?”

His hands slid from your shoulders to your upper belly and pressed. Firm. Not gentle.

You yelped.

He smirked.

He helped you to bed like it was romantic—carried the last slice of cake with him and fed it to you bite by bite while you lay there, too full to sit up.

“You’ve been gaining so fast,” he murmured, stroking your bloated gut between bites. “And you still keep opening your mouth for me.”

“Because you keep feeding me,” you muttered, cheeks flushed.

His eyes darkened.

“I know. And you let me. That’s the best part.”

You turned your face away, but his hand caught your chin. Gently at first.

“Look at yourself,” he said.

You did. The mirror across from the bed reflected everything—your rumpled shirt rolled up over the swell of your gut, your thighs spread wide, your cheeks red and puffy from food and wine and shame.

“Don’t hide it,” he whispered. “This is you now. My spoiled little piglet.”

You gasped.

He didn’t take it back.

Later, in the dark, as you lay on your side, still painfully full, you felt him behind you—pressing close, hard against your swollen body.

“You’re not going back,” he said softly into your hair. “You know that, right?”

You were too tired to answer. But your silence was enough.

Because his hand drifted back to your belly. And squeezed.

Chapter Five

You tried to say no.

But the words caught in your throat the moment he stepped into the kitchen with that look in his eyes—the one that said he wasn’t asking, just deciding.

“You’re not slowing down now,” he said, voice low, steady.

You swallowed hard, cheeks burning.

“But I’m so full.”

His smile was a slow, cruel curve.

“Full is just a feeling. And feelings can be fixed.”

Before you could react, he was at your side, wrapping an arm around your waist and guiding you toward the table where more food waited—freshly baked cinnamon rolls, thick creamy custard, whipped cream piled like clouds.

Your hands trembled as he pushed the first bite toward your lips.

“Open up.”

You did.

He fed you slowly at first, savoring the way you swallowed, the slight tremble in your jaw, the way your eyes fluttered shut.

“Good girl.”

Then faster. No breaks. No mercy.

“Such a perfect little piglet,” he whispered, voice thick with satisfaction.

Your stomach protested loudly, aching, stretching beyond comfort.

“I can’t—”

“Lie,” he said, cutting you off. “You love this. You live for this.”

Your protest died in a soft whimper.

He caught your hand, squeezing gently.

“You were made for me to fill. For me to watch you grow soft and heavy and helpless.”

Your breath hitched.

,,Open up. We need to get you rounder.”

The night stretched on, a haze of sweet food, soft teasing, whispered promises, and gentle domination.

When at last you lay sated, helpless, and swollen in his arms, he traced lazy circles over your belly and smiled.

“You belong here,” he said.

“Right where I want you.”

Epilogue

You stood in front of the mirror, breathing heavily, thighs pressed together for balance, both hands clutching at the waistband of your last, biggest pair of jeans.

The button was inches from meeting the hole.

Not centimeters. Inches.

You had to lean back just to try. The motion made your stuffed belly surge outward, taut and round like dough rising too far. You groaned under your breath.

“Need help?” came his voice from the doorway.

You jumped slightly—but didn’t answer.

He stepped in slowly, barefoot, eyes roaming over you with quiet reverence. You didn’t meet his gaze. You couldn’t.

“I haven’t seen those in a while,” he murmured. “Didn’t think they still… fit.”

“They don’t,” you whispered.

He chuckled, walking over. “I can try.”

You let go, stepping back. Your belly spilled forward instantly, freed from the pressure of your tugging hands.

He knelt in front of you—kissed the underside of that heavy swell—and started working the button.

His fingertips brushed soft skin. There was no tension left in the denim. Just desperation.

“God,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “You’ve really outdone yourself, haven’t you?”

You bit your lip.

“I didn’t think you’d get this big. Not this fast.”

The button resisted him. He grunted. Pulled harder.

Somehow, with effort and force, it clicked.

You gasped, shocked. “Wait… it closed?”

“Barely,” he said, hands still resting on the waistband. “You’re like a sausage in its casing. But yeah.”

He looked up at you, wicked grin spreading.

“Go ahead. Sit.”

Your heart sank.

But you obeyed.

The moment your weight hit the bed, your belly surged forward like a crashing wave. The denim screamed—literally squealed—under the pressure.

And then, with a loud POP, the button burst free. The zipper shredded downward. The fly split wide open, your belly surging through the gap like it had been waiting.

You froze.

He burst out laughing—warm, delighted, hungry.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, crouching again, hands cradling the exposed swell of you. “You’re so far gone.”

You buried your face in your hands.

But he was already kissing the curve of your belly, whispering into your skin.

“Why would you ever want to hide this?”

[feedybot]

Growing you one pound at a time

Chapter 1: “Let’s Try It Together”

It started with a laugh.

You were curled up together on the couch—Dina in your lap, a bag of popcorn between you, feet tangled under a throw blanket. Aaric’s fingers slid absently over your stomach, kneading the softest parts without thought. You didn’t even flinch anymore. After three years, your body was just as much his as yours.

“You know…” he said, voice casual, “you’ve gotten a little softer.”

You snorted, stuffing more popcorn into your mouth. “So have you.”

It was true. You’d both filled out a little since moving in together. Late-night takeout. Lazy weekends. No judgment. No shame. That was part of what made it work.

He kissed your temple. “What if we just… leaned into it?”

You looked up.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if we stopped pretending to care about getting back in shape. Just… let go for a while. Ate what we wanted. Fed each other. Got a little indulgent.” He smiled. “See where it goes.”

Your heart thudded. You should’ve laughed it off. Instead, your pulse betrayed you.

“That sounds… dangerous.”

“But fun,” he said, brushing popcorn dust off your cheek. “We’d do it together. Mutual destruction.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth twitched.

“What, like a feeding pact?”

He grinned. “Exactly like that.”

You studied him. Aaric wasn’t the kind of guy to suggest something out of nowhere. He must’ve been thinking about this. Imagining it. And that thought sent a strange thrill through you.

“Fine,” you said, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “We’ll see who cracks first.”

He caught it, chewed, and swallowed slow.

“I hope it’s you,” he murmured.

You didn’t realize then how serious he was.

The first week was silly. Innocent, even.

You made pancake towers and tried to out-eat each other. Bought cookies “for sharing” and ended up feeding them one by one, giggling like teenagers. Nights were spent with your belly full and his hands warm over it, praising you for every extra bite you took.

He gained too—at first. A slight swell in his belly, thicker arms, softer jawline. You teased him about it, poked his stomach while brushing crumbs from your shirt.

But he never seemed to mind. If anything, he looked proud.

You caught your reflection one night, shirt riding up from the day’s binge. Your belly looked different. Rounder. Heavier. Not just bloated—settled. A line formed where the waistband of your leggings dug into it, leaving a red imprint even after you peeled them off.

You turned to him, frowning.

“We’re seriously doing this?”

He walked over, took your face in his hands, and kissed you like he hadn’t all day.

“Yeah,” he said. “We are.”

You didn’t know it yet, but something had shifted. A seed had taken root.

And Aaric? He was already planning the next stage.

Chapter 2: “Just a Bit More”

It didn’t feel like anything changed.

Not at first.

Your routines were still familiar: lazy brunches, indulgent nights, Aaric beside you, encouraging every extra helping. But there was something quieter now. Something you couldn’t name.

He didn’t just feed you anymore.

He watched.

When you reached for seconds, his eyes followed your fingers. When you licked your lips after dessert, he bit his own. When your belly swelled tight and you shifted to ease the pressure, he adjusted beside you, almost like he couldn’t help himself.

And then came the phrases.

“You’ve earned it.”

“Don’t hold back.”

“Come on, Dina. One more bite for me.”

Soft at first, whispered while you chewed, almost playful. But over time, they grew firmer. Confident. Like he was guiding you now. Like the balance between you was no longer equal.

You noticed the difference in photos.

The first ones—early in the “mutual” experiment—you both looked a little puffier. You even had a favorite: the two of you squished together on the couch, matching chip bags in hand, bloated bellies pressing side by side.

But then came the newer ones. Subtle at first. Aaric in fitted clothes, his face leaner than yours, his belly looking less like a gain and more like strength. You hadn’t noticed how often he hit the gym in the mornings—quietly, never announcing it. Never commenting when you stayed in bed.

You, on the other hand… were changing.

Your face was fuller, rounder around the edges. Your clothes started shrinking—tight in the arms, cutting into your waist. You brushed it off, calling it laundry shrinkage, but Aaric never corrected you.

He just smiled.

“You’ve been working out,” you said one night, poking his chest as he laid beside you in bed.

He looked smug. “A little.”

“Not fair. I thought we were in this together.”

“We are,” he said, dragging a finger along the swell of your stomach. “I just figured one of us should stay in shape, in case the other gets… too far gone.”

Your breath hitched.

“Too far gone?”

He leaned down, lips brushing your soft jawline.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “You’re not there yet.”

Yet.

You didn’t sleep well that night. But in the morning, when he presented you with a tray of breakfast—thick slices of French toast, syrup dripping, butter melting—you ate it all.

Without question.

The scales kept tipping.

He started plating your food for you. Always more than his own. He praised your appetite in public. Ordered extra sides for you at restaurants. Took photos when you were too full to move. You wanted to push back, to say something—but every time he touched you, every time he whispered good girl in your ear, you forgot why you cared.

Aaric still kissed you like before. Touched you like before.

But now, it felt like permission.

You gained five more kilos.

He noticed every one.

And you knew.

Because he made sure you felt them, every single day.

Chapter 3: “You’re Doing So Well”

You couldn’t button your favorite jeans.

They were stretched taut just under your belly, the zipper giving up halfway. You stood in front of the mirror, frowning at the way the waistband pinched your softest fold, how your shirt bunched above it like it didn’t want to stretch any further.

You tried again—sucked in, twisted, fought the fabric—but it was useless. The jeans weren’t just tight.

They were impossible.

And yet, when you called for Aaric, when he stepped into the room and saw you struggling, he didn’t offer to help.

He just leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes trailing slowly from your flushed face down to your stomach, which pushed over the undone waistband like rising dough.

“Cute,” he said.

You scowled. “They used to fit.”

“They did,” he agreed, stepping closer. His voice was low. Measured. “But that was before you decided to outgrow everything you owned.”

You felt your cheeks flush. “We decided.”

Aaric tilted his head, a small, maddening smirk tugging at his lips.

“Sure. We started together.”

That word. Started. It echoed in the space between you.

Before you could respond, he stepped behind you and slid his hands over your sides—palms gliding over the curve of your love handles, now thick and yielding. You flinched as his fingers found the new depth of your waistline, how easily he could grip it now.

“You’ve been doing so well,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “You don’t even realize how far you’ve come.”

You did. You just didn’t want to admit it.

Not when your bras pinched. Not when you had to sit down after dinner because your belly ached from fullness. Not when your thighs rubbed together harder than ever, raw beneath dresses. Not when Aaric’s touch made you ache with humiliation and something else you weren’t ready to name.

He’d started prepping meals for you now. High-calorie, always plated just right, beautifully arranged—and always more than you asked for. He never said, eat it all. But he didn’t have to. His silence when you left food behind was louder than words.

And when you finished everything?

He praised you.

“Good girl.”

“You needed that.”

“Look at you.”

You wanted to say something, to tell him this wasn’t mutual anymore. But then you’d catch his eyes when you were stuffed—dark, satisfied, like this was exactly how it was supposed to be—and the words would melt away.

You liked the way he looked at you now.

Even if it scared you.

That weekend, he brought home a gift.

You opened the box with a laugh—until you saw what was inside.

A tight, stretchy dress, clearly a few sizes too small. The kind of thing you used to wear, back when your curves were firmer, tamer. You looked up, confused.

“You know this won’t fit.”

He shrugged. “Try it anyway.”

You hesitated, heart hammering.

He was watching.

So you peeled off your clothes, shimmying into the dress with effort. The fabric clung everywhere—across your belly, your ass, your hips—digging in like it was fighting to hold you. The hem rode up dangerously high. Your rolls were outlined like a topographic map.

You turned, ashamed.

But Aaric stepped forward, eyes locked on your body like you were a masterpiece.

“You’re incredible,” he said, low and firm.

You swallowed.

“You don’t think I’ve gone too far?”

He smiled. But it wasn’t playful anymore.

“Not yet.”

And you knew, in that moment, that he would decide when “too far” came.

Not you.

Chapter 4: “Let’s Not Pretend”

You were out of breath just walking up the stairs.

You paused at the landing, one hand on the rail, the other gripping a takeaway bag heavier than it should’ve been. Your thighs ached. Your lower back twinged. Your shirt had rolled up again, exposing the soft slope of your underbelly. You tugged it down with a grunt, but the fabric didn’t listen anymore.

Inside, Aaric was waiting.

He opened the door before you could knock, eyes immediately landing on the bulging bag, then drifting down—slow, deliberate—to your midsection, rising and falling with shallow, flustered breaths.

“Someone’s hungry,” he said.

You gave a weak smile, brushing past him into the apartment.

He didn’t help with the food. He just watched as you waddled in, lower belly swaying slightly under your stretched leggings, your thighs struggling not to chafe with each step. You could feel him assessing you—taking stock of your weight, your effort, your surrender.

He was so calm about it now.

So in control.

He let you finish dessert before he leaned back and said it.

“No more pretending, Dina.”

Your spoon froze halfway to your lips.

“What?”

He nodded toward your belly—rounded, swollen, straining visibly against your waistband.

“Let’s stop acting like this is mutual.”

You set the spoon down, heart thudding.

“We—”

“We started together,” he said, voice low but clear. “But now you eat what I give you. You dress how I want. You gain because I like it.”

You tried to speak. But the words caught in your throat.

“Stand up.”

Your eyes widened.

“Aaric—”

“Now.”

You rose slowly, wobbling a little as the food settled heavily in your gut. He circled behind you, then reached out, hooking a finger under the tight hem of your shirt and pulling it up, exposing your belly fully.

It hung low now, soft and obvious, resting against the band of your leggings like it belonged there. He let the silence hang as he stepped closer, both hands settling around your waist—fingers unable to meet across your widening middle.

“You used to fight me,” he murmured, lips brushing your neck. “Now look at you. I say ‘eat,’ and you devour. I say ‘grow,’ and you thank me.”

Your breath caught. His hands gripped tighter, sinking into your softness like he owned it.

“And the best part?” he whispered. “You love it.”

You did.

And that was the worst part.

Later that night, he fed you again. Not because you were hungry—you weren’t. You were already bloated, belly round and sore—but he sat you on his lap anyway, guiding bites past your lips, praising you with every swallow.

You couldn’t look him in the eyes.

Not when he said, “That’s my girl.”

Not when he said, “Bigger.”

Not when he said, “Soon, you won’t remember what it felt like to be in control.”

You didn’t know it yet, but the shift was almost complete.

Chapter 5: “Last Stand”

It happened in the middle of a warm Sunday morning.

You’d been alone for hours—Aaric had gone out early, said he had errands. You stood in front of your closet, breath shallow, clothes everywhere. Nothing fit. Not well, not anymore. Even your stretchiest pieces cut into your belly now, and the sight of yourself in the mirror—thick arms, overstuffed hips, your swollen middle cresting into soft, helpless roundness—sparked something sharp.

It wasn’t shame.

It was panic.

Because for the first time in weeks, you saw it clearly.

You were losing yourself.

You threw on the biggest sweater you owned, one of Aaric’s, and waited for him to return—heart pounding with resolve, even as it clung to something fragile and desperate.

When he came in, bags in hand, he raised an eyebrow at your expression.

You didn’t give him a chance.

“This isn’t working,” you blurted. “I need to cut back. Take control. We need to stop.”

He blinked. Slowly set the bags on the counter.

“Stop what?”

“You know what,” you snapped, stepping forward, the sweater barely covering the curve of your belly now. “This. All of this. You’re in shape, you’ve been working out behind my back—while I just… spiral. And you let me.”

His expression didn’t change.

You kept going.

“I’m tired of always being the one who’s out of breath, who can’t bend over without groaning, who—who gets stared at when we go out. You said this was mutual, Aaric. But look at us now.”

You were breathless, flushed. You expected him to argue, maybe to soothe you. To deny it.

But he just looked at you with something cold and final.

“Are you done?”

You froze.

His voice was different. Lower. Steady. Like he’d been waiting for this.

He crossed the room slowly and stopped just in front of you, reaching out to tug the hem of the oversized sweater upward. You flinched, but let him pull it up—exposing the pale swell of your belly, thick and heavy, drooping softly over the waistband of your leggings.

“You say this isn’t working,” he said, voice almost clinical. “But I see a girl who finishes everything she’s given. Who moans when I touch her. Who can’t resist dessert even when she’s already stuffed. Who’s exactly where she was always meant to be.”

You opened your mouth.

He shut it with a single finger against your lips.

“You don’t get to talk like you’re in charge anymore, Dina.”

A chill ran through you.

“This body—this big, soft, overfed body—belongs to me now.”

He took your hand and pressed it into the deepest crease of your belly.

“You gave it to me. Inch by inch. Bite by bite.”

You felt lightheaded. Powerless.

“I tried to be subtle,” he continued. “To let you feel like it was your idea. But I’ve watched you surrender for months now. And I think it’s time we stopped pretending otherwise.”

He stepped back and nodded toward the kitchen.

“You’ll go in there, and you’ll eat what I’ve made. You’ll finish all of it. And you’ll thank me after.”

And you did.

[feedybot]

Public Feast

You arrive at the restaurant clinging to his arm, cheeks slightly flushed from the spring air—or maybe from how snug your jeans have gotten over the past few months. You’d both joked about “relationship weight” at first, laughing it off whenever your tummy peeked out beneath your shirt or when your bra dug in just a little too much after dinner. But lately, the laughs had started to carry a different tone. A curious one. A lingering one.

Tonight, you feel him guiding you inside with something more deliberate in his touch. You’re aware of your figure in a way you never were before: the subtle sway of your hips, the softness of your belly pressing against the waistband of your too-tight jeans, the faint jiggle in your step that wasn’t there last fall.

The moment you step into the warm, fragrant air of the buffet, his hand moves to the small of your back, possessive, proud.

“Mmm,” he murmurs into your ear, eyes scanning the endless trays of food. “They better be ready to refill everything. You’re starving, aren’t you?”

You hesitate, but he squeezes your side gently, thumb brushing the top swell of your love handle. “Go on, babe. First round. Don’t hold back.”

You blush, but obey, loading your plate high—though not obscenely so. A few slices of pizza, a mountain of mashed potatoes, a pile of fried chicken. You return to the table where he’s already waiting with his own plate, much more modest by comparison.

He grins. “That’s my girl. Look at you. Already getting serious.”

You eat, trying to ignore the people around you—families, couples, waiters—but it’s impossible not to notice how he makes it a performance. Every time you bring a bite to your lips, he watches you like he’s witnessing a private show.

“God, I love watching you eat,” he says, loud enough for the couple at the next table to hear. “You’re getting curvier every week.”

You almost choke on your bite of chicken. He reaches across the table to stroke your thigh. “Go on. Let’s see what second plate looks like.”

You feel your cheeks burn as you stand, belly already pressing harder into your waistband. Your shirt rides up just enough to show the slight curve of skin. You waddle a little more than before. He’s watching.

Your second plate is obscene. Pasta dripping in cream sauce, fried shrimp, egg rolls, meatloaf, cheesy scalloped potatoes. You hear a soft clatter from another table as someone drops their fork, eyes wide. Are they watching you? Or is it just in your head?

No, you realize. It’s him. He’s making them watch.

He waves at you to bring two desserts along while you’re at it. You don’t argue. When you return, he stands up and pulls out your chair for you, like a gentleman in a 1950s movie. As you sit, your belly bumps into the table’s edge, forcing you to inch your seat back a little. The motion makes your breasts jiggle visibly.

He leans in. “You feel how tight your pants are?”

You nod shyly.

“Good. We’re not leaving until that button gives up.”

You laugh—nervous, breathy—but keep eating. Bite after bite. Each forkful feels like a dare, like an offering. And you can feel the difference immediately—your belly pushing heavier into the table, bloating outward, softening into full roundness. You’re growing, and he’s loving it.

He calls the waiter over and orders more drinks, extra rolls. “She’s a growing girl,” he explains, again just loud enough. “Needs her fuel.”

On your third plate, you slow down. The fork trembles slightly as you lift it. He scoots closer, one arm draped over your shoulders.

“You’re doing so good, baby. Just look at you. Practically bursting.”

And then, right as you shift to reach for your drink—pop—the button on your jeans gives way. Loud. Startling. Heads turn. Your belly, freed from its denim prison, surges forward with an audible sigh of relief, a wide doughy dome cradled by your stretched shirt.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s my girl.”

His hand lands on your belly in front of everyone—palming the round, taut mound, giving it a small jiggle. “Grew out of another pair. That’s the third time this month.”

You don’t know whether to laugh, moan, or cry—but the heat in your cheeks spreads downward. You’ve never been more aware of your own body.

You bury your face in your third dessert, a towering swirl of soft serve, as his hand stays on your belly, a proud weight that says: Look what she’s becoming. Look what I’ve made her into.

And the only thought left in your head is concerned about how small his hand looks resting on your distended bloated belly

[feedybot]

Deal of a Lifetime

Chapter 1

You were only doing laundry.

The buzz of the dryer had stopped twenty minutes ago, but you’d lost track of time scrolling on your phone, so now your clothes were probably wrinkled to hell. With a groan, you shoved your phone in your hoodie pocket and trudged down the creaky stairwell into the basement—bare feet slapping softly against the cool concrete.

Your boyfriend, Eric, was still upstairs, half-asleep on the couch. You didn’t bother calling him down. This was a solo mission.

The basement had that familiar stale-laundry smell, mixed with the faint scent of rust and dust. You reached for the dryer handle—

—and froze.

There was something new down here.

It stood in the corner, tucked just behind the old boiler room door: a vending machine. Tall, dark, ancient. You could’ve sworn it hadn’t been there before. The plastic on the front was scratched and yellowed, the buttons faded. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades.

But it was plugged in. Glowing faintly.

You stepped closer, drawn to it. There was no slot for coins or bills. No digital display. Just an old keypad, the kind where each button clicks chunk when pressed.

No labels. No snacks inside. Just one thin line of text burned into the top in that faded orange light:

“Ask. And be fed.”

You blinked.

“…What the hell.”

You glanced over your shoulder like someone might be watching. Then, just for fun, you leaned in and whispered, “Salted caramel brownie.”

The machine whirred.

You jumped.

A soft mechanical thunk echoed, and something dropped into the slot below.

Your heart was pounding as you bent to reach in.

There, in a thin cardboard sleeve, sat a warm, gooey, bakery-fresh salted caramel brownie. It smelled divine. Impossible. You picked it up carefully, still warm like it had just come out of an oven.

“No way,” you whispered, grinning.

Ten minutes later, you were curled on the couch upstairs, Eric watching you suspiciously as you licked your fingers.

“Where the hell did you get that?” he asked. “There’s no bakery open this late.”

“The vending machine,” you said between bites, still chewing. “In the basement.”

He blinked. “What vending machine?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know! It was just… there. I asked for a brownie and bam, it gave me one.”

“You’re serious.”

“Dead serious. It was warm, Eric.”

He laughed, disbelieving. “Alright, alright. Let me see this thing.”

Back downstairs, the two of you stood in front of the machine. Eric crouched to examine it, skeptical.

“You didn’t pay for it?”

“Nope. Just whispered what I wanted. Like this…”

You leaned in again, suddenly playful.

“Double cheeseburger.”

Thunk.

Eric’s jaw dropped. You pulled out a hot, freshly wrapped burger—still steaming in your hands.

“…What the fuck,” he muttered.

“I know,” you grinned.

He took the burger, peeled it open. The smell hit both of you at once—perfect, juicy, greasy. The kind of fast food dreams are made of.

“This is crazy.”

“Crazy delicious,” you added, stealing a bite.

You whispered a milkshake next. He followed with nachos. Then cheesecake.

Before you knew it, you were back upstairs with an armful of midnight snacks, half-laughing, half-stuffed, and just a little high on the absurdity of it all.

“I mean, how does it work?” Eric asked, licking queso off his thumb. “It’s not plugged into Wi-Fi, it doesn’t even have a touchscreen—”

“Who cares?” you interrupted, mouth full of creamy New York cheesecake. “It’s magic, babe. We found a magic vending machine.”

He smirked, settling deeper into the couch. “What do we do with it?”

You leaned over him slowly, lazy and full, belly pressing softly against his side. Your eyes gleamed.

“We use it.”

Chapter 2

It started with late-night cravings.

You and Eric made it a ritual. Every evening after dinner, one of you would get that look in your eye, and without a word, you’d both slip down the stairs like naughty kids sneaking into the pantry. The vending machine was always waiting, glowing faintly like it knew you were coming.

You began taking turns.

“I want something sweet and gooey,” you’d whisper. Thunk. Out came sticky pecan buns, warm chocolate lava cake, or perfect little truffles that melted on your tongue.

Eric leaned savory—sliders, waffle fries, stuffed jalapeño poppers. Once, on a dare, he asked for a lobster roll. It appeared, flawless and fresh, like it had been plucked from a five-star kitchen.

It didn’t take long for the changes to start.

You noticed it first in your underwear. The way your softest pair started cutting in around your hips, how your bra straps left deeper dents than usual. You tugged at your shirt one morning and caught your reflection: belly pushing ever so slightly against the cotton. It wasn’t big, not yet. But it wasn’t flat anymore, either.

Still, it was easy to shrug off. A little bloating. Water weight.

Besides, you felt good.

Full in the evenings, flushed and giggly, lips shiny with frosting or grease. Eric always looked at you like he couldn’t help himself. His hands wandered more often—palming your hips, brushing over your stomach, resting just a bit longer than usual.

The food made you feel… wanted. Desirable. Indulged.

Eric didn’t seem to be changing as fast. He’d joke about how the food was “hitting different” for you, or how your appetite was finally catching up with your sass. You’d roll your eyes, then drag him downstairs again just to prove a point.

“You’re not pulling ahead of me,” you teased one night, handing him a gooey cinnamon roll bigger than your palm. “We started this together.”

He smirked, playing along. “Then feed me, baby.”

So you did. You pressed the sticky roll to his lips and fed it to him bite by bite. He licked the icing from your fingers and kissed your hand after, and you couldn’t deny how hot it felt.

You didn’t stop at one. You whispered again, pulled out a second, then a third. He didn’t resist. Not then.

But the next morning, you found the gym bag.

Stuffed behind the coat rack, half-hidden. Clean workout clothes, protein bars, and a gym key fob you didn’t recognize.

Your stomach sank.

You didn’t confront him right away. Instead, you started watching.

He’d slip out early some mornings, claiming he needed air or coffee. You knew better now. When he returned, he looked flushed, freshly showered. Energized. He still indulged at night—but just a little. Just enough to match your pace without matching your weight.

Meanwhile, you were softening. Clothes fit tighter. Your thighs started brushing together more noticeably. Sitting down left a gentle crease where your belly folded slightly over your waistband.

Still, he never complained. In fact, his touches got more intense—like every new curve turned him on even more. He ran his hands along your waist, kissed your belly, told you you were beautiful.

And maybe you were. But there was a part of you that wanted him to join you, not just worship you.

This wasn’t supposed to be a one-sided feast.

One night, you kissed him slow and deep, fingers trailing down his chest.

“You’ve been holding back,” you whispered.

He tilted his head. “Says who?”

“Says me,” you murmured, straddling his lap. “I’ve seen the gym bag.”

His hands settled on your hips—firmer now than when this all began. “And?”

“I want you to catch up.”

“I am catching up,” he said, smiling as his fingers traced the soft swell of your belly. “Just in a different direction.”

You leaned in close, breathing against his ear. “That’s not what I meant.”

His breath caught. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then he looked at you with that slow, dangerous grin—the one that made your thighs press together.

“Then maybe you’ll just have to make me.”

Chapter 3

You doubled down.

If Eric wanted to play coy, you’d play bold. If he wouldn’t give in willingly, you’d tempt him until he couldn’t resist. The vending machine became your shared secret and your secret weapon—a silent, glowing accomplice to your mission.

Every night, you brought more.

Not just a plate. A platter. Boxes stacked high, napkins soaked through, sauces dripping. You whispered cravings you knew he couldn’t ignore: hot wings with butter-drenched skin, deep-fried mac balls, molten cookie skillets served with whipped cream so thick it clung to your spoon like glue.

And he indulged. He always did.

But you knew the difference. He’d eat with you, sure—play along, kiss the icing from your lips—but he never pushed past his limit. You watched him stop just shy of stuffed, always a little more controlled than you.

You, on the other hand… you were letting go.

It snuck up fast. The softness. The heaviness. The ease with which you gave in.

You started skipping real meals during the day just to make room for the nightly ritual. Your belly, once just a hint of fullness, was becoming a real curve—round and plush, rolling softly over the waistband of your leggings. Your arms felt heavier, your thighs thicker, your walk just slightly more weighted.

But it felt good. Comforting. Secure.

Eric noticed. Of course he did.

He noticed when your hoodie stopped hiding the way your belly pressed against your jeans. He noticed when you pulled off your bra with a sigh and your breasts spilled heavier than before. He noticed when you groaned after too much cheesecake, lying flat with a hand on your taut, aching stomach—and he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

His touches grew hungrier, and so did yours.

Still, something gnawed at you.

You pressed another slice of pizza to his lips. He took it, chewing slowly, eyes locked with yours.

“Come on,” you urged. “You can do more.”

“I’ve had enough,” he said, wiping his fingers. “I’m not trying to explode tonight.”

You pouted. “You used to go bite for bite.”

“You used to fit in those shorts,” he teased back, smirking.

Your stomach fluttered at the way he said it—half challenge, half flirtation. But beneath it, a question lingered: why won’t you come with me all the way?

Later that night, while he slept, you snuck out of bed and crept down to the vending machine alone.

“Triple bacon cheeseburger,” you whispered.

Thunk.

“Loaded fries. Large chocolate shake. Cheesecake bites. Two dozen donuts.”

Thunk. Thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk.

Your arms were full. Your stomach already buzzing with anticipation. You brought it all back up to bed and gently shook him awake, tray in hand, grinning.

“Midnight surprise.”

He sat up groggily, blinking. “What… baby, it’s 3 AM.”

“So? You hungry?”

He hesitated. Then smiled, slowly. “Always.”

By the time the sun rose, your sheets were littered with wrappers, napkins, and empty cartons. Eric had indulged, yes—but you had devoured. He drifted off with a lazy hand on your belly. You lay wide-eyed, stuffed and dizzy, your hands resting on the taut roundness that had become your center.

You were winning. Right?

The next morning, you stepped on the scale.

You’d been avoiding it, but curiosity had finally clawed its way to the surface.

+11.7 kilograms.

Your heart thudded.

It wasn’t shame exactly. It was… awe. That number looked real. Heavier than you’d ever been. And there was something intoxicating about seeing it written there, cold and concrete.

You wanted Eric to see it too.

But when you caught him in the bathroom later, shirtless, toweling off from a shower, your breath caught.

He’d changed.

His chest was broader. Shoulders thicker. Abs not exactly chiseled—but tighter than you remembered. His arms flexed subtly when he wiped his face, veins popping. There was no denying it now.

You were growing out.

He was growing up.

That night, you brought him an extra plate. Stacked high. You leaned in and whispered like it was a seduction.

“Eat more.”

He looked at you for a long moment. “Why?”

You blinked. “Because we’re in this together.”

He set the plate down gently. “Are we?”

You stared, heat rising to your cheeks. Your belly pressed into your lap, soft and heavy. His body was all angles now. Firm beneath the softness that used to match yours.

Something had shifted. You could feel it.

But you weren’t done yet.

Not by a long shot.

Chapter 4

You tried everything.

He was drifting upward, you downward—and you hated it. Not just the numbers. Not just the clothes getting tighter or the way your thighs stuck together in the heat. No. What cut was the way Eric started looking at you. Not with disgust. Not even disapproval.

But difference.

Like you were no longer equals.

You doubled your efforts.

The next night, you made it a full spread. You didn’t even whisper—just stood in front of the machine and reeled off your cravings like a list:

“Buffalo wings. Deep-dish pizza. Bacon mac. Extra-buttered popcorn. Cheesecake—two slices. Double.”

The machine responded to every command without hesitation. The slot overflowed. You stacked it all onto a tray and brought it upstairs like an offering.

Eric raised his eyebrows as you walked in, arms full, shirt tight around your middle.

“That for both of us?” he asked.

You climbed into his lap and kissed his cheek. “Only if you’re hungry.”

He looked at you for a beat longer than he should have.

Then: “Sure.”

You fed him bite after bite—grinning, playful, insistent. You watched his throat move as he swallowed, watched the way he breathed heavier, slower. His hands wandered across your body again, fingers sinking into your hips, your sides, the growing swell of your belly.

It felt good. Better than good. He was hard beneath you, craving something. But somewhere in the middle of a fifth donut, he leaned his head back and said:

“Alright. That’s enough.”

“Already?”

“Babe,” he said, brushing crumbs from his lips, “we’re not in a competition.”

You stared at him. “Aren’t we?”

He looked confused. Or maybe he just didn’t want to answer.

The next morning, you weighed yourself again.

+14.9 kilograms.

You poked at your belly in the mirror. It was fully soft now, a real curve that sloped over your waistband. Your love handles had thickened. Your thighs spread wider on the edge of the tub.

You’d always been a little self-conscious. Now it was more than that. It was visible. Undeniable.

And Eric… he looked good.

Worse: he looked smug.

You caught him glancing in the mirror after a shower, flexing abs that had no right to be showing up after weeks of indulgence. He still ate with you, still kissed you, still touched you like he wanted you—but now you weren’t sure if it was lust… or control.

You tried again.

Another night. Another feast. You climbed on top of him, still chewing a caramel bar, belly warm and full.

“You used to match me,” you whispered, kissing his neck. “Now you’re slipping.”

“I’m not slipping,” he said, voice low. “I’m just… balancing.”

You pressed your softness against him. “I miss when you were soft, too.”

He ran a hand over your belly, slow and firm. “I like you soft.”

“But you don’t want to be soft.”

Silence.

You pulled back. “Say it.”

“I like being in control,” he said quietly.

And there it was.

The next morning, you sat at the kitchen table with a donut in one hand and silence in your throat. Eric came out in joggers and a fresh shirt, abs faintly visible beneath the fabric.

He kissed your head without a word and grabbed a protein shake from the fridge.

“You’re going to the gym?” you asked.

He nodded. “Back in an hour.”

You watched him leave. Watched his broad back and tightened frame disappear out the door. Your hand rested on your belly, the donut now limp in your fingers.

He was leaving you behind.

No, not leaving. Surpassing.

And something in you burned.

That night, you tried one last time.

The tray you brought up was ridiculous. Enough food for four people. You didn’t even pretend it was a light snack.

You sat on his lap, fed him every bite, your soft body pressing into him. You kissed him, teased him, begged him.

“Come on,” you whispered. “Let go with me. Just for tonight.”

He stared at you. At your flushed face, your full belly, your eager eyes.

And then he shook his head.

“No,” he said, firm. “You’ve had enough.”

Your breath caught.

His hands gripped your waist—not to pull you closer, but to steady you.

You weren’t leading anymore.

He was.

Chapter 5

You found him waiting by the machine.

It was past midnight—long after either of you should’ve been asleep. But the cravings had gotten worse. You’d tossed and turned, belly aching for more, the familiar hum of that magical vending machine calling to you from downstairs.

And there he was. Already barefoot, already holding a steaming pastry in one hand, a rich milkshake in the other.

He smiled.

“I figured you’d come.”

You looked down, embarrassed. The oversized hoodie you wore was stained now—tight where it should’ve hung loose. You felt heavy, sluggish, belly still full from the last indulgent dinner he’d ordered hours ago.

“I was gonna try to skip tonight…” you muttered.

He raised an eyebrow, stepping closer.

“And why would you do that?”

You hesitated. You’d always expected this point would come—that he’d draw the line. That he’d pull you back from the edge before it got too far. You had hoped for that at times, even while you binged and ballooned. But now, there was something different in his eyes.

Hungry. Devoted. Darkly supportive.

“You look incredible,” he murmured, stepping closer until your belly brushed his chest. “Softer. Slower. I can see it in the way you move. You’re… becoming exactly what this was meant for.”

Your breath caught. You searched his face, looking for a hint of hesitation. There was none.

“You’re not mad?” you asked softly. “That I’ve let it get this far?”

He chuckled, lifting the milkshake to your lips.

“Mad? Baby, I helped. You think I didn’t notice how quickly your portions doubled? How your clothes stopped fitting?” He fed you a sip—thick, creamy, too sweet. You moaned.

“I wanted this,” he said. “I still do.”

You were trembling. Not from fear—from relief. From hunger. From the raw approval in his gaze.

“I thought maybe you’d want me to stop. Or slow down. That you missed the old me…”

“I do,” he said simply. “But this one?”

He ran his hand down your side, letting it sink into the curve of your waist, your hip, the soft swell of your belly.

“This one’s mine.”

And then, in one smooth motion, he pulled you to the couch, the pastry already waiting in his hand. You didn’t resist. You let him settle you back—belly exposed, thighs spread, mouth open.

“Tonight,” he said, “we stop pretending this is temporary.”

Your heart raced.

“We’re going to feed the version of you that’s always been hiding under the surface. The one who doesn’t ask anymore. Who doesn’t wait.”

You swallowed.

And he smiled.

“Let me show you what she can become.”

Chapter 6

He didn’t let you choose the outfit.

He laid it out on the bed that morning—tight, soft, mercilessly small. A crop top you hadn’t dared wear since the early days, and shorts that hadn’t seen daylight since your thighs still had a gap between them.

You stared at the clothes, then at him.

“You’re serious.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Dead serious. You’ve worked hard for this body. Time the world saw it.”

You swallowed, heart hammering. It wasn’t just that you were fat now—it was how fat. Your belly hung low enough to cover the waistband even before the shorts were on. Your thighs chafed with every step. Your face had softened, cheeks rounded out, a gentle double chin appearing no matter the angle.

But he was unrelenting.

So you dressed.

The crop top barely covered the top swell of your belly, and the shorts—once loose and cute—now gripped your hips so tight the button dug in deep, the zipper threatening mutiny with every breath. You waddled slightly as you walked, arms swinging at your sides for balance, your center of gravity shifting more than you realized.

He watched every movement like it was performance art.

When you reached the café—his suggestion—you already wanted to turn back. It was bustling. Trendy. Full of fit, toned women in leggings and sleek ponytails. And then there was you.

Soft. Slow. Glowing with shame and sweat and something else you couldn’t name.

He pulled your chair out for you, and you sank into it with a huff, your belly pressing against the edge of the table, pushing your plate a few inches forward.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispered, eyes burning. “And they’re all going to see it.”

Your food came. Two plates. Then a third.

People did stare. Not rudely—but curiously. A few with open disbelief. The waiter’s eyebrows flicked upward when your boyfriend ordered dessert before you’d even started on your second plate.

You looked down at the spread.

“I can’t eat all this in front of them.”

He leaned in.

“You will. Because this—this is who you are now.”

He picked up a fork and guided a bite of creamy pasta to your lips.

You opened your mouth.

They watched.

And he fed.

Your belly swelled, growing firmer with every bite, until you had to lean back to make space. Your breathing was shallow, your face flushed, your thighs pressed wide beneath the table to accommodate the expanding curve of your gut.

He didn’t stop.

If anything, he fed you slower. More deliberately.

By the time dessert came—a towering mountain of waffles, ice cream, syrup, whipped cream—you felt like you’d been pumped full of concrete.

He glanced at your belly, noting how it pressed hard against the crop top’s hem, the red lines forming where the fabric dug in.

“Finish it,” he said softly.

You whimpered.

“Please…”

He raised the last bite to your lips.

“I said finish.”

You did.

Every bite was a public declaration. Every moan of fullness, every shift of your heavy body in the chair, every lick of syrup from your lips—it was all visible. And he loved it.

On the way out, he didn’t rush you.

He walked slowly, hand resting possessively on the small of your back—no, lower than that. On the swell of your waistband. Guiding you, owning you.

As you reached the car, he opened the door, then turned to you.

“You embarrassed?”

You nodded faintly, barely able to look at him.

“Good,” he whispered. “That means you still remember who you used to be.”

He helped you in, tucking your belly in with both hands, pressing a kiss just below your navel.

“But don’t worry,” he added, voice thick with promise. “We’ll feed that memory into silence.”

Chapter 7

The mirror didn’t lie.

You stood before it, naked—barely able to face your own reflection. Your belly hung low and full, the skin stretched tight and warm from the feast he’d orchestrated earlier. Your arms, once slender, were thick now, doughy. Your thighs rubbed at the top, the middle, even near your knees. Your face had softened into something nearly unfamiliar: cheeks swollen, lips constantly parted from shallow breathing, a pillow of a second chin forming.

And yet—when his arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you into him with ease—you melted.

“Look at you,” he whispered, lips brushing the back of your ear. “No one would ever believe where you started.”

You whimpered, his hands resting firmly on your belly.

“You’re obscene.”

His voice was reverent.

“Stuffed, swollen, lazy. I’ve watched you transform into exactly what I wanted.”

He reached past you then, to the small table behind the mirror. You knew what was there: the vending machine key. Still warm from the trip.

You turned to him, heart pounding.

“You used it?”

He nodded.

“I made sure it saved something special for tonight.”

A low whine escaped your throat. Your knees weakened.

He led you to the bed—no words, just touch. He helped you lie back, belly rising like a mound above you, your breaths shallow, rapid, already overworked. The moment you settled, he disappeared briefly, returning with the tray.

What he laid before you was… impossible.

A giant slice of cake—soaked in some kind of thick syrup, oozing chocolate and cream, steaming gently. A bowl of candied fruit, each piece somehow glowing with sugar. And at the center—a drink. Dark. Bubbling. Sweet.

He sat beside you, fork in hand.

“No more pretending,” he said softly. “You passed the point of no return weeks ago.”

You said nothing. Couldn’t. You just nodded.

He fed you the first bite.

The taste was unlike anything you’d had before—more intense than real food, more decadent than dream cravings. You moaned, hand clutching at your belly as he fed you again. And again. And again.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “I want you beyond repair. I want you ruined.”

Bite after bite, your belly grew tighter. A drum beneath your skin. You felt like you were expanding with every swallow—not just from food, but from heat, from surrender.

“You’re not my girlfriend anymore,” he whispered. “You’re my indulgence. My prize. The thing I crafted with my own hands.”

You cried out softly as he poured the drink between your lips—thick syrup coating your tongue, sugar crashing through your veins.

“And when you wake up tomorrow,” he said, caressing the taut dome of your gut, “you’ll know: there’s no coming back. No diet. No redemption. Just more.”

You moaned, legs trembling, stuffed beyond recognition, drunk on him—on the food—on the sheer wrongness of how good it felt.

He kissed you, slow and deep.

Then whispered against your lips:

“Deal of a lifetime, remember?”

You nodded, barely conscious.

“I’ve never been so proud.”

And as the food settled deeper, and your breathing slowed, and your body molded further into softness beneath his touch—you understood:

This wasn’t just a deal.

It was a fate.

One you’d eaten yourself into.

Willingly.

Eagerly

[feedybot]

Just One Rule

The door closed behind him with a heavy click. You barely had time to breathe before you heard his voice.

“I’ve been gone two weeks.”

You froze.

He stood in the entryway, still in his coat, scanning you with those sharp, unforgiving eyes. His expression didn’t need words—but the words came anyway.

“And this is what I come home to?”

Your hands trembled where they rested by your sides. You tried tugging the hem of your sweatshirt lower, but it clung too tightly now, betraying every roll, every inch of new softness. Your belly pushed forward with a lazy, bloated roundness that had grown more pronounced with each night’s binge.

“I told you not to gain a single pound.”

His voice was deceptively calm, but the fury was there—beneath the surface, simmering.

“I warned you.”

You opened your mouth, fumbling for something—anything—but he raised a hand, silencing you instantly.

“No. Don’t speak. Not yet. You’ve had two weeks to make your choices. Now you’re going to stand there and listen while I describe the result.”

He stepped closer. Your breath caught in your throat as his eyes traveled—slowly, deliberately—from your face down to your body.

“Look at you,” he said, voice low and vicious. “You’re a mess. You’ve inflated. Your face is fuller, your jaw’s disappearing… your neck’s starting to vanish beneath that new little pad of fat right there—” he tapped under your chin, “—and don’t try to hide that belly. It’s useless now. It’s out there. Soft, heavy, gluttonous.”

His hands didn’t touch you yet, but his words might as well have been fingers, tracing the shame over your skin.

“I can see it in the way you move. Slower. Heavier. Everything jiggles when you walk now, doesn’t it?”

You dropped your gaze, humiliated.

He tilted your chin up with two fingers.

“No. Eyes on me.”

You obeyed.

“I can smell the junk you’ve been eating. You’ve been stuffing yourself like some shameless pig behind my back.”

He circled you slowly, like a predator.

“I bet it started the night I left, didn’t it? First binge before I even hit the highway. Let me guess—cookies, ice cream, maybe that leftover pizza you swore you’d throw out?”

He was right. Every word.

“And once you started, you couldn’t stop. Could you?”

His voice dropped to a whisper in your ear.

“You’ve been gorging. Secretly. Repeatedly. Filling that pathetic, needy stomach until it ached—and then doing it again the next night.”

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks. Your belly tensed, almost reflexively, pressing against the hem of your sweatshirt as if to confirm every accusation.

He moved back to face you.

“Take it off.”

You hesitated.

“I said take it off.”

You obeyed, arms shaking as you pulled the sweatshirt over your head. It peeled off with difficulty, catching around the swell of your chest, dragging your shirt underneath it. Your belly bounced free, pale and flushed, soft with fresh weight. It hung heavier now, lower. Your leggings dug painfully into your hips.

His eyes narrowed.

“Unbelievable.”

He stepped in and grabbed a generous handful of your stomach. The flesh spilled between his fingers, warm and pliant.

“You’ve been feeding this. Growing it. Encouraging it.”

You whimpered.

“What do you think this says about you? Hm?” He gave your belly a squeeze that made you gasp. “You couldn’t even hold the line for two weeks. You didn’t just fail. You doubled down. You saw the cliff, and you dove off it headfirst.”

His voice turned cruel.

“Pathetic.”

You looked down, ashamed. But he wasn’t finished.

“Go weigh yourself.”

You shuffled into the bathroom. Each step was a reminder—flesh swaying, thighs rubbing, waistband biting. The digital scale lit up as you stepped on, cold and merciless.

+6.4 kg.

He leaned in the doorway.

“Six and a half kilos. In fourteen days. That’s not eating. That’s abuse. That’s addiction.”

You stepped off, head bowed. But he grabbed your arm before you could leave.

“Oh no. We’re not done yet.”

He dragged you to the closet.

“Get them.”

“…Please—”

“Now. The jeans. The old ones. Don’t play stupid.”

Your stomach twisted. You reached to the back of the drawer, where they’d sat untouched, gathering dust. You used to love them. Used to feel sexy in them.

Now they looked like a joke.

You stepped into them and tried to pull them up. They caught at the thighs. You shimmied, gasped, bounced—but they refused to cooperate. The waistband stopped mid-belly, cutting painfully into your flesh. Zipping was impossible. Buttoning? Not even a dream.

He watched, arms folded, expression darkly amused.

“Struggling, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer.

“I told you to wear them, not fight them.”

With a final tug, the jeans jumped over your hips. The waistband dug deep into your belly, forcing your new fat to bulge shamelessly above and below. You felt like a sausage casing—stuffed, overfilled, close to bursting.

“Hold still,” he said.

He ran a finger along the deep line where the denim pinched into your skin.

“Five minutes,” he said. “That’s all you’re going to last in these.”

He walked behind you and slapped your ass hard enough to make it ripple.

“They used to hang off you,” he murmured. “Now they’re suffocating.”

You stood, humiliated, breathless, packed into a version of yourself you couldn’t deny anymore.

And just before the button finally gave up with a soft, miserable pop, he grabbed your wrist and leaned in close.

“I gave you one rule,” he whispered.

And you broke it.

The button hit the floor with a soft clink, and the jeans peeled open at your belly like they’d been holding back a flood. The flesh spilled forward, doughy and flushed, bulging over the waistband with nothing left to restrain it. Your breath caught, shallow and embarrassed.

He was silent.

Watching.

And then he moved.

Slowly, deliberately, he stepped behind you, wrapped one strong arm around your middle, and let his hand rest—right there, on the soft swell of your exposed stomach. His fingers splayed across the newly claimed terrain, pressing in slightly as if to test just how much softer you’d gotten. His breath grazed your ear.

“…God, look at you.”

You flinched, expecting more venom. Another cutting remark.

But instead, his voice came lower. Rough. Something darker swimming just beneath.

“You’ve really let go, haven’t you?”

You nodded faintly, shame flooding every inch of you.

And then he squeezed—a slow, kneading motion, pulling you tighter against him.

“Do you even realize what you’ve done to yourself?” he whispered. “You’ve outgrown your own life. Your clothes. Your control. And still… you just kept going.”

His hand slid downward, under your belly now, lifting it slightly to feel the full, warm heft of your gain.

“Soft,” he murmured. “So fucking soft.”

You whimpered, confused by the heat rising in you. The humiliation hadn’t faded—it was still there, burning. But now his touch… it was lingering. Loving. Twisted in its own way, like he was proud. Like he’d won.

He spun you gently to face him, eyes roaming your body with hunger barely disguised by his control.

“You couldn’t stop feeding it,” he said, voice almost tender now. “Feeding this.”

He cupped your belly with both hands, as if presenting it to himself. Admiring the weight, the softness, the surrender of it all.

“You broke your promise. You failed. And you did it so… thoroughly.”

A ghost of a smile played at the edge of his mouth.

“I should punish you,” he said, almost dreamily. “I should shame you for this greedy, desperate little transformation.”

His thumbs traced the edge of your stretch marks.

“But look at you,” he whispered. “You’re already living the punishment.”

You looked up at him, trembling.

“But here’s the worst part,” he added, voice dark with affection.

“I like it.”

Your heart skipped.

“I like owning this version of you. The one who couldn’t resist. The one who ate herself into submission.”

He leaned down, lips brushing your cheek, then your jaw, then lower, along the curve of your neck.

“I’m not proud of you,” he murmured against your skin. “I’m not impressed.”

He paused.

“But you’re mine.”

And with that, he dropped to his knees, wrapped both arms around your hips, and kissed your belly—slow, possessive, almost reverent.

You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair.

“You’ve failed me,” he growled softly.

“But fuck… you’ve never looked more perfect.”

Still on his knees before you, his hands roamed up your sides—slow, deliberate—gathering every inch of soft, yielding flesh they found along the way. Your belly sat heavy against his chest now, warm and flushed from his grip. His lips brushed across it again.

“You don’t get praise,” he murmured. “Not for this.”

Another kiss, lower, right above your waistband.

“But you do get fed.”

You swallowed hard.

He stood, finally—towering over you. His expression unreadable, eyes dark with a hunger that wasn’t just his.

“Wait here,” he said.

You obeyed. Legs trembling, jeans still clinging awkwardly below your hips, belly hanging completely free, soft and exposed. The shame didn’t fade—it deepened. But beneath it, a flutter of anticipation stirred.

You heard him in the kitchen. Cupboards. Fridge. Wrappers. Plates.

Then footsteps again.

He returned with a tray.

The sight made your stomach twist: slices of cake, pastries, thick swirls of whipped cream, chocolate-covered snacks, donuts glistening with glaze. A spread of temptation—and punishment. Caloric proof of your disobedience.

“Sit.”

You dropped onto the edge of the couch. The jeans cut painfully into your lower belly, but he said nothing. Maybe he wanted them to.

He placed the tray on your lap, and your belly pushed it slightly. The heat of the food mixed with the warmth of your skin. You looked up at him, already overwhelmed.

“Eat.”

Your hand hovered.

“Ah.” He smirked. “Not like that.”

He picked up a donut—fat, golden, oozing with cream—and held it up to your lips.

“You’ll eat my way tonight.”

You opened your mouth, cheeks flushing.

He fed you slowly, deliberately. The first bite was sweet, cloying. Rich enough to make you groan. He didn’t stop. Bite after bite, dessert after dessert. With each one, his other hand wandered—stroking your belly, tracing the curve of your thighs, cupping the soft weight of your breast as it spilled over your stretched bra.

“You don’t even realize how far you’ve gone,” he said between bites. “You’ve stopped trying. Stopped resisting. And now? You’ll just sit there. Letting me fatten you like a spoiled, greedy pet.”

You gasped as he pushed a forkful of thick chocolate cake between your lips, the frosting smearing the corner of your mouth. He wiped it with his thumb—and then slid that thumb between your lips too.

“Good girl,” he murmured, watching you suck the frosting clean.

By the time he reached the last slice, your belly had pushed the tray nearly off your lap. You were panting, eyes half-lidded, legs spread slightly to accommodate the fullness pressing down between your thighs. The jeans were at their limit.

“Just a little more,” he whispered.

You shook your head faintly, lips parted.

“I can’t…”

He chuckled.

“You always say that. And yet here we are.”

He pushed the final bite in—thick, sticky, heavy.

You chewed slowly, moaning softly around it.

When it was done, he took the tray, set it aside, and dropped to his knees again. His hands slid along your belly, lifting the new weight, admiring the damage he’d just added.

You whimpered.

He leaned in, kissed the crease beneath your navel, and murmured:

“You don’t deserve it. But I’m going to keep feeding you anyway.”

Another kiss. Lower now.

“Because this belly? This soft, overfed, stretched-out gut?”

His teeth grazed your skin.

“It belongs to me.”

[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.

[feedybot]

Lighter Than Air

She stepped onto the scale, her brows knitted together in concern. I leaned casually against the bathroom doorway, coffee in hand, the very picture of nonchalance.

“Ugh. I feel so bloated today,” she muttered, fingers brushing her rounder stomach. She had to lean forward slightly to see past it now—something she hadn’t yet noticed. Not really.

The scale chirped its cheerful tone and displayed the number I’d programmed in that morning: 62.8 kg.

She blinked.

“Wait… seriously?” A breath of relief escaped her lips, and her whole body seemed to relax. “Huh. Guess I’m just being paranoid.”

I smiled. “Told you. You’ve been really good lately.”

She nodded, clearly comforted. The tight elastic of her sweatpants dug visibly into her sides as she moved, but her mind—blissfully trusting—accepted the number as truth. She tugged at the waistband, brushing it off.

In reality, she weighed just shy of 83 kg now. I’d watched her body grow month after month, softening, filling out. Her belly that used to be flat now swayed slightly when she moved too quickly. Her thighs, once slim, pressed together in a pillowy seam. Her arms had softened, her face rounded out beautifully, but her focus always came back to that magic number on the screen.

It had started innocently enough. A firmware tweak, a hidden override—just two or three kilos at first. She’d been stressing about a plateau, and I wanted to encourage her. But when I saw the way she smiled—believed—when the number dipped lower… I couldn’t stop. Not when she let her guard down. Not when she kept indulging just a little more, day by day.

I played the supportive boyfriend to perfection. I meal-prepped for her. I insisted she take progress photos—then quietly deleted the ones that showed too much change. Every time her clothes felt tighter, I blamed the dryer. She giggled, shrugged, and reached for more snacks.

But now… now it was catching up. Her pace had quickened—binge sessions disguised as cheat days, workouts replaced by naps, leggings giving up the fight. The lies were compounding. She was starting to suspect, I could tell.

That afternoon, I returned home to find the bathroom door slightly ajar. Her voice floated out—tight, angry, confused.

“…it has to be wrong. This can’t be right. No way I weigh this much.”

I froze.

She stood at the mirror, two scales side by side: the fake one… and a brand-new, unconnected model. My heart stuttered.

She caught my reflection behind her and turned sharply. “You didn’t tell me the scale was rigged.”

For a moment, I said nothing.

Then, I smiled gently and stepped closer. “I didn’t want you to worry. You’re beautiful… and happier now than you’ve ever been.”

She stared at me, mouth parted, disbelief painted across her face. But her eyes dropped—just briefly—to her exposed stomach, soft and round beneath the hem of her shirt. She didn’t pull it down.

The silence stretched.

And I knew—she might yell, might cry, might storm out. But she wasn’t stepping off that scale. Not yet.

She didn’t move.

Her eyes flicked between the two scales again, as if one might suddenly correct the other. But both sat silent now—one mocking her, the other revealing her. Her breath caught in her throat.

I took another slow step forward. My hand rose instinctively, hesitated for just a moment… and then came to rest on the soft swell of her side. She flinched—but didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to be afraid of the number,” I said softly, fingers sinking just slightly into the pliant flesh at her waist. “It’s just data. But this—” I slid my hand forward, letting my palm drift over the curve of her belly, warm and yielding under her stretched t-shirt. “This is real. This is you.”

She was trembling, whether from anger or confusion or something else entirely, I couldn’t say. But her breathing had deepened, and when I cupped the underside of her belly in both hands, lifting it ever so slightly, she exhaled like she’d been holding it in for hours.

It was heavier than I remembered. Not long ago, I could trace her shape in one smooth glide. Now it took time—my thumbs gently pressing in at her waist, then spreading around the blossomed softness of her belly, my fingers brushing over the stretch where her thighs met. She was growing. She had grown, right under her own nose.

“I never lied to hurt you,” I whispered, watching her eyes flutter half-shut. “I just didn’t want your brain to ruin what your body already knew.”

She bit her lip, gaze locked on my hands. My thumbs circled slowly along her sides, memorizing every new contour—the deeper roll above her hips, the way her navel had deepened into a soft shadow.

“You’ve been gaining for months,” I murmured, reverent. “And you never even noticed. Not because you weren’t smart. Because I made sure of it. Because I wanted to see what would happen… when you stopped trying to shrink yourself.”

Her hands twitched at her sides, uncertain. But she didn’t push me away. Not even when I leaned in, lips brushing just above her ear.

“You’re stunning like this.”

She turned slightly, her widened hips brushing against mine, and for the first time… she didn’t try to hide it. She didn’t try to suck in, or pull down her shirt. She stood there, breathing heavier, belly out, silent.

Letting me touch her.

Letting me see her.

[feedybot]

All-Inclusive

The resort was a dream. Five stars. Ocean views. Bottomless everything. Gia had booked it the second the wedding date was set — after all those months of dieting, stressing, fittings and fasting, she was going to enjoy herself.

And she did.

From the first moment they arrived, she dived headfirst into all-inclusive living.

The welcome buffet was endless. Crab cakes, creamy pastas, soft buttery rolls, bottomless drinks. Gia giggled as she sampled everything, bouncing on her heels like a kid in a candy store. Her plate was stacked, almost cartoonishly tall, as she weaved her way back to their table.

Rick just laughed at first. Let her have her fun, he thought.

She deserved it after all those months of hard work.

What neither of them didn’t know though was the fact that the resort had a dirty little secret: the appetizers were lightly laced with a hunger stimulant, meant to drive up bar tabs and “enhance guest satisfaction.” A little extra indulgence never hurt anyone, right?

Except… for Gia, with her body starved thin by months of wedding prep, it hit her like a freight train.

By the third night, Rick started noticing it.

Not just how much she was eating — but how.

Gia wasn’t just hungry at dinner; she was insatiable. She would demolish three plates and then pout, hand resting absently on her slightly bloated stomach, eyes darting toward the dessert table. She moaned about how hungry she still felt, even as she adjusted the tiny stylish belt of her sundress under the table.

He chuckled nervously, chalking it up to honeymoon cravings. But when he watched her press a third helping of chocolate mousse between her lips, moaning low in her throat with pleasure, something in him twisted.

Something’s wrong, he thought.

And then it got worse.

*

By Day 7, Gia was visibly different.

Her walk had changed. A slow, lazy sway to her hips. Her face, so delicately sculpted at the wedding, had softened. Dimples deepened. A new fullness bloomed under her chin.

She hadn’t packed for this.

Her clothes strained against her rapidly swelling body. Bikinis cut into her sides; sundresses clung scandalously tight across her chest and waist.

Every outfit seemed to show off more than it hid: the slight curve of her belly rounding out, the thickening of her thighs, the way her arms dimpled when she raised a drink.

But Gia didn’t notice.

She just laughed it off — “Honeymoon weight!” — and piled her plate higher.

Rick tried to intervene once. Maybe slow down a little, babe?

Gia just giggled, shoving another bite of something buttery into her mouth. “I’m just enjoying myself,” she said, licking the sauce from her fingers. “We only have one honeymoon, right?” She continued in secretive whisper.

He was scared.

Really scared now.

Because it wasn’t slowing down.

It was speeding up.

Her hunger was bottomless.

No matter how much she ate, she whined that she still felt empty. She begged him for room service at midnight. Snuck croissants from the breakfast buffet into her bag for later. Moaned in frustration if there was even a small wait at restaurants.

And he could see it.

Every single day.

New rolls crept over her bikini bottoms.

New chub puckered where smooth skin had once stretched tight.

Her belly grew heavier, softer, rounding out from its flat, taut wedding-day tightness to a plump, greedy bulge that visibly strained every waistband she owned.

*

Dance Night was when everything came crashing down.

Gia stuffed herself at dinner, five courses, four desserts, a bottle of wine - her usual now - then insisted they go dancing.

She dug out a slinky little black dress she had packed for the trip, squeezed herself into it with a few breathy curses, and admired herself in the mirror, oblivious to the way the fabric clung desperately to her swollen belly and hips.

Rick could only stare.

She looked wrecked—in the most beautiful, terrifying way.

When they hit the dancefloor, it happened fast.

He spun her around—and when he caught her—THUD.

Her body slammed into him, and for the first time, he felt it: the deep, unstoppable jiggle.

Not just a little wobble.

Her whole body shook with momentum.

Belly, breasts, thighs—everything quivered and bounced against him.

He stiffened. His heart raced. She just laughed, her arms lazily wrapping around his neck.

Rick lost it.

Without thinking, he crushed her to him.

Pressed their bodies together, feeling every swollen curve, every inch of softness that had bloomed over the past few days. His hands roamed without thinking—down her plush waist, around her widened hips, across the thick new heft of her thighs.

Gia gasped and then giggled, “You’re so handsy tonight…”

And he didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

He was feral now.

He gripped her tighter, forcing her softness against his body, feeling how she yielded, how she gave. She was heavy. Hot. Helpless.

The song ended. They didn’t even speak. They ran.

*

Back in the room, he attacked the minibar like a madman.

Anything and everything he could find—snacks, sweets, sandwiches—he ripped open and shoved toward her.

Gia was sprawled out on the bed, dress rucked up around her hips, belly cresting high and round, her thighs spread wide and lazy.

He fed her with trembling hands.

Bite after bite.

Sweet, salty, heavy foods, packed into her eager mouth.

She moaned and squirmed under his touch, blissed out, belly swelling tighter and tighter as she gorged herself.

When she finally whined that she couldn’t move - couldn’t even sit up - he just kept touching her, stroking the hard dome of her overstuffed stomach, massaging her newly thick arms, her thighs so wide he could barely span them with both hands.

She giggled and whimpered, too stuffed to think straight, letting him worship what she’d become.

By the time she fell asleep, snoring softly atop the wreckage of food wrappers and rumpled sheets, Rick knew:

There was no going back.

She was only going to get bigger.

*

When they landed back home, their friends were waiting at the airport.

Excited. Cheering. Signs and balloons.

And then—

Silence.

Gia waddled toward them, radiant and oblivious, one hand absent-mindedly rubbing the side of her heavy belly under a far-too-tight travel dress.

Every step made her hips quiver.

Every breath threatened to split the seams of her clothes.

Their friends’ faces were priceless—shock, awe, horror.

No one said a word. Few jaws hit the floor.

Rick just grinned, sliding his arm around her thick waist, claiming her in front of everyone.

Gia beamed at them all, clueless, cheeks chubby and pink with excitement.

“Missed you guys!” she chirped. “Hope you’re hungry — how is ready for a brunch?”

Rick tightened his grip around her, feeling her soft body yield under his hands.

He could already imagine it:

Another table piled high.

Another day of indulgence.

And hopefully another dress surrendering.

[feedybot]

You didn’t even notice how bad it had gotten — not at first.

It started innocently enough. An extra snack here. A lazy evening there. A few missed workouts that became a few missed weeks. You always promised yourself you’d fix it tomorrow. Or the day after. But tomorrow never really came, did it?

And now… standing in front of the mirror, tugging uselessly at the hem of your oversized shirt, you were faced with the truth.

The bulge was growing.

It pressed against the fabric, round and insistent, making the loose shirt strain around your middle. You tried to smooth it down, to hide it, but it was no use. You shifted your weight awkwardly, feeling how your thighs rubbed together, how the waistband of your pants dug into your flesh. You had hoped the looser clothes would save you — buy you some time. But even now, you could feel the tightness creeping back.

“I can see you bulging out even in this loose shirt,” he said quietly from the doorway, voice a mixture of awe and concern.

You flinched, pulling the fabric tighter around you, as if that could hide it.

“I know,” you muttered, cheeks burning.

He stepped closer, eyes flicking down to where your belly pushed defiantly against the shirt.

“The pants,” he said, almost to himself. “The pants are not going to be able to take it. Not today.”

You bit your lip, breathing shallowly. You felt it too — the button was struggling, the zipper strained to its limit. Any wrong movement and it would all come undone.

And then you shifted — just a little — and it happened.

They started giving out.

You gasped, fumbling to suck your stomach back in, hands trembling. But it was too late. You tried to fight it — to hold it in, to deny what was happening — but you couldn’t anymore.

And once you finally let go…

Your belly surged forward with a heavy, glorious release. The button popped clean off, the zipper gaping open as your swollen middle spilled out, jiggling slightly with every shallow breath.

You tried to contain the belly with both hands, pressing desperately against it — but the fight was… futile. Your fingers sank into the soft, stretched flesh. It was no longer a manageable pudge. It was a force of its own.

Your belly was this round, tight ball.

Heavy. Glowing with tension. A living monument to every bad decision, every indulgence you couldn’t resist.

He stared at you, wide-eyed, as you whimpered and tried to cover yourself.

“I need you to slow down!” he burst out finally, voice breaking. “This way you will be huge in no time!”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes. You didn’t want this. You hadn’t meant for it to go so far.

But even now — even seeing yourself like this — you knew deep down you wouldn’t stop.

“Where has my small girl gone to?” he asked softly, almost broken, reaching out but stopping himself before touching you.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, shivering.

“Every time I see you,” he said, voice trembling, “you have managed to put on more weight.”

You looked at him, pleading for understanding, for mercy — but he just shook his head slowly, as if he couldn’t believe it either.

“You are changing right in front of my eyes,” he whispered. “Always growing…”

You sniffled, feeling the warmth of your own body pressing against your arms, the undeniable, steady expansion of your middle.

You weren’t the same girl who started this.

You were becoming something else.

And there was no stopping it now.

You gave up pretending after that night.

No more squeezing into too-small pants. No more tugging shirts over your swelling belly. No more pitiful, last-ditch efforts to hide what was happening right in front of both of you.

You let it happen.

And he watched — helpless, horrified, and yet… captivated.

You lounged around the house in soft, stretched fabrics that clung to your growing curves. Tank tops that barely reached the waistband of your leggings — when you bothered to wear leggings at all. Sometimes just shorts, riding up thick thighs, leaving nothing to the imagination. Sometimes nothing but a stretched-out t-shirt that couldn’t even hide the heavy curve of your middle anymore.

It was almost a ritual now: his eyes finding you the moment you entered the room. Tracking the sway of your hips, the slight jiggle of your arms, the thick softness gathering at your thighs. And especially, always, the heavy bulge of your belly.

You were constantly touching it without thinking. Resting a hand on its curve, cradling it when you sat, adjusting it when you shifted position. It moved with you now — a heavy, living part of you. A center of gravity you could no longer ignore.

One evening, as you padded into the living room, carrying a bowl of snacks, he stood up abruptly.

“I can’t—” he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. His hands trembled slightly at his sides. “I can’t just sit here and watch you do this.”

You blinked, confused.

He stepped closer. His hands hovered near you, not quite touching. Like he was afraid.

“Would you please stop doing this to yourself?” he whispered, voice cracking.

You looked up at him — really looked — and saw it there. The fear. The worry. But also something darker. Something hotter. A hunger he was fighting with everything he had.

You didn’t say a word. You just shifted the bowl to one side, letting your free hand trail lazily over the taut curve of your belly, feeling the firm give beneath your fingertips.

He closed his eyes, shuddering.

“You’re changing,” he said hoarsely. “Every day. Right in front of my eyes. Always growing…”

There was a beat of silence between you.

Then you took a slow, deliberate handful of chips and brought them to your mouth. Crunching. Smiling faintly. Challenging him.

He groaned — a broken, desperate sound — and finally gave in, reaching for you. His hands sank into your softness, gripping your sides, feeling the heat and heft of your body.

“You’re going to be huge,” he murmured against your hair. “You’re not even close to done, are you?”

You shook your head, smiling through a mouthful of salt and grease.

He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, breathing you in, surrendering completely to the inevitability of it.

To the inevitability of you.

The girl he once knew was gone — replaced by this growing, consuming, impossible version of herself.

And he couldn’t look away.

It started slowly.

At first, he would just bring you an extra plate at dinner. A second helping of pasta. Another slice of cake. Always with that same look — half guilt, half reverence — as he watched you eat it all.

You didn’t resist.

You couldn’t.

The hunger inside you had grown too strong, too greedy, too demanding.

It wasn’t just your body anymore that was expanding — it was your appetite, your desires, your very sense of self. Growing, swelling, consuming everything in their path.

And he was right there with you.

Before long, it became deliberate. Ritualistic.

He would sit you down — your body already straining the poor couch, your belly resting heavily on your thighs — and bring you plate after plate after plate. Watching. Waiting. Encouraging.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he would whisper, running a hand down the side of your round, stretched stomach. “So beautiful. So full.”

You could barely breathe sometimes, so stuffed you felt like you might split open. But the way he touched you — the way he looked at you — made you want more.

Always more.

He couldn’t keep his hands off you anymore. He marveled at your growth, tracing the new rolls forming along your back, the thick swell of your hips, the heavy sway of your breasts as you waddled from room to room. His hands roamed over the deep, soft curves of your thighs, the tight, strained flesh of your belly, the beautiful, aching fullness of your body.

“You’re changing so fast,” he breathed one night, dragging his fingers along a fresh stretch mark slashing across your side. “Every time I see you, you’ve managed to put on more weight.”

He said it with awe. With pride.

You leaned into him, feeling your body yield — soft and massive and undeniable.

“You’re not my small girl anymore,” he said, almost laughing, almost crying. “You’re something… more.”

You rested your heavy belly against him, hearing him groan under the weight. It pinned him down, stealing his breath. And he loved it.

He loved you like this — bigger, heavier, helplessly soft and sprawling.

You looked into his eyes, seeing the truth there, and whispered:

“I’m not done yet.”

His whole body shuddered.

You weren’t.

Your belly pressed outward, a glorious, tight ball growing heavier by the day. Your arms thickened, your thighs spread wider, your face softened into round, cherubic fullness. Every step became a wobble, every movement a struggle — but you didn’t care. Neither did he.

He wanted to see it. Needed to.

You changing.

You growing.

You becoming more than either of you had ever dreamed.

And so he fed you — worshiped you — loved you as you ballooned beyond recognition, a goddess of indulgence and hunger and glory.

And you let him.

You let yourself become everything he secretly, desperately wanted.

And you never stopped

[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.”

[feedybot]

Chapter 1: The Deal

It started with the jeans.

They weren’t tight-tight. Not at first. Just… a little more snug than usual. Enough to make me do that awkward wiggle in front of the mirror, trying to convince myself they must’ve shrunk in the wash. But then I caught him doing the same thing with his own pants—frowning down at his stomach and tugging his waistband with a sigh.

That night, over takeout Thai and a Netflix binge, we had the talk.

“Okay, we’re not huge or anything,” I said, mouth full of pad see ew. “But I feel like maybe we’ve been… enjoying ourselves a bit too much?”

He looked at me, chewing thoughtfully. “So you’re saying you miss your abs.”

“I never had abs.”

“Exactly.” He smirked.

I chucked a throw pillow at him, but he ducked. “You’re the one who’s been baking banana bread every Sunday like we’re in quarantine again.”

“Hey, you’re the one who eats half of it before it even cools.”

We bickered, teased, and laughed our way into a decision: we’d get serious. No crash diets, no weird detoxes. Just real effort. Gym three times a week. Cooking at home. Accountability.

He even shook on it with me like it was a sacred vow.

The Deal.

At first, it felt kind of amazing. We went grocery shopping together like one of those obnoxiously fit couples. We meal-prepped. We downloaded a workout app. The gym was brutal but weirdly fun when we did it side by side. I had new leggings, new sneakers, a new water bottle I actually remembered to use.

And for a while, I could feel the change—more energy, slightly less puffiness. Not dramatic, but enough.

He, of course, started making progress faster. He’s just one of those guys who looks at a dumbbell and magically gains definition. I tried not to let it bother me. I just upped my cardio. Skipped dessert a few nights.

But there were… little slips.

A few skipped workouts. A couple of late-night snack runs. A day where I was “too sore” followed by one where I just didn’t feel like it. Nothing major. Nothing I couldn’t bounce back from.

Right?

He didn’t say anything. Just kept showing up to the gym. Kept flexing in the mirror and playfully asking me to “feel his biceps.” I did, and teased him back, but I couldn’t help noticing how solid he was getting.

Still. We were doing this together. That was the point.

One night, lying in bed with his arm wrapped around me, he squeezed my waist and kissed my shoulder.

“You’re doing great,” he whispered.

I smiled into the dark, warm and sleepy and safe.

Maybe I was.

Chapter 2: Progress and Plateaus

Three weeks in, he took a shirtless gym selfie in the mirror. Not to post—he just showed it to me like it was no big deal. “Not bad, right?” he said, flexing his arm a little, like a dork.

And yeah… it wasn’t bad at all.

His stomach was flatter. His chest looked a bit more defined. His arms weren’t huge, but they had that lean, sculpted look I’d only seen on fitness influencers. And the worst part? He was barely even trying. Sure, he showed up and pushed himself, but half the time he was cracking jokes between sets or texting while stretching.

Meanwhile, I was sweating my ass off and… not seeing much.

At first, I brushed it off. Everyone said women lost weight more slowly. Hormones. Water retention. All that. I just needed more time. So I pushed harder. Upped my reps. Cut back on bread. Stared down my scale like it owed me an apology.

But by the end of the fourth week, my leggings felt tighter. Not looser. I actually had to peel them off one night with a little hop and a grunt. My sports bra left red marks. Even my hoodie felt weird around the waist—just a little more snug when I pulled it down.

Still, I didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

But I caught him looking.

Once, after a run, I flopped onto the couch and lifted my shirt to wipe my forehead, and his eyes lingered. Just a second too long. Not in a bad way. Not in a mean way. But enough that I flushed a little and yanked the fabric back down.

He smiled. “You’re glowing.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s sweat, not glow.”

“It’s hot.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not just saying that because I’m falling behind?”

He sat beside me and kissed my temple. “You’re doing fine.”

That word again—fine.

It followed me everywhere. My progress? Fine. My form? Fine. My measurements? Still “fine.”

But something didn’t feel fine. My thighs rubbed together a little more than they used to. My belly puffed just slightly over my waistband when I sat down. I felt softer. Rounder. And worse—tired. Not just from the workouts, but from trying to pretend I wasn’t quietly sliding backwards.

That night, after he went to sleep, I stood in front of the mirror and turned sideways. My reflection blinked back, a little fuller than I remembered. A tiny crease where my waist used to dip in more sharply. A curve to my lower belly I could swear wasn’t there a month ago.

I sighed, tugged my shirt down, and climbed into bed beside him.

“Still glowing,” he mumbled in his sleep, reaching out to rest a hand on my hip.

I bit my lip.

Maybe I was glowing.

But under the covers, I could feel the way his hand sank in a little more than it used to.

Chapter 3: The Gym Gap

I started dreading the mirror at the gym.

Not the big one in front of the treadmills—that one was easy to avoid if I just looked at the TVs. No, it was the full-length one by the dumbbells, where I’d catch glimpses of myself mid-squat, red-faced and puffy, next to him—my boyfriend, my gym partner, my own personal reminder that men really do have it easier.

His arms were looking ridiculous now. That lean, toned phase had passed into something more… defined. Shoulders broader. Veins starting to pop just a little. He still goofed off, still made bad jokes between sets, but now people were actually watching him. One of the trainers asked if he’d ever done a fitness program before.

No one was asking me anything—except if I needed help reracking weights I hadn’t actually lifted.

It wasn’t like I wasn’t trying. I was. I’d show up, sweat through my sports bra, wince through burpees. I’d track my food, until a bad day made me say screw it and I inhaled an entire bag of peanut M&Ms on the couch.

He never said anything.

But sometimes, after a long session, I’d catch him glancing at my stomach when I peeled off my hoodie. Not judging, exactly—just noticing. And somehow, that was worse.

“You okay?” he asked one evening, as I dropped onto the couch with a groan.

“Just sore,” I muttered, adjusting the waistband of my leggings that were starting to roll down in front.

“Yeah?” He flopped down beside me, full of post-gym energy. “You’re looking good, though.”

I snorted. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying.” He grinned and reached over, giving my hip a little squeeze. “Soft isn’t bad.”

I froze. My face went hot.

“Wow,” I said, half-laughing, half-offended. “Way to flirt.”

He looked sheepish, but amused. “I meant it as a compliment.”

Sure, maybe he did. Maybe he liked how I was filling out. But I didn’t. Not when my favorite jeans refused to button last weekend. Not when I caught myself hiding empty wrappers in the bottom of the trash so he wouldn’t see.

It felt like we were still on the same path—but walking in opposite directions.

He kept looking better. I kept getting… softer.

That weekend, we went to a brunch with some friends. He wore this fitted navy tee that made his arms look massive. I wore a flowy dress because the jeans were a no-go and my leggings were in the wash. As we sat down, one of our friends raised her eyebrows and said, “Damn, someone’s been working out!”

I smiled, proud of him. He deserved it.

Then she looked at me. “You too?”

It wasn’t mean, not really. But something about the pause—the slight tilt of her head—made my stomach clench.

I laughed it off. “Trying.”

Back home, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror after my shower, towel wrapped under my arms. My belly curved out a little further than I wanted to admit. My thighs looked thicker. My face was a touch rounder.

I reached down and poked the soft swell at my waist. It jiggled gently.

From the hallway, his voice floated in: “Hey babe, you want protein shakes or smoothies tomorrow?”

I hesitated, then called back: “Smoothies. But can we add peanut butter?”

“Of course.”

And maybe, deep down, I knew I wasn’t really trying anymore.

Chapter 4: Treat Yourself

I started skipping workouts more often. At first it was little things—late meetings, cramps, a “rest day” that turned into a rest week. He still went, of course. He’d kiss me on the forehead and say, “You sure you don’t want to come?” like he already knew the answer.

And I’d smile from the couch, hoodie pulled down over my belly, a snack in one hand and a throw blanket in the other.

“I’ll go tomorrow,” I’d say. Every time.

But tomorrow kept moving.

The weird part? He didn’t nag me. Not once. He just… let it happen. Still made extra smoothie for me in the mornings. Still cooked dinner when I was too tired. Still hugged me from behind in the kitchen, even when my tank top started riding up in the front.

One night, after he’d come back from the gym all pumped and sweaty, I reached out to touch his chest—partly to tease him, partly just because, damn. He smirked.

“Feel that?” he said.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” I rolled my eyes. “You’re turning into a Greek statue.”

He looked at me for a second, then said, “Well, you’re turning into a little goddess too.”

I blinked.

“Soft and curvy,” he added, eyes flicking down. “It suits you.”

I didn’t know what to say. My cheeks went hot. Part of me wanted to smack him with a pillow. Part of me wanted to melt into the floor.

Instead, I mumbled something and shuffled off to the kitchen. Ten minutes later, I was eating cookie dough straight from the tub.

It wasn’t intentional. I wasn’t giving up or anything. I just needed comfort. And honestly? It felt good. Better than chasing progress I couldn’t see. Better than hating my reflection after a week of being “good.”

So I leaned into it.

Skipped the salads. Ordered dessert. Bought myself a new pair of leggings that didn’t dig into my waist. He noticed, of course. Especially when we cuddled on the couch and I’d shift to get comfortable, only to feel his hand slide over my side… and stop.

Not in judgment.

In appreciation.

“You’re so soft lately,” he murmured once, his hand slipping under my hoodie, resting on the gentle swell of my belly.

I flushed. “That’s not a compliment, babe.”

He tilted his head, eyes warm. “Isn’t it?”

I didn’t answer. But I didn’t move his hand either.

Chapter 5: Clothes Don’t Lie

It happened on a Saturday morning.

The plan was simple: brunch with his sister, casual outfit, cute vibes. I’d even done my hair. But when I went to pull on my favorite jeans—the high-waisted ones I used to live in—they barely made it past my thighs.

I paused. Blinked. Tried again.

The denim stretched tight across my legs, cutting into my skin like they were two sizes too small. I yanked them up anyway, doing that little dance, tugging and wiggling until the waistband sat just under my belly. I sucked in and reached for the button.

It wouldn’t close.

I tried lying down on the bed, like that would magically change anything. Still no luck. The gap was almost two inches wide, my stomach rounding softly between the edges, defiantly uncontainable.

I just stared.

“Babe?” he called from the kitchen. “You good?”

Panic fluttered in my chest. I wrestled the jeans off and threw them into the closet like they’d personally betrayed me. My face was burning.

I grabbed a loose flowy dress instead—one of those comfy ones I used to wear when I was bloated. It used to hang off me. Now it… clung. Not tight, exactly, but definitely not hiding anything.

He didn’t say a word when I walked out. Just looked me up and down, eyes lingering for a second longer than usual.

“You look cute,” he said, smiling. “I like that dress.”

“You mean you like that it hides the fact I’ve apparently gained a small planet,” I muttered.

He raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you’re thinking it.”

He walked over, slid his hands to my hips, and leaned in. “I’m thinking,” he whispered, “that you’ve never looked more delicious.”

I swatted at him, flustered. “You’re such a dork.”

“Am I wrong?”

His fingers found the dip at my waist—what was left of it—and squeezed gently. I felt my breath hitch. My stomach pushed out slightly under the soft fabric, and I knew he could feel it. Every extra inch.

He didn’t let go.

That night, after a surprisingly indulgent brunch and an afternoon nap we both blamed on food comas, I found those jeans again. I stared at them for a long time before folding them up and placing them quietly in the back of the closet.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

But even as I turned away, I could still feel the weight of them—not just in my hands, but on my hips, my thighs, the soft curve of my belly that had grown too bold to ignore.

Chapter 6: The New Normal

By the time summer rolled in, I’d stopped pretending.

Stopped pretending I was going to wake up early and go to the gym. Stopped pretending my leggings were just “stretching out in the wash.” Stopped pretending I didn’t love the way his hand settled on my hip a little longer every night, like it belonged there.

My body had changed. That much was obvious.

Everything was rounder. Softer. Fuller. My belly had become a constant companion, pressing against my waistband, peeking out under shirts that used to fall flat. My thighs kissed with every step, and my arms had that little extra jiggle that didn’t bounce back like it used to.

And somehow… I wasn’t miserable about it.

Maybe because of the way he looked at me now. Not like I’d failed. Not like I was someone who’d let herself go. But like I was something he’d won.

He’d still tease me. God, he teased me.

“Need help getting up, princess?” he’d ask when I sank into the couch with a little huff. Or, “You sure you don’t want seconds?” when I was already halfway through my second helping. He’d grin when I shot him a look, but he’d always serve me more.

One night, we went out with friends. He wore a fitted button-up that showed off his arms. I wore a long, flowing maxi dress—nothing tight, nothing clingy. Just enough to feel pretty without showing everything.

And yet… I still caught a few glances.

“Damn,” someone whispered as we walked past. “He got ripped.”

I smiled proudly. He deserved it.

But a beat later, another voice followed, low but clear:

“She got softer, huh?”

It wasn’t cruel. Just matter-of-fact.

But it echoed in my head the rest of the night.

Back home, I stood in front of the mirror, dress slipping down my shoulders. I ran my hands over my belly—no longer a hint of softness, but a full, round curve that pushed out over my hips. I lifted it slightly. Let it drop. Watched it bounce once, then settle.

“You’re staring again,” he said, appearing behind me.

I jumped. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He wrapped his arms around me from behind, hands resting right where the softness began. “You’re beautiful.”

I rolled my eyes. “You have to say that.”

“I really don’t.”

His hands smoothed down, resting fully over my belly. He pressed a kiss to the side of my neck. “You know what I love?”

“What?”

“This.” He gave the soft swell a gentle squeeze. “I love that you’re mine. That I get to hold all of this.”

My cheeks burned. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re irresistible.”

I turned in his arms, the motion making my dress stretch a little over my belly. He noticed. He always noticed. But instead of pulling away, he kissed me again—deeper, slower, with the kind of intensity that made me forget every pair of jeans I couldn’t wear anymore.

I wasn’t what I used to be.

But maybe… I was more.

And if this was the new normal?

Well.

It didn’t feel so bad.

Epilogue: Just One More Bite

Six months later, the gym membership went unused. My workout clothes had been quietly pushed to the bottom drawer, replaced by oversized tees, stretchy dresses, and lounge sets that hugged a body that had definitely outgrown its “relationship weight.”

We were curled up on the couch—me in his hoodie, him shirtless, always running warm. A half-eaten pizza box sat open on the coffee table. My stomach was full. Too full. The good kind. Heavy, warm, soft.

“I shouldn’t have eaten that last slice,” I muttered, rubbing the round swell of my belly. “You let me.”

He laughed and kissed the top of my head. “I encouraged you.”

“I know.”

His hand drifted under the hem of the hoodie I’d stolen. He found the curve of my waist easily, fingers brushing the warm stretch of my side. I shifted with a groan, belly pushing outward, taut from dinner. I was so full I could barely sit straight.

“You’re getting greedy,” he teased, giving my side a squeeze.

“I’m getting soft,” I corrected, a little breathless.

He hummed. “Same thing, to me.”

I turned to face him, cheeks warm. “You like this,” I said quietly, not even a question.

“I love this,” he said, sliding his hand lower, settling over the heavy curve of my belly. “I love watching you enjoy yourself. Watching you let go.”

I bit my lip. “I’m not exactly tiny anymore.”

“Exactly,” he said, with a look that made me melt and squirm all at once.

We sat there for a moment in comfortable silence, his hand rising and falling gently with each breath I took. I leaned back into his chest, stuffed and content and just a little drunk on affection.

Then he whispered, lips brushing my ear:

“Dessert?”

My stomach gave a small, traitorous gurgle. I laughed, incredulous. “Are you serious?”

He was already getting up. “Just one more bite. For me.”

I sighed, smiling in defeat, hands cradling the fullness of my belly.

“One more bite,” I murmured. “But you’re carrying me to bed after.”

His grin was all I needed to see.