#fat shaming kink

[echotums]

Your Shameful Indulgence

CW: Weight gain, stuffing, bloating, extreme humiliation/degradation/teasing/bullying, fat shaming, force feeding, slob, gas, burping, farting, mentions of nausea, indigestion, male reader, 2nd person POV.

You come back from a get-together with friends completely stuffed and humiliated. Little do you know, your boyfriends have plans to worsen your state.

You moan, squirming in discomfort on your bed; the bed frame creaks worryingly under your weight. Your belly throbs and aches, gurgling angrily as it tries to digest the enormous meal of greasy, fatty foods you'd just binged publicly on. You keen, hands rubbing the bloat of your gut, sinking into a layer of soft fat before meeting tight resistance. It rumbles and burbles ominously, fighting against the feast you had forced down. You burp loudly in response.

The tight jeans you’d squeezed yourself into are digging into your fat gut, several sizes too small. If they were tight before, they are a second skin now. You can hear the waistband creak warningly around your massively bloated belly, rumbling and swelling as the junk food sloshes around inside.

After a while of not seeing your friends, you finally found time to spend with them again. and, well… you may have gorged yourself on the junk food that was laid out for everyone.

With closed eyes, you hum nauseously as you hold the sides of your sensitive belly. You can feel it, all that food churning inside you, making you expand, slowly melting into thick, wobbling blubber. God, why did you eat so much? You're going to get so fat. How many calories were in your meal? How much weight will you gain? You shake your belly and dislodge a burp. The skin of your tummy is vibrating with the intensity of the cramps and noises it is making. It sloshes with every jiggle that ripples through it, constantly shifting and wobbling.

“My tummy hurts so much, ngh…”

Brown eyes cloudy with need, you look down at your gut, unable to see over the massively bloated crest of it. It’s thick and swollen, skin blushing and stretched thin, feverishly hot to the touch.

Your shirt has ridden up, resting above your belly button where your jeans cut into your softened flesh deeply, making the skin red. Your blubbery muffin top is perfectly visible, seemingly wobbling with every deep rumble; plump love handles squishing into the thin denim ridiculously.

You shift, feel your plump thighs rub together, creating a shameful warmth between your legs, right under your engorged tummy and swollen fatpad. As you whine, you become increasingly aware of your ass straining the seams of your pants, asscrack visible.

Biting your lip, Nicholas blushes and slaps the top of your sore gut, watching as it jiggles. It’s as tight as a drum, no room left. God, are you full. You look ridiculous, a fat hog unable to control yourself, so lost in your insatiable hunger, the craving to overindulge; your want for more, more, more. And look where that got you; stranded on your bed, vulnerable under the weight of your grossly fattened gut. Nicholas burps unattractively as your stomach lets out a sickeningly wet squelch, feeling the zipper and button of your jeans constrict further.

All your friends were there when you binged, when you pigged out on food that would wreck even the thinnest of waistlines. They jeered and judged you, snidely watching this shameful fatass stuff himself senseless. And after, when you were a moaning, bloated blob, an embarrassingly desperate fatty with a noisy gut, the teasing continued. God, it was mortifying.

“You used to be so bitchy.”

“We thought you didn't want to hang out with us!”

“What happened to your body?”

“Yeah! you used to be so skinny!”

"Haha, holy shit. this is hilarious!"

"Wow, you blew up like a balloon, dude."

Round cheeks go red and warm, your multitude of chins squishing as you try to look down. You remember gorging yourself on the fattening, greasy and sugary foods that were laid out. You just couldn’t control yourself, you had to eat. One bite led to two, two had suddenly led to plates worth of oil-soaked and sugar-filled junk. Which soon led to guzzling cups of calorie-dense drinks. Before you knew it, you were stuck in your chair, belly engorged and roaring angrily, protesting all the calories being poured into it so quickly. At that point, all you could do was eat, eat, eat.

Everyone was looking at you in disgusted awe, watching your stomach bloat outward with each morsel of food you scarfed down. You distinctly remember someone saying, “I think you’ve had enough, Nick… you’ve… kind of gained a lot of weight… and this will only make you fatter.” You had denied it while shoving more food in your face, clothes tightening against your overfed body, stomach and intestines disagreeing loudly.

You remember how near the end of your binge, everyone watched in sick fascination as this fat hog kept gorging, stuffing yourself full of food despite looking like you might burst. They were watching as you gave into your sinfully hedonistic desires, seeing the consequences of every bite and gulp; becoming rounder, fuller, bloating into a disgustingly obese, overindulgent fatass.

As you laid back, groaning and rubbing your engorged gut, they laughed at you, pointing fingers and forcing you to guzzle more down, making you even bigger.

You remember them laughing at the repulsive gurgles your burgeoning belly made with every bite, at the way your clothes were obviously too tight. Your constant burping and farting was another laughing point. All the food and drink had left you a gassy mess. They smacked your gut and shook it, laughing in mockery at you as the oversized mound of fat wobbled comically. You shudder as the words ring in your bleary mind.

“How the mighty have fallen! You've really let yourself go."

"Ohh, your belly's mad. You hear that, guys?"

"Desperate fatty, you look like you need more."

"He's gonna explode out of those clothes!"

"The extra weight’s made you nicer… I like you better fat!"

That had earned some joyful, humorous cheers and a renewed effort to fatten you up even more. You hadn't fought back, didn't see a need to. In fact, halfway through, you felt a carnal, tantalizing warmth spread through you.

Whimpering breathily, you roll over onto your side, hand rubbing the side of your distended middle. It bounces as the swollen mass hits your bed with a thud, groaning loudly, the contents sloshing and squelching around as it tries to digest all the pounds of thick, calorific food and drink jammed into it. All the movement dislodges a deep, watery belch, a little moan following after.

You slap the side of your plush potbelly, eyes angry at your own lack of self-control. God, why did you eat so much? You just can’t control yourself. It’s so easy to indulge and give in to your deepest desires… desires you refuse to acknowledge are coming to life. You can’t be into this, right? You rub deftly at the side of your hugely bloated gut. It's sore at the top and sides, pulled painfully tight from the weight of the unhealthy foods and drinks you'd gorged yourself on. The fat roll that connects your back to the side of your paunch has been stretched to its capacity, seemingly no longer in sight. The only “roll” to be seen is your unflattering muffin top.

Maybe they were right, maybe you are nothing more than a fat glutton…

You let out a heady whine, wobbling onto your back again, clutching at your unhappy tummy; it churns, forcing out a long, deep belch. You whimper and pants open-mouthed as your belly begins to bloat and swell with gas, pent up from indigestion. You burp over and over to help alleviate the pressure, but it seems endless. You let out a long fart like the slob you're becoming, the slob you are. But still, your gut is tight. The button on your jeans feels like it’s about to pop… and so does your belly. It’s confusingly erotic, feeling yourself get fatter with every humiliating gurgle. You can barely breathe, all the pressure in your gut weighing you down, the headiness of the moment making you pant like you're in heat.

A quiet creak of worn-down wood echoes in your ears, most likely the bed, it’s been making those noises often when you're around. Floors creak under your thundering steps and furniture groans under your weight. The little bungalow is probably older than you and your long-term boyfriends, Jace and Nick, had thought.

God, imagine if the twins saw you like this. Stranded on their bed, back arching toward your bloated, aching belly; face scrunched up in agony…. or is it pleasure you're feeling? The pleasure from fulfilling a deep, hedonistic desire to just let yourself go, gorge on all the food your sensitive, soft belly can handle. To become the spoiled, fattened little piggy you're always been meant to be.

Writhing and moaning, you lavish in the sweet lust. Tears begin to bead in your eyes as little whimpers and burps escape rosy lips, tongue peaking out lewdly. Your swollen belly is gurgling and sloshing non-stop, pants moments from snapping off. You let out a burst of gas. God, how embarrassing it would be for you to be seen like this-

“Hey!”

“You okay?”

Fuck.

It’s Jace and Nick.

Deeply blushing, you squeak and try to sit up, rocking from side to side, bed creaking and fat jiggling. You get halfway up before yelping as your belly cramps and gurgles. You let out a loud and sickeningly wet burp and fall on your back in a pathetic heap, fat bouncing and rippling around you like a wave of softness. Your tummy wobbles most, burgeoning with fat and endless calories, settling on top of you in a blubbery heap.

You're literally too fat to get up, oh, God.

Mind racing, Nicholas pushes a hand down over the center of your inflated midsection while attempting to pull your shirt down, gasping and pulling away when the slight pressure causes a sharp ache and a wave of even more angry gurgles, stomach clamping desperately onto the food bubbling inside. You feel yourself swell further from the wobbling movement, taut skin turning even hotter with pressure. You try to fart out some of the pressure, but at the rate you're bloating, it barely makes any headway. You're blowing up like a balloon and your boyfriends are watching. Seeing you get fatter.

“Please!” You cry as your saggy arms flail. Your stuffed belly twinges with pain as it loudly tries to digest and keep everything from coming back up. You feel your skin stretch and creak with pressure, your gut bubbling as indigestion causes it to bloat and swell into a painfully distended, obscenely large mound. And even worse? You can’t stop burping and fucking farting.

The twins are watching like hawks, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. Nick seems upset, but you always do when he’s… turned on. And Jace looks worried, but also somehow aroused.

”Don’t look!” You wail over the monstrous sounds your gut is making, fervently rubbing at the fattened flesh of your underbelly, fingers digging into the softness, desperately trying to quell the embarrassing noises. You lick your lips, fluffy, dark hair sticking to your forehead as you find your fattened body overtaken with a breathtaking heat. Your quivering belly settles finally after, of fucking course, it rumbles monstrously and forces out a grossly loud belch, relieving some of the agonizing pressure.

Gripping your engorged gut on either side, Nicholas smacks and shakes it angrily, pleading, “fuck, stop it!” To which you receive an endless cacophony of embarrassing digestive noises. Thus, you sob in utter humiliation, closing your eyes as you pass gas, long and high. You listen to Jace and Nick come closer, desperately rubbing your belly. You're hot all over, your body buzzing in anticipation.

“God! It’s… you’re huge! What happened?” Jace speaks disbelievingly, striding over to your blubbery, soft body.

Another voice follows, Nick. “What did you do, Nicholas?” Nick steps to the opposite side of Jace, leading to the twins surrounding your beached body.

Moaning, you slowly open your wet eyes, chubby hands still massaging sensitive, plump flesh. You can only imagine how you look, a fat hog trapped under the weight of your own gluttony. Only able to satisfy the needs of your gut; stuffing yourself silly until your belly literally has to burble sickeningly at you to stop… and even then, you laze around in too-small clothes on a creaking bed, aching and bloated, waiting for all those calories to melt into thick, gelatinous fat. Your belly churns forcefully and you have to swallow back a loud gag.

“Sweetheart?”

Gentle, cold hands are placed on your feverish skin. You shudder at the contrast, eyebrows furrowing further as you moan in surprise. Twin laughs echo in the room. It makes you look up into their vibrant eyes. With a gentle pat on your belly, you are reminded that, oh, they asked you what had happened.

“I…I think I ate too much,” you moan, wiping your eyes on a pudgy hand. You place it beside your boyfriends’, looking up at them both. Their strong, commanding forms contrast wonderfully with your plump flesh.

This shouldn’t be as erotic as it is.

The twins share a look filled with intent. Nick looms over your prone form, moving his hand slowly, fingers pressing meanly over the bloated flesh. Jace’s leaner but no less strong form leers at you, hand teasing over your dome of a gut. Your belly rumbles at the tickling and deep caresses before quieting a little. You sigh at the temporary relief.

However, after a good look at the two, you quickly become hyper-aware of how horribly mortifying this situation is. You feel massive, starfished on the bed, your bloated, aching gut vulnerable and sensitive. You imagine yourself as some spoiled and overfed prey, looking into the jaws of agile, deadly predators waiting to strike. And judging by the mischievous glints in their eyes, they seem to be running through a similar trail of thought. You are truly defenseless, immobilized by your vast expanse of jiggly fat.

“You think you ate too much? Or you did and don’t want to admit it?” Jace presses, raising a delicate brow. He charmingly pushes his bright blond hair out of his eyes as he firmly settles his hands on your belly; his nails and fingers pressing into the squishy bloat.

Whimpering breathily, you arch into his hand, I… I don't know. I-“ You're interrupted by a long, sickly burp followed by Nick’s intimidating laughter. You blush profusely, looking down at the burgeoning mound of fat taking up your entire middle. A moment later you fart and the twins laugh. They’re working hard to get the gas out and it’s fucking mortifying. With a deep belch, he brings your hands to the sides of your gut, massaging where the skin is cramped and thin.

“I spent some time with some of the guys and…” You bite your lip as a sharp ache radiates from the center of your rotund belly. “Oh, fuck! That hurts.” You watch through half-lidded eyes as Nick gracefully scoots around your ample body, barely creating a dent in the mattress. He settles on his knees beside you, thin hands tickling the quaking fat of your gut.

“And?” Nick places his hands on yours, stopping their furious kneading. An angry rumble echoes through the room, causing you to shift and whimper in embarrassment. You need belly rubs so badly right now. Your belly is swollen and aching, growling furiously; it’s clearly not happy with the lack of attention it’s now getting.

“Blondie, please-“

“Come on, tell us what happened, or we won't be able to help you,” is Jace’s quick reply.

You huff needily, looking away. The gurgling has increased in volume, making your belly vibrate. It sounds sickly and wet, clearly struggling with how overfull it is. You swallow thickly at a burp trying to come up, making your tummy cramp up and bloat that much more. You keen as you explain, “I-I went to spend time with some of the guys and-“ you hiccup at another intense groan from your belly before continuing. “There was a lot of food and so I… said I would only have a little, but then…” You shudder as shame washes over you, warming your body.

Gurgling nauseously, your gut quivers restlessly, causing you to attempt to massage it again. But Nick just tightens his grip. Jace catches your eyes, head tilting innocently. You can feel your belly churn and groan under your chubby palms as it attempts to digest the greasy and sugary junk you pigged out on.

“And then? What could have possibly happened after?”

Eyes pleading with the twins, you sigh when all you get in return are matching grins. You whimper as you continue the shameful retelling of your impromptu stuffing, “I ate a bit and I tried to control myself; honestly, I did!” Jace nods in faux empathy, eyes glimmering. Nick then puts pressure on you and your joint hands, pushing deeply into your rounded gut. You shudder, blushing hotly as you say, “but after a couple of bites… I couldn't help myself, couldn’t stop. I was so hungry and it tasted so good! I just needed to have more!” Your tummy rumbles as if reliving the subsequent gorging that followed.

“And so I ate, and I ate, and I ate… God, I just… I couldn't control myself, I had to keep eating!” You shake your head at the memory, licking your lips, recalling the feeling of pure gluttony and wanton need that had rushed over you. “It tasted so good, felt so good…” You remember the junk food, dripping with grease, the drinks saturated in sugar; waiting to fatten you up.

Lost in the inebriation brought on by hedonism, you continue lustily, “I could feel myself get fuller, my belly getting bigger and bigger… stuffed full of fattening foods that would just make me fatter and fatter.” You lick your lips and take in a shuddering breath, looking at your bulbous gut, “I lost all control and made a complete pig of myself.” Your stomach lets out a loud, sickly groan, as if agreeing. You mewl needily, thick thighs rubbing together as you listen to your stuffed belly bubble noxiously.

“And then the guys, they… they started to feed me.” Biting your bottom lip, you look up through your thick lashes at the twins, eyes flitting between them. “They force-fed me the rest of the food. There was still so much left. They watched as I ate and laughed and made fun of how fat I looked, even though I'm not that big!” You feel the need to defend yourself, to deny just what your endless binging has done to your waistline. In the back of your mind, you know you're not fooling anybody, not even yourself. Especially not your boyfriends.

“Wow, just how many calories are packed away in this big gut of yours?” Jace laughs, bouncing your gut in his slender hands.

You look up just in time to see Nick lift and harshly smack their hands on the sides of your bloated midsection, roughly jiggling the fat and fatty contents rumbling inside. You feel helpless and can only manage a surprised gasp of masochistic pleasure, spreading your legs to accommodate your wide girth.

“I honestly don’t know how many calories we forced in me, more than I should have had. It was so embarrassing!” Your hands dig into the dome of your burbling belly, making a gentle imprint in your fat before meeting bloated resistance from your stretched insides. Jace’s brows are furrowed, his pupils dilated as he fiercely urges you on. Nick is looking much the same, eyes intense and expression sharp.

“They laughed at how fat I was getting, how big my belly was bloating! It kept gurgling and making me burp and… and fart as I ate, like it was trying to stop me from stuffing myself, it was so loud and embarrassing!” Your voice has taken on a reedy, whiny tone, warm cheeks a deep red as you relive the most humiliatingly erotic thing you've ever experienced.

Nick looks wickedly pleased with this, wolfishly grinning as he says, “you’re telling us,” he gives your pudgy wrists a warning grip, “that all your friends watched you make a complete pig of yourself.” He quickly maneuvers himself behind your head. You continue, “Watched you bloat up and stuff yourself…” You keep your hands where they are, listening to Nick’s silent command. “And helped make you fatter?”

Jace joins in on Nick’s teasing then, “and like the pig you are, you let them.” Their words bewitch you, trapping you in their truth. Jace trails his hands over your soft jowls, multiple chins, and plump chest… before he diverts his hands quickly to your arms, where the shirt is tight and causing the supple flab on your arms to puff out. Jace presses his hands into the squishy fat, gently maneuvering your blubbery body as you respond.

“Yeah. I was too full to move! My belly was too big! Too heavy… too fat and bloated.” You pant heavily, watching your fat wobble and ripple with the movement, fabric shifting as your clothes strain with the weight of your new position. And to your embarrassment, your stomach sloshes and jiggles ridiculously at the movement, the bed creaking and dipping as well. Your love handles seem to spread out with the new position, sagging from where they protruded gently. The movement dislodges a monstrous belch, low and bassy and gross.

While Jace’s face remains smug as ever, he is struggling to get your fatass to sit up. 350+ pounds of oversized lard is nothing to scoff at.

Finally, Jace places you between Nick’s legs and up against his torso; soft back rolls squishing into his strong chest… and plump ass aligned with his sharp hip bones. Jace squishes against your front between thick thighs and against your belly and fupa. As they all settle together, you watch with bitten lips as your belly quakes and wobbles before plopping unattractively onto your lap with a fleshy thump. You moan quietly as you feel your pants press deeper into your stuffed stomach, muffin top protruding hugely over the waistband; tight shirt accentuating the blubbery overflow. You know your spare tire has left you with a nasty plumber’s crack, can feel the supple skin burst over your tight waistband. God, you're such a fat slob.

Looking down at yourself, at how fat you are, you are overwhelmed with red-hot shame. You fiercely cup either side of your round dome of a gut, kneading into the firm bloat before harshly hitting it with a resounding slap, the fat rippling grossly. “Fuck! I felt so fucking fat,” you moan hotly, legs spreading as your midsection wobbles back into place, pants button shifting. You whimper when Jace says,

“You say that like you already aren’t.”

And suddenly, Jace and Nick’s cold fingers are faintly tracing over the bloated dome of your belly again, causing it to quiver and slosh with your nerves. You're keening and writhing in… arousal.

As Jace’s fingers snake their way to the edge of your shirt, they stop, tracing the thin edge where cotton meets soft fat. Your hands have fisted into the sheets as you take in big and heady breaths, your cramped stomach hindering your breathing.

“Your stomach really is huge. no wonder they made fun of you; you’re fucking fat,” Nick growls. He must be seeing your belly from your view. Nick laughs. Probably at how ridiculously big it is; sticking out hugely from your torso, shirt unable to cover it and pants barely holding on.

You are fucking massive.

A moment passes in which the twins look at each other, Nick can tell from the way Jace is looking beside you, eyes intense. A sadistic smile tugging at his lips, Jace grips the soft blubber of your muffin top… and shakes.

“Jace! What are you-“ You are quickly interrupted by another bassy belch. It feels like it rattles the walls with how powerful it is. All the jiggling is making your gut slosh loudly, the contents inside churning louder and louder, clearly upset with being treated so roughly. You gag, the mountain of food and drink inside you threatening to come up with your next burp. And another after that. “Fuck I can’t,” another burp, “stop!” You finish with a long, airy belch this time.

Nick smacks your oversized muffin top, feeling how firm and distended it is. You massage into the doughy fat, and your belly lets out a hollow-sounding gurgle in response, forcing out a strained burp. “Shit, you’re such a slob, Nicholas. Can’t even get through a sentence without burping, hm?”

You whimper in response. You do your best to hold more in, but all the shaking, even though Jace isn’t doing it anymore, has dislodged so much gas. And so you can only belch nastily in response.

Subsequently, Jace faintly pulls your shirt up and over the thick crest of your full belly and tucks it under your tits, setting the engorged flesh free with a dramatic jiggle, plump fat rippling fluidly. You stop for a moment, looking at the swollen flesh pouring over the sides of your jeans. You're dripping in soft, supple fat.

“Nick’s right. You’re a fat slob! So soft… and no manners at all!” Jace chimes in, kneading into the flesh like a cat.

Sucking your teeth, you hedge, “I'm just a little bloated, right? And I have manners! I just ate too much. It’s… I can't really be… that fat, right?” You look to Jace, who just smiles faintly and shakes his head. He places his hands on the bloated underside of your gut, pressing out a low, long fart. You look humiliated.

Nick rubs the top of your sick belly firmly, intensifying the horrifying noises your bulging gut is making. You wail softly, gingerly cradling the sides of your swollen belly. “oh, God…” Jace raises his brow, rubbing more gently at a painful-sounding blast of gas, carefully caressing your inflated midsection.

“It's so big! And it hurts so badly. Ooh, I'm gonna get so fat…”

Looking at Nick, they exchange a bemused look. “You already are, though,” Nick muses, pressing down harshly and forcing out a watery burp from you. “This past year, you’ve blown up like a balloon,” Nick states matter-of-factly.

“It’s not like I gained much weight… maybe a couple of pounds…” You mewl, wincing as your stomach emits a burbled, high-pitched moan, tensing over the mountain of food forced inside. You burps and hiccups unattractively as a result, moaning pathetically.

“These pants are way too small for you! Look how they dig into your big belly.” Jace argues, slapping it and listening to the tight smack and repulsively loud gurgle. You gasp in pain, mouth wet and open as you look down at your quivering gut. “It’s not that big…” You blush as Jace laughs, hitting it again, “right, which is why it looks like your fat stomach will pop the button off these pants at any moment.”

You huff, “I’m not that fat!”

The twins chuckle when suddenly, they hear a deafening, wet whine, louder than before. They look down, where all anyone can see is your belly. The top of your gut is bloated beyond belief, taut and packed, swelling with the consequences of your overindulgence. The underside faring much the same. It's thick and rumbling, still bloating slowly, forcing your jeans to their limits and your shirt closer to your wobbling breasts. You feel overfull, debouched; a greedy pig pinned down by your own weight and gluttony. So humiliating, so disgustingly fat.

Yet you remain in willful denial of your current state and how they fulfill your deepest, darkest fantasies.

The twins will just have to show you just how fat you have gotten, and what a pig you are… but they also want you to feel better. They just can’t stand to watch their fattened boyfriend steep in denial any longer.

Kneading their hands into their boyfriend's bloated tummy, they rub quietly for a bit, listening to the gross, unhappy roars it emits, smothered beneath layers of thick, doughy fat. Jace takes a moment to think before, sharing a look with Nick and saying, “how about I get you something to drink; to soothe your angry belly.” He looks so innocent. Little does you know, they’re about to ruin you.

Settled between sausage-like thighs, Jace presses out one last fart from you before saying, “okay, I’ll be right back. Promise.” Jace pats your gut like a pet and leaves. You jiggle on the bed, stranded like a beached whale. Nick is slowly massaging the entirety of your belly now, hands skilled and strong. All you can hear is the disgusting, embarrassing gurgles of your swollen belly. And all you can feel is the bloating of your gut, swelling over the waistband of your jeans. How shameful.

Jace returns in a hurry, hands hidden behind his back. You have barely even noticed you entering the room. You're too engrossed in sloshing and touching your stuffed gut, smacking and jiggling it around despite the heady, pained moans he, and your belly, are making. Jace sets something down, hidden between the night table and bed. Nick smiles at you; an evil, sadistic thing.

Jace smirks, smacking the bloated crest of your stomach, listening to the resounding squelch as your gut lurches, cramping in agony. You hiccup a short burp before you mewl. Jace teases, "can't get enough of your own stuffed gut, can you?"

You blush hotly, shivering as both twins press in, belly rumbling a deep, monstrous gurgle. Your limbs flail uselessly, held down by your heavy blimp of a belly.

Jace's smirk sharpens into something mischievous. “Here, sit up properly.” Jace commands. The twins lift you so you're sitting up straight rather than half lying down, the new position forcing out a little toot. You blush even more as your boyfriends simply smile at you.

Now sitting up, you watch Jace warily. The twins are up to something. And watching as Jace pulls up a gallon of whole milk, you realize your gut is in for a nasty surprise. Although slightly intolerant, you can’t help yourself around dairy. It makes you a repulsive, gassy mess, but you can’t help but eat and drink it. With a belly as full as it is now, you know most people would turn their nose at this… but you aren’t most people. You are greedy, a glutton at heart with no self-control. And so instead of turning away, instead of refusing the drink like you should, you lick your lips. Your belly groans in fear.

“Maybe this will help settle your tummy down,” Jace croons, all faux sympathy and mischief. You get a piggish grunt in response. You try your best to sit up a little straighter, hands reaching out for the gallon, but Jace holds it just out of reach. All the shifting causes a thick blast of gas to come out of your ass, to which you groan in embarrassment. The twins simply laugh. Nick, the devil he is, moves his hands to your lower belly and presses, causing more, comically loud farts to come out. But even so, you continue to struggle for the milk. You just can’t help it.

“C’mon, big guy, you can do it,” Jace encourages sweetly. Your hands are shaking, struggling to hold the gallon up as high as he is. But clearly, the prospect of teasing you outweighs the discomfort.

Another minute of struggling, another minute of grunting, burping, and farting before you gives up, plopping back against Nick’s muscular chest; groaning as Nick massages out a long, deep bit of gas. You feel like such a nasty slob.

Cheeks red with embarrassment, you pant, hands going to your rumbling belly and forcing a burp out. “I can’t reach,” you groan.

“And why is that?” Jace asks, innocent. He places the milk on top of your gut, delighting as the pressure dislodges a belch.

You mumbles quietly in response.

“What was that?” Nick asks, still massaging the bloat of your gut.

The situation is so… humiliating. You literally can’t sit up because you ate so much. And yet here you are, trying to drink something calorie-dense and thick. As if you aren’t full enough. But you're just so hungry, a deep ache in you that is always longing for more.

In the spirit of wanting to consume, of wanting to glut yourself further, you perk your voice louder and admit, “my belly’s too big, can’t reach. ‘m too gassy.” As if to prove your point, Nick presses out a hot fart from you.

Jace seems to think for a moment, pulling back as he says, “that’s one reason. Why else is it hard for you to sit up, hm?” At the hesitation he receives in turn, he shakes the gallon on your belly. “Come on. We all know the answer.”

You do. You know they know it too. Everyone who was at your little get-together is well aware of the fact as well. You, face red and blubber jiggling, say, “I’m too fat.” The twins let the answer hang in the air, let it sink into your lard-shrouded ears.

“That you are, piggy,” Nick rumbles, voice low and possessive. He keeps massaging fart after fart and burp after burp out of you. You're a balloon of rancid gas and calories and fat.

The twins look at each other and Jace nods. “Good boy,” he croons, pulling the jug to his own lap in order to uncap it. A quick twist and crack and the lid is off. With a dexterity few can hold a candle to, Jace throws it into the trash. “We won’t be needing that,” he says. You gulp, your gut churning at the implication.

Nick continues rubbing your belly as Jace settles between your chunky thighs. Uncapping the bottle, he holds it tight and leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to your gut. You lean back again as it grumbles violently, a teeth-rattling belch following afterward from you. You look at him, mortified. God, could your gut just calm down?

“God, you’re gross,” Jace sighs. “Ready, fatty?” Jace places the bottle near your face, waiting for the go-ahead to feed you. You hesitate a moment, tensing up and grunting. You can feel gas building in your lower belly. Nick presses just right and a long, deep fart comes from you. You sigh and find yourself clenching afterward, making sure nothing… else comes out. You really want to drink this milk, and don't want to do anything else in the interim. And so you nod, feeling your double chins wobble with the movement.

“Good boy.”

Jace presses the milk to your rosy lips and tilts, the bottle at a very steep incline. Your eyes widen, not expecting the absolute flood of milk. Quickly, you busy yourself by gulping it all down as fast as possible. You wait for your cheeks to fill before gulping the huge mouthful. On each swallow, you can feel your belly bloat, swelling out inch by greedy inch. Your tummy groans and churns loudly, upset with the contents being quite literally poured into it.

You hear yourself groan nauseously, your belly feeling sick all of a sudden. So overfull and getting bigger, filling up with milk and gas. Nick is quick to try and help, whispering, “I got you,” as he rubs at the painful cramps riddling your poor stomach. It helps for a bit. The deep rubs work out every tight cramp, allowing for the pleasure of slowly bloating bigger and bigger to take hold. Your insides are stretching slowly, getting tight and full, weighing on you heavily. You feel like a balloon being inflated with every swallow, each second leading to your insides aching wonderfully. You find it hard to breathe, the weight of what’s inside your tummy restricting you in every way.

But after drinking about a quarter, you raise your chubby hands and place them on the bottle, feeling sick all of a sudden. The feeling of slowly blowing up leaves you nauseated, your belly aching and bubbling terribly. Your belly is overfull, and being topped off with whole milk, of all things, isn’t helping. Even if you really like it. Jace is quick to listen, pulling away and cooing sweetly at you.

“Feel sick, ulp,” you whisper, both hands placed gingerly on your gut. You lets out a wet burp, gagging violently after. Your tummy jumps at the wretched noise and tensing, wobbling to and fro. And suddenly, the kindness the twins were showing disappears. Nick swiftly covers your mouth and pulls your head back a little.

Jace is quick to sneer at you, “don’t. We’ll make you drink what you throw up, too.” You whimper in response, gulping something down as you shake your head. You take deep, steadying breaths, moaning nauseously. Your gut is churning loudly again, akin to a heating kettle. Airy burbles fill the area as your belly bloats with gas and rebels against all the dairy and grease and sugar inside it. You whimper and whine, feeling something building. You lift a leg slightly in anticipation. Lo and behold, a moment later, a huge, rattling fart leaves you. It’s long and bubbling and so fucking embarrassing. You moan in relief afterward, lowering your leg and leaning against Nick. Said man just sucks his teeth and smacks your belly, shaking it like a toy; its contents slosh loudly.

“Dirty slob,” Nick reprimands. You let out a hot belch against his palms as a response. Nick is quick to pull his hands away, admonishment on his tongue. He wipes his hand on your shirt. He seems to avoid the grease and sweat stains. “Don’t you feel even the slightest bit of shame, fatass?” Nick gets another burp in reply, this one airy and topped off with a relieved moan. you literally cannot stop burping or farting, just a gross, gassy bum. You're grateful, too. Sometimes, when you get too full, especially on something heavy like this, the gas gets stuck and bloats you terribly.

The twins cringe at you. Nick continues rubbing your belly with both hands while Jace sways the bottle and teases you with what you have yet to consume. Another sick groan, an airy belch, before you feel less like you're going to be sick and explode, and more like you can finish the task set out for you. The belly rubs help, mostly. Nick’s skilled fingers and palms relieve each cramping ache.

“I’m, mh, ready… More,” you groan. Your voice has changed since you're… gotten softer, you're noticed. A lot deeper and more muffled, less sensual than it used to be. You're so shy about it, wishing you could, well… be hot again. But with the way you eats, and the way you're being fed, you doubt you ever will be again, try as you might to deny it. You feel yourself grow warm at the thought.

Jace gives you a look, silently asking if you're sure. As mean as the twins can be, they care for your comfort above all else. You nod and open your mouth, jaw falling into your cushioning triple chins. They prevent your mouth from opening very wide, and you can feel the soft resistance with every mouth movement. Your face really has ballooned. Hell, you even have stretch marks underneath your chins. You remember them appearing after your obsession with deep-fried butter began. The marks on your belly and fupa had doubled that month, too.

With a toothy, predatory grin, Jace begins feeding the milk into your mouth again. He starts slowly this time, easing you into the quick pace he was going at before. “There’s a good piggy, drinking what you’re told,” he hums. The milk settles heavily in your mouth and in your belly, thick and delicious in every way. Each swallow pains you, however, leaving your brows furrowed and a little moan trailing after each loud gulp.

The jug tilts at a steeper incline, increasing the flow of milk to something quite a bit faster. Your eyes widen, milk spilling out the sides of your mouth and down your chin. Nick stops the tender rubbing of your belly to smack it. The harshness leaves a red mark and you whimper, gagging around a mouthful. “Messy bitch,” Nick says, low. “We want every drop inside of your greedy gut, not outside.”

You can only nod frantically, praying that he doesn’t jostle your belly like that again. Your wish is headed, as you take extra care to not waste a single drop of milk.

“Good pig,” Jace says, and you want to guffaw. You want to spit and snarl that you're not a pig, you're not fat, nor are you greedy. But with the way you're gulping down the milk, the way you've been eating recently, you know it’s futile. And you like that. You shouldn’t, but you do. And for some reason, that just makes it all the better.

“All these calories, sloshing around in this big gut of yours, “ Nick laughs quietly, shaking your belly, listening to the milk ruin your insides even more. It jostles out a deep fart, another tiny one following after. “Making you into an even fatter slob.” Your pants creak dangerously.

Jace hums in agreement, meeting your desperate eyes as he says, “your friends were right to make fun of you. You’re a fat fucking mess. You never used to be like this, what happened?” His voice drips with faux sympathy, as if he really feels anything but vindictive amusement at what his boyfriend has become. And he’s right. You used to be thin and pretty, smart and well-mannered. You were everything everyone wanted to be. And now look at you. Chugging down whole milk after binging on junk food, having your belly rubbed and passing gas like it’s no one’s business. Disgraceful.

You whimper at their words, feeling your belly cramp. You're past the halfway point now, and as much as you want to keep going, nausea is showing its ugly head. Your swallows are slower, the moans after each one getting woozy. You feel like you might puke or explode, whichever comes first. You rub at your belly desperately, trying to make the feeling vanish, but no matter what you do, it just gets worse. Your stomach roars loudly suddenly, wet and wretchedly loud. Jace pulls the milk back on instinct, and Nick is quick to clap a hand over your mouth again as you gag, swallowing profusely and moaning miserably.

“Mmm, too much,” your gut curdles loudly in agreement. Your voice is muffled behind Nick’s palm, but the thick nausea is clear as day. Your pants are cutting in painfully, and with each airy gurgle, they stretch louder and louder, muffin top protruding further over the waistband.

There’s a little less than half of the jug left, and you're genuinely unsure if he’ll be able to finish. You place both hands on your belly, feeling it rumble dangerously beneath your bloated palms. It sounds akin to a washing machine with how noisy it’s being. Jace visibly cringes. “That sounds… bad. And really gross,” he looks you in the eye at the last part, poking your belly like one would a sleeping beast. You get a nasty groan in reply.

Nick is quick, and squeezes his hand over your mouth even tighter. “Don’t you dare throw up,” he snarls. You can only nod frantically in reply, desperate to feel both of Nick’s hands on your belly again. Nothing feels better than the twin’s belly rubs.

You swallow audibly, letting out a quiet fart the moment Nick’s hands touch your sensitive tummy again. “Ooh, too much. So full,” you pant out, letting out a string of small burps, unsatisfying and barely relieving the pressure. “Feels like I’m gonna pop.” And it looks like it, too. Your belly has a red blush along the crest of it, shining and tight. Nick’s hands barely sink into it like they usually do. It all causes the button on your pants to dig in deeply, holding on for dear life. Any more milk or even gas and it will surely pop off. Jace, who is watching the whole thing, joins in to help. You are massaging the sides, Nick the top, and Jace, with the jug between your thighs, massage your lower belly.

With every rub, you can feel something building, something that won’t come out, blocked by the veritable lake of milk inside of you. You whimper, squirming as your tummy cramps further at your movement. There’s gas building from both ends that refuses to come out, pushing it is too painful, but it feels like there’s no other way for you to get this… ball of gas out of you. “Ow, oh, please!” You pleas, begging for something to give. You missed when the gas was leaving you freely, suddenly.

“What’s wrong, pup?” Nick whispers, sweet. He always uses that name when he’s trying to soothe. You love it.

“It’s stuck! Won’t, ngh, come out,” you whine. The frustration causes you to press down particularly hard, but all it earns you are a sharp cramp and more gas bloating you up. You sob at the ache.

“What, the milk?” Nick’s voice hedges on a warning, then.

“N-no! Gas… so bloated!” Your breaths are heaving, trying to get air in around the monstrosity of things packed in your belly. It hurts so much, yet a part of it feels… good.

Nick kisses your right jowl and Jace kisses the crest of your tummy, despite his earlier cringing at it. “Poor piggy,” Jace says, looking up at him. you can barely see him because of how big your belly is. From how much bigger it’s getting.

“Oh! It’s getting bigger, I can’t,” you can’t take much more. You can feel yourself bloat rounder, can hear it too. It’s slow and noisy, inflating with more gas by the second. The twins seem to be noticing the same thing, if the way they look at your gut with alarmed expressions can be trusted.

“Oh, shit.”

“He’s blowing up like a balloon!”

There is a hitch in your breathing as you try to burp out some of the air trapped inside you, but nothing happens, just a tiny hiccup escapes you. It causes a terrible cramp and wretchedly wet gurgle to sound around them. “Mm, make it stop!” You yelp, pressing down on your belly, as if to press it all back in and deflate it. You try to push out air from the other end, but all you get are more aches. “Ohh, tummy hurts. Feel like I’m gonna pop,” comes another whine. It’s childish, in a way; seeking a solution from them, asking for saving from the situation you drank and ate yourself into.

Jace and Nick share a look. Jace is quick to break into a fit of giggles as he recalls, “it’s like that game we used to play as kids, Pop The Pig!” He wobbles your belly like jelly, watching the fat ripple, the bloat of it causing it to sway cartoonishly.

You can hear a suppressed snicker from behind you and mewl, your cheeks heating in embarrassment. You especially feel that shame when Nick pats your gut, trying to get the burps out as if you were a child. As much as it seems like he’s helping, you can tell he’s amusing himself. His slaps elicit a tight smack with how bloated you are, the layer of fat overtop wobbling.

All the shaking and slapping seem to be causing something big and painful to bubble in your belly. Your gut is expanding still, causing your pants to make a terrible creaking noise, threads snapping one by one.

“Come on, tubby, you can do it,” Jace coos. He is pressing his hands in a long swipe along your lower belly, coaxing gas to move through your insides. Nick continues patting, shaking, and rubbing deeply. It makes your belly roar, suddenly, and it inflates rapidly for a moment. You can feel something in your chest, agonizing and as full as your stomach. You pat a hand along the plump softness there, and for a second you feel you really will pop.

A terribly loud, watery gurgle echoes in the room. Then, the sound of something tearing follows as the button on your pants finally flings off, hitting Jace in the chest.

Piles of doughy fat flood forth, sloshing and jiggling as it settles on your thighs with a soft noise, your fupa shoving open the zipper. A red band is present, showing where your pants were digging into your supple fat. There is the sound of something churning viciously, everything inside you having shifted. Then-

“Oh, I-!”

You belch, a horribly loud, almost violent thing. It’s deep and rattles its way from your gut, to your chest, up your fat neck, and out your greedy mouth. It hurts and it happens so fast, that you can’t even feel shame. You choke halfway through it on another burp. Bubbling and gross. It eventually dies off, leaving you a gasping mess. You moan in relief, your stomach emptier than it was. Simultaneously, more pressure accumulates below. A moment, and then you fart disgustingly loud. A wet, bubbling expulsion that leaves you open-mouthed and whimpering. Fuck, it feels so good. Your insides now seem less like they’re about to pop, though still overfull.

You lean back against Nick’s chest, patting the side of your belly as your mind refocuses on the moment, on what just happened. The twins seem to be on the same wavelength, both having been caught in the line of fire in some way or another. Nick from behind and Jace up front. A moment passes in which only your churning insides can be heard. Then-

“Gross!”

“You dirty slob!”

The twins flinch away, clearly disgusted at what they’d bore witness to. Jace’s face is twisted into a strange thing. His pupils widen and his cheeks blush, yet his brows furrow and his lips snarl. A concoction of disgust and arousal brewing on his very face. Nick seems to be faring much the same, if not a little more intense. Nick’s always like that. His poker face giving way to emotion is always shocking. There is, however, something hard poking into your cellulite-ridden ass. And a similar hardness poking your lower belly.

As much as you want to tease about that, want to be the confident, sly man you used to be, you find you are too deep in your embarrassment, absolutely drowning in it. You do your best to hold more gas in, despite the pain it clearly causes. And despite the fact you were letting loose so easily before. You just can’t bear the thought of humiliating yourself further. Even if it makes you warm between the thighs.

Jace makes a show of waving his hand in front of his face despite the lack of smell. “God, you’re so gassy! What a mess you are, pig.” His words end with a giggle, openly delighting in the mortification on your face.

Gulping loudly, you swallow back a burp and cringe when your belly rumbles angrily at you. Nick accuses, “and now you’re holding it in? We already know how disgusting you are, hog. There’s no use in hiding it.” He shakes your tummy, sloshing it to and fro.

“It’s embarrassing,” you grit out, clenching your ass and whimpering at the ensuing cramp.

“That’s the point,” replies Jace easily. You blush. “You should be humiliated, you’re a gross, obese slob with no manners who can’t help stuffing yourself fatter. In fact,” he pauses as he tries to close the two flaps of your broken jeans, “you’re so fucking greedy, you ate yourself out of your clothes. You deserve to be shamed for what a fatass you are.” Your belly plops down from where Jace tries to squeeze it into your jeans. His expression is dire. He presses down on your lower belly harshly. “Let go, piggy.”

And finally, you do.

The hand on your buttery soft lower belly causes you to rip out a hot fart, multiple high-pitched ones following after. “Fuck,” you sigh out, “so gassy… feels so good, ugh.”

Nick starts rubbing at your belly again and smiles when he gets a growling belch in return. “Good pig. Let it out. You need to make room to finish the milk.” The reminder makes you groan tiredly. Fuck, you're so full, so fat. You raise your leg and let out more gas, burping a moment after.

It goes on for a couple of minutes, the rubbing and patting; the burping and farting. You is a gassy mess that the twins cannot seem to get enough of. You're akin to a deflating balloon, in all honesty. The thought shouldn’t be as arousing as it is.

The pressure in your belly slowly leaves until it’s manageable, no longer filled to the brim with gas. Your belly has visibly gone down, losing the pained roundness of its swelling. You're left with a pleasant fullness now, the edge of aching need slowly drowning you.

Looking down, you are treated to the sight of the mass of fat overtaking your lap and hanging out of your jeans. You gather the two flaps and pull them as close together as you can. Which is not far at all. You watch as your gut wobbles onto the open flaps, settling defiantly on your lap. Your cheeks burn, “mmh, I’m never gonna get these on again.” The realization sends a shock of pleasure down between your chunky thighs. You're outgrown, no, you've eaten yourself of these clothes. And with all the calories packed in your gut, he’ll genuinely outgrow them by tomorrow, anyway. “Ah, I’m getting so big.” Your words are quiet, reverent; as if finally allowing yourself to think these thoughts, much less say them. It’s heady and rich, overwhelming in how the heat of it all overtakes you.

“Damn right, you are,” Jace says, bringing the milk jug back to your lips.

“And at this rate, you’ll only get bigger,” Nick finishes, smacking the swollen mass of your gut. you moan, breathy and sweet before wrapping your lips around the lip of the jug, slowly chugging the milk again. You let out soft noises at every large gulp, hands caressing your tummy.

Your hands have found a kind of joy in playing with the fat of your lower belly. While it is bloated there too, there is still enough flab for you to pinch and bounce. The way it’s just sitting on top of your open jeans is so… erotic. You feel lazy and sloppy, having your gut hang out of the pants you ripped open. Yeah, you have a habit of walking around with your pants undone, as they seem to grow tighter by the day. But this is different. You drank and ate so much your jeans busted open, you had no choice but to have them undone like this. And to your dumb hog brain, that makes all the difference. And so you play with the open flaps, touch at your expanding sides, and delight in the fact he’ll never get them closed again.

The twins continue playing with your belly. Nick is slowly rubbing at your inflated midsection, one hand above and the other below.

Little by little, your belly swells outward, each loud gulp sending your insides churning and billowing outward. You whimper and Nick is quick to shush you, pressing deeper and forcing gas from you.

You’re nearing the end, you can feel it, but your insides feel like they’re stretched to their limit again. Your gut feels like it’s creaking from the pressure inside, slowly stretching outward inch by painful inch. Your tummy rumbles in warning, lurching a moment after. You pull away and you are quick to slap your hands over your mouth as you force yourself to swallow, gagging violently seconds later. Your belly is cramping, trying to force the excess out, but you resolutely swallow it, refusing to give in to what your body desperately wants.

Another throaty swallow fills the room as your stomach rumbles. Nick rubs in circles along the sides, witling out the tenderness there. Your belly rumbles ominously then and you place your hands upon it, as if trying to soothe a wild beast.

“Ough, I-“ A monstrous belch is forced out, long and deep and rattling. You choke on another burp, letting out a flurry of smaller ones afterward before laying back on Nick’s chest.

“My belly,” you whimper, looking down at its expanding mass. “So full…” And it is. It sticks out horrendously far from your soft body, looking painful and pregnant. Jace pats it in the appraisal, humming to himself and watching the fat jiggle around the overindulged organ.

“You’re getting so big, doing so good for us!” Jace says. He shakes your belly and dislodges another airy burp, a queasy moan following after.

“Feel sick,” you say miserably. And your stomach sounds it, too. All wet churning and deafening roars.

“I know,” says Nick. “But look.” You look up with a moan to see that Jace is pointing out the tiny quarter you have left. “You’re almost there, piggy. You can do it.”

Despite feeling like you're going to either hurl or explode, you lean forward, hands squeezing your lower belly as a form of support. It makes a little toot come out, but clearly, You is far from caring. When Jace places the milk jug against your lips with a soft, “there’s a good piggy,” you can only sob.

The last little bit feels like both heaven and hell. Your stomach is stretching out with every swallow, weighing down and pulling your body forward. You know when you lean back, you will hardly be able to breathe with the weight of what's in your belly. You mewl pathetically, cheeks going rosy with each faux-sympathetic coo you garner. You swear you can feel yourself bloating up beneath your chubby hands. You can sure hear it.

Most of your energy is being spent on trying to not be sick, and it’s all so… surprisingly erotic. You're so vulnerable like this; big, sensitive stomach between them all, getting bigger and more tender with each second that passes. You're letting your boyfriends do this to you, is trusting them to make sure you don’t get sick, trusting them to soothe your aching belly. You're weak and soft as a newborn fawn and the twins are handling you with due care. Rough, yes, but in a way they all know you can take. In a way they all know you like.

You barely notice when the jug goes light and empty, getting pulled away from your milky lips. Instantly, you let out a slurry of belches, filled with air and coming from deep within. You open the eyes you don’t remember closing and whisper, “am I done?”

The twins are quick to reassure you.

“Such a good piggy!”

“Good job.”

Sighing in relief, you lean back. And sure enough, just like you expected, you can barely breathe from the weight of what’s inside you. It hurts so badly, each press of fingers makes you cry out in both pain and pleasure; soothing and exacerbating in tandem.

“Oh my God,” you pants, you're achingly tired, mind fuzzy with your own gluttony. “So full, I can’t…” You clench your teeth and a long fart reverberates in the area. “Feel so gross.” And you really do, your ass feels warm with how much gas is coming out and your throat is like the neck of a shaken soda bottle, waiting to erupt. Your belly aches and gurgles nastily, overflowing your clothes completely.

“You look gross,” Jace laughs. He places the empty gallon bottle on the floor and brings his attention to the giant ball of lard in front of you, slowly beginning to rub. “Look at this thing,” he pats it, laughing when it lets out a bubbling whine at him. “Normal people don’t eat and drink as much as you do!”

Nick huffs a laugh behind you, he stretches his hands to encompass your middle as best he can. “Normal people don’t have stomachs this big, either. Or so loud, shit.”

Looking down, you feel your triple chins squish as he observes your belly. The shirt you're wearing is a bra at this point, tucked under your tits, letting your belly spill forth unimpeded. Said gut is resting on your fupa, blushing red and shiny from how over-expanded it is. You've never seen it this big, covering everything in sight. Nick and Jace’s hands seem so small compared to it. Even your own hands, fat as they are, seem tiny.

Nick pats the side as if disapproving of it. “Does this thing ever shut up?” You can only groan, throwing your head back to swallow something thick in your throat. Your stomach rumbles in anger.

“I guess not,” Jace laughs, shaking it like a water balloon.

You feel something lurch, your insides cramping as everything inside you sloshes around. “Mm! No, no. Too full, don’t-!” You let out a low burp. “Fuck, ‘m gonna be sick. Ate too much.”

Nick simply shakes your head. “No, you’re not. You know the consequences if you do.” And you do. The twins will make you drink more to make up for what was wasted. Their entire trio seems to have something against wasted food.

“Ooh, I know. Please don’t make me.” You sob then, hands frantically rubbing the apex of your stomach, where the light catches brightly. “Tummy hurts, please…” Face scrunching, you let out a long fart, crying out when another seamlessly blends into the last.

The twins rub the swollen mass of blubber between them, letting you release burps and farts, snide comments volleying between them.

“Such a gassy pig.”

“Fat slob, you disgust me.

“Fuck, you’re like a blimp!”

“Never thought this would be where you ended up.”

And isn’t that the truth? You were rail-thin when they got together. Your curves came from your bone structure. But little by little, through constant encouragement and hedonism, you really blew up. It’s only been a few years since they’ve gotten together and already they’ve ruined you.

Nick snorts, “yeah, you look like you ate your old self.”

Jace agrees in the form of laughter. “Yeah, ate him and then some.”

Fuck, that’s the truth. You were underweight when they met. Now look at you! A morbidly obese blob.

You simply belch. Your body really hates dairy.

Jace pushes down with his full weight and gets a fart out of his overweight boyfriend. He smiles, a devious thing. “And such a slob, too. The old you would never be caught wearing such a sloppy getup.”

“The old you would probably laugh or run away in disgust.”

“Ha! Yeah. Remember he used to be embarrassed about using the bathroom? Imagine what he'd say if he saw what a gassy hog you are. Shameless.”

The teasing is distracting your dumb brain from the pain, pulling it into a warm haze of humiliation and arousal. “Ngh, he’d say I looked like an ugly funhouse mirror. That I let myself go so badly, such a nasty, fat pig.” You throw your head back and moan.

A rumble of a chuckle vibrates against your roll-filled back. “And he’d be right.”

“Such a shame, how you turned out,” Jace flashes his teeth, like a predator eying its prey; or a grinning Cheshire cat. “And to think, it… No, you will only get worse.”

“And you like it, don’t you?” Nick whispers into your ear, fingers circling your belly button like he does your hole, dipping in to lift and drop your belly.

Mewling quietly, you try to say, “yes,” but a burp interrupts you, making it come out as a disgusting slur of gas and your voice. The twins cringe in unison.

Your stomach has slightly calmed down, though you are still ridiculously gassy. You are softly ushered to lay on your side, your pants pulled down under your love handles, ass crack peeking over. You lift a leg slightly and put extra pressure on your insides to force some gas out. The twins have laid around you. You're farting onto Nick’s front and burping on Jace. The two tease you for it but ultimately let your slobby display continue while rubbing your gut. It's still loud and you are honestly really horny, but the pleasure in your belly and mind are enough to sate you for now.

“Guess I can’t deny how big I am anymore,” you pout, eyes fluttering closed.

“Ha! I don’t know how your denial has lasted this long, considering how you look,” Jace’s voice is smug, he and Nick are always happy to knock you down a peg or two.

You simply sigh. “And I’m never gonna be small again, am I?”

Nick huffs as you finally doze off, “not a chance.”

[bigcutiebonnie]

I was at the beach last week in tight monokini, which is really far too small for me now & incredibly indecent, but I just HAD to flaunt my growing body in it!  HERE-> 💖C4S💖 🔥OnlyFats🔥

[chunkyybellyy]

Sucking in v relaxing. Can I get away with it?

[kundst]

Kinke Kooi (Dutch 1961)

Kinke Koois motivation is often shame: she shows body parts that she as a woman has been taught that should actually be hidden. In doing so, she reacts to the dominant visual language that unilaterally depicts femininity. She calls this ‘visual starvation’.

[chonkbabe]

A bit of a jiggle fest going on over here 💗

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

I hear you want to write but are having a hard time answering prompts. Don't feel obligated to answer this one either, this is free labor, you never have too!!!! But maybe it would help by giving you a free space. What's eating at you [pun intended hehe]?

Me and this anon be like:

You are so thoughtful, thank you! ❤️❤️❤️

And you know what has been eating at me 😂 for whatever reason, I have no idea what turned me onto this idea, or why I can't stop thinking about it but there is something about the idea of completely, entirely spoiled Bucky that's been heavy on my mind.

Unbeta'd stucky belly kink under the read more, complete with lots and lots of stuffing, weight gain, and teasing/fat-shaming, too.

I'm talking about silver-spoon, generationally wealthy Bucky. He never has known what it is to want, yanno? Everything he could ever dream of, he gets immediately. He's never had a job other than learning what fork to use during meal times and which to use during dessert.

He looks like Wakanda, Jesus Bucky in spirit.

His hair is lush and shiny but his is proper, high-society style. So, it's cropped short at the sides and marginally longer at the top, coiffed back into stylish, fluffy waves. His face is clean-shaven, not beared, but his skin still glows and his marble-carved bone structure has been filled out by good food and constant pampering. He's always in the latest fashion, too. He looks the part of his high-maintenance, rich lifestyle.

When he was a kid and then a teenager it was totally fine that he fit so, so well into his lavish upbringing - including his taste for excessively sweet food and excessive amounts of food - because he had a speedy metabolism and the whimsy of a child, always running through his parent's expansive mansion or spending hours in the endless, deep green lawns playing by himself or roping one of the servents or his tutor into his games. His parents always were too busy with their socializing to raise their own messy child, instead passing responsibility off to someone, anyone else.

For a while, Bucky also took an interest in polocrosse, so he stayed slim for his elegant, equestrian sport. Loping through open, well-manicured fields on horseback, going after the ball with his racquet. But, as he grows and matures into a snooty young adult, with his twenties comes a slowing of his hummingbird metabolism and a boredom of sport. He has more important, more luxurious, relaxing activities to attend to than riding some beast that he doesn't even pick up after or care for - that's what the help is for. Besides, the medals mean nothing to him. He knows he's deserving and is a blue-ribbon winner without the physical reminders. Naturally, it's in his genes, he may as well be a hot-blooded, thoroughbred himself.

Bucky's metabolism slows and his activity level wanes but neither can be said about his appetite - not slowing, nor waning.

His hunger was one of those wants he's always, always had met through his generational wealth. His dire want for sweets. When he was younger, he always got a slap on the wrist for gorging himself on sugary sweets - pastries, candy, and the like - but never truly punished. His love affair wasn't tamed no matter how often he "spoiled" his own dinner, charming the cooks to feed him more than he needed, secretly getting their driver to go and retrieve him something from the city's candy shop, or even simply tiptoeing into the well-stocked pantry at night to give himself a tummy ache.

Now, his appetite is insatiable and he is growing more and more unfit seemingly like the hour. All because his days aren't spent working - he's never had to lift a finger for anything - but, instead, his hours are filled to the brim (and then some) with wine tastings, occasional tours of the winery grounds, cheese samplings, fine dining reservations or world-class chefs inhabiting his home for a few nights, and more. As soon as he's allowed by Mommy and Daddy, he moves off the sprawling family property to buy his own. He comes in and sweeps up a swath of land, putting a huge, pretty house on it and filling the rooms with staff. Most of the time, he doesn't leave his home. His driver's chauffeur experts in drink and food back and forth, bringing waves of delicious, expensive delicacies straight to Bucky's beautiful abode from the private airport nearby.

He. is. spoiled.

As he grows, he becomes rich fat, not poor fat - which becomes an important, prideful distinction in Bucky's spoiled, snobby mind. He is high society. He is well taken care of. So, of course, he's large.

Rich fat is fat that's undeniably plump and round with perfect curves. Rolls. Pale and smooth. No cellulite. No stretch marks. No blemishes. Just milky, pale swells of flesh that are soft but still firm and high. Something of a cherub straight from a masterful Renaissance painting.

His body tells the truth of his life - he doesn't lift a finger. He's practically a Roman Emperor, lounging on his side, draped in a sheet that barely fits over his bulging, excessive curves, fed the finest wine and offered peeled grapes that he lazily consumes until he's so full and drunk that he has to stop his servants by lifting a dainty hand, breathily moaning. No more. He can't take anymore now, he's so full that his fat, normally plush, soft belly has swelled to be as firm as a drum. But... give it an hour and he'll be snapping his fingers, rolled onto his back, under the weight of his belly, needing more. He won't even bother to get back up unless his servants help him, at that point, all he wants is more.

Always more.

Bucky becomes so insatiable with his life of luxury orbiting his round belly (rapidly transforming to be so large and spherical that it might be its own planet with a gravitational pull, keeping his hands to it at all times, unable to stop rubbing and touching his big body), that he hires someone new to live on his estate with him.

A masseuse.

Bucky becomes accustomed to eating until he feels fit to pop, stuffing down delicacies as if they're commonplace. Then, when he's so achingly tight, it's only natural to crave hands on his belly. He needs all the help digesting that he can get on a steady diet of peeled grapes, chocolate-coated strawberries, and other delicate fruits alongside the finest cheeses in paper-thin slices (but so many of those slices that he may as well have eaten the entire wheel by biting hunks off rudely) paired with jam and honey and bread and meats cured and prepared just so, plus bubbly champagne to wash it all down. That excessive diet leaves his tummy churning, groaning, and gassy. He has to stifle his burps behind one hand while the other works to soothe himself - it's instinctive, those rubbing motions.

Working? Aching? That just won't do. Bucky isn't dumb enough to expend energy when he doesn't have to. His private education afforded him better common sense. And he often goes to the spa, so he's familiar with massages. One plus one is two. Bucky needs a masseuse to rub his belly.

His masseuse is a tall, broad man - muscular and handsome with bright blue eyes and blonde hair. He has a pleasantly pale complexion with freckles but his nose that like it's been broken once or twice, bumped in the middle, and his hands are certainly the hands of a working man. He has obviously worked hard to get where he is with veins obvious in his arms and the backs of his hands and callouses on his palms. Even with all the lotion and oils, his hands are just the slightest bit rough thanks to those callouses.

If he weren't so handsome and hadn't proved himself to be so good at his job, Bucky might not keep him around. Thoughtlessly he could fire him, or any of his staff, and hire someone else.

Bucky doesn't like anything rough. He likes simple, easy, and luxurious. He likes softness. He reclines in overstuffed chairs and couches, expensive and sink-into-the-softness, and sleeps (and eats) on a perfectly swallowing-up bed. His body is currently being transformed into the same type of sensation - plush, soft, overstuffed. He likes that. He's becoming as excessive as his lifestyle - shaped perfectly for it.

He doesn't enjoy roughness.

He doesn't enjoy the bit of resentment on his masseuse's face and weaved secretly into his voice when they first meet.

Steve is a good worker, though, and Bucky appreciates that. He's accustomed to throwing money around, but he only throws it when it's what he wants or something he needs that he's having done his way. If a gardener, cook, or tailor doesn't work as fast or as hard as Bucky thinks they ought to - they're gone. Simple as that.

Steve works hard, Steve works fast, Steve is... interesting. He doesn't approve of Bucky's lifestyle, that much is clear, so he must need the money. But also, he doesn't complain. Not really. He does tease Bucky, though. It seems they both know their differences and there's something there. Something exciting. They both have their tastes and the clash of their differing tastes becomes electric.

Bucky learns to enjoy a little bit of roughness because of Steve.

Steve is called in to support Bucky either nearing the end of a massive meal or after his meal has been finished. His job title is "masseuse" and he does massage Bucky but, just, one part of him -

His belly.

His job is to aid Bucky's body in digesting after a splurge... if you can call his gorging meals and oversized snacks that happen every day, multiple times a day like clockwork "splurges." Splurging implies you don't do it all the time. Bucky is consistently stuffed to the gills. The only time he's not full is when he wakes up, first thing in the morning, and that's not always a guarantee - Bucky has gotten especially fat recently, it's why he needs Steve, and now, he can't always make it through the night without a snack. If he needs one, he snaps his fingers or rings the little bell he keeps by his bedside, rousing his live-in servants and making them retrieve a "light" snack for him from the kitchen. If he's had a midnight snack, his belly might still be firm and bloated when he wakes up. Regardless, Steve helps settle his belly.

At first, when Steve was hired, he did his job without comment. Now that they know each other a little better and each of them is rubbing off on the other with Bucky enjoying a little bit of roughness and Steve learning to embrace comfort and a taste of luxury - now, Steve prods and pushes verbally while he does the same physically. He rubs big circles on his big tummy, presses into the parts where he's the tightest to release pockets of gas and make him more comfortable, giving him more room (that he often immediately fills with more food), and kneads his soft flesh, using lotion and oil to keep his flesh supple and stretch-mark free. He lets his mouth run, too.

In low tones, just for the two of them to hear, he murmurs roughly about how he's never had so much to work with. Bucky knows under those sugar-coated words, he's calling him fat. Then, he goes on to say that Bucky feels especially tense today, is there anything particular on his mind? That's Steve telling him he's bloated as fuck, just a bit of sting behind his "polite" tone to communicate, oh my fucking god, you're a blimp. Or, he asks how his tailor is doing, the vague way to ask how he fits into any clothes at all. It's a damn mystery to Steve, after all, he only ever sees Bucky when he's naked with all of his soft, pale, thick fat on display. Round. Firm. Ready to be massaged until he's not so tight he could burst which, to Bucky, means he's ravenous. Bucky has no understanding of hunger. He doesn't remember what it's like to be empty, so when he isn't gasping in pleasure and pain, so full that his stomach is strained and there's food packed into him all the way up his esophagus to the back of his throat, he thinks he's starving.

Bucky savors those comments in a way he doesn't savor food - he just shoves it down. More.

More.

Bucky starts eating even more, pushing himself further, to make sure he can see Steve regularly. Weirdly, for someone who's never needed a damn thing from anyone else, he aches to impress this guy. It's strange, how much he wants to preen and parade around. He makes even more of a gluttonous mess of himself just so Steve can come in and berate him underneath his professional, light tone. It's embarrassing. Bucky has never been able to deal with humiliation or shame or anything other than resounding acceptance because of his high status, so it's strange for him to go after it now but...

God, is it good.

Steve commenting on needing another set of hands to reach and work on all of Bucky's glutted tummy sends a shiver down his pinned spine in spirit, in reality, he can't fucking move. He's so fat. Bucky almost moans at the thought of more hands groping and kneading his fat, working his cramps and burps out of him, easing the way for those calories to smoothly transform into more fat but, strangely, he only wants Steve to do this. He's used to hiring more help, having so many people around him, watching and aiding him in even the most intimate, private moments. This feels too intimate to share, though. He just wants Steve's big, strong, rough hands on his fat. He wants it bad. So, of course, he gets it.

He feasts on multiple rich, large courses. Steve massages him. He snacks on foods that would be enough for a meal if he were anyone else. Steve massages him. He gorges until he's hiccuping, whining, and curled around his fat belly like he can hold himself together, preventing himself from bursting at the seams with too much, too good of food. Steve massages him. He wakes up, belly gurgling with digestion that he can delude into being hunger, so he stuffs himself late at night into early morning. Steve massages him. Steve massages him through it all, witnessing him at his fullest and watching, judging, as he packs on more and more weight.

Bucky has been drilled to follow etiquette and be polite, but with Steve, he slips. He's just so full. And Steve's so good at his job. He can't deny himself the pleasure of moaning and burping loudly as Steve works.

"Buuuurpp-"

"Hic! Ah! Oh! Hic! Ouch! Hic! Hup! Oww!"

"Ooooohhh, yess. That's good."

"Uuuuuuurp!"

"Yes! Right there, press there, it's so tight, oh, oww-"

"Hnnnn-"

"M-mmmph- more. More pressure. Yes! Like that! Oh-uuurp!"

"C-cahhh, careful, I'm, oof, I'm soo full. Mmngh, I might - hic! - pop!"

Steve might disguise his interest well under a judgy, almost resentful exterior - which is truthfully how he felt when he got here, like, look at this fat asshole, Steve grew up struggling with a single mother making tough decisions between feeding her child, buying the medicine her child needed badly, or keeping the heating on to keep her child from getting sicker, no good options and no compromises - but he is interested. Bucky is miles and miles of plush flesh that jiggles and ripples. So much for Steve to sink his hands into. He's just fat. That's all he is. Greedy and oversized. He deserves a little shit for it. It's fine. He can squeeze a little harder than necessary, he can relentlessly push down on the part of his tummy that hurts the most just to hear him groan through a painful yet releasing burp, he can see his face pinch in pain when Steve goads him into finishing the last scraps on his plate despite having called Steve in expressed because he's too full for more, he can make comments about how he's getting fatter, bigger, and more spoiled. He can snidely inquire if Bucky has gotten his bed reinforced yet or wonder out loud how his personal tailor keeps up with his expanding waistline, actually, how does his tailor measure his waistline these days? Does he have to make a custom tailors tape or have they given up on numbers by now? He can pretend to be a little weaker than he is, just for an excuse to call the other staff into Bucky's master bedroom, "needing" help with rolling his big, voluptuous body or sitting him up as much as possible under that heavy, fat belly that overflows his lap.

It's fine for Steve to look over his shoulder as he leaves, his job well done, to smirk like a shark at one food-drunk Bucky moaning through a bite of buttery, flaky pastry, telling him off, "haven't you had enough, Mr. Barnes?"

He's the only one willing to challenge Bucky. The other staffers suck in shocked breaths and duck their heads, embarrassed and trying to stay out of the way, assuming Steve's about to be fired. It's going to get ugly. Right?

But it doesn't.

Bucky likes it. His stomach is groaning - only barely soothed thanks to Steve, complaining with heavy sloshes, deep gurgles, and loud glorps - but Bucky doesn't care. All he cares about is more. More food, stuffing his gob. More of Steve's merciless touch, his mean words, and his judgemental eyebrows. More.

"Nu-uh," Bucky moans petulantly.

"Only you would think that," Steve's eyes flick down to his gut like the big, round thing is offensive, "isn't enough."

Bucky crams the rest of his pastry into his mouth, puffing out his cheeks and dusting crumbs down his double (closer to triple) chins and heaving moobs, it's a challenge.

Steve rises to it, stepping back into his bedroom to slap his blubbery belly hard.

Even though all the others have scuffled away, leaving the two of them alone, they must be able to hear the clap of his hand against his fat. That, or, they hear the guttural way Bucky moans. His white, pale flesh is stamped red with Steve's handprint.

"You just have to ruin my work, don't you?" Steve sneers, sitting on the side of the bed next to Bucky's immobilized form of rolls and curves, pinned in place by too much fattening, sugary food. "Nothing is ever good enough for you, so you just keep going, don't you? You're gonna pop, you know that, you fat, spoiled brat? You need to learn you have limits. You need to learn restraint. If you don't learn your lesson by yourself, you'll force my hand to teach it." Steve threatens, his hand raised again, on the cusp of slapping his tender, overstuffed tummy again.

Bucky whimpers, pouting at him, his bottom lip crumby and stuck far out, "don't need your help," he argues, mumbling, just to be contrary. He really does need him. He wants him too. So badly.

"You do, princess. You need me whether you like it or not," Steve teases. "You can't do anything by yourself, not with this-" Steve rears back to slap his belly hard a handful of times until Bucky's whimpering and squirming around like a turtle flipped onto its shell, inelegant and stuck "-in the way."

Bucky moans loudly. It hurts! But it hurts like it does when he pushes himself over his limits, his gut too full.

"I'm gonna put you on a diet," Steve threatens, "teach your spoiled, fat ass what restraint and hard work is the way Daddy and Mommy didn't, they just shoved a silver spoon in your mouth and called it a day 'cause you shut up."

It's terrible. It's awful. Bucky likes it.

"Please-!" The word falls out of Bucky's mouth for maybe the first time. He's Bucky Barnes. He doesn't beg. He has everything he wants and more! He's never had anything he had to plead for, he always just demands.

With one last hit right to the top of his belly, where the bulging is the worst, where he gets the tightest, Steve knows all too well, Steve leans in. His smile is all teeth. "Good boy," he rumbles, "that's a start. I might be able to whip you into shape after all, God knows you need some shape, too," he unkindly grabs a handful of fat, shaking it and thus sends jiggling ripples throughout Bucky's entire, fat body. He's all lard. "'Cause right now you're just a blob."

Bucky says it again, as it turns out, it feels good to say, "pleeease."

Steve gives him a dark look and despite what he was saying about shaping up and slimming down with a diet, he wastes no time reaching over to the tray of fine French pastries perched on Bucky's elegant nightstand, selecting one at random and shoving it into his face.

Bucky moans his way through every chew and swallow. With Steve's relentless force, massaging and now feeding, too, he's due for a growth spurt like he's never seen on his own. He's gonna outgrow his king-size bed in no time 🥵🥵

[echotums]

You Become Her (COMM)

CW: Weight gain, stuffing, force feeding, slobbification, bloating, extreme humiliation/degradation/teasing/bullying, fat shaming, force feeding, slob, gas, burping, farting, mentions of popping, indigestion, some sweat and scent kink, dumbification, 2nd person POV, gender neutral reader.

Gwen gains some weight and you can't hold your tongue about it. Gwen decides there's only one way to teach you a lesson.

Gwen, your friend, has been very spotty lately; flaky with your plans. And to you, it’s getting a bit ridiculous. How hard is it to hang out with your friend? Apparently extremely difficult, if you’re Gwen. You roll her eyes at the thought. You wouldn’t be surprised if your plans today fell through too. You’ve been waiting for your friend for half an hour and still, no sign of her. It was supposed to be a simple hangout, just window-shopping and eating dinner together. You had even chosen a later time so Gwen couldn’t use waking up late as an excuse.

As you check the time for the fifth time in a row, you utter sarcastically, “can’t wait to see what today’s excuse is.” If you’re getting stood-up again, you hope it at least gives you a good chuckle.

Just as you are about to give up and go home, you spot the telltale pigtails in the crowd to your right. Straightening up, you cheer to yourself. Finally! You’re still going to give Gwen a piece of your mind for being so flaky, but maybe a little less now that she’s finally deigned to leave her house.

Quickly, you school her expression and make it seem like you never spotted Gwen, pulling out your chapstick and fixing it. It won’t do to look too excited to see her. You have a reputation to uphold. Being stood-up a handful of times has given your self-proclaimed reputation a few scratches, but nothing that can’t be fixed.

Quick footsteps approach you, then, and you smirk as you hear a tentative peep of your name, followed by a warm and… sweaty palm falling on your arm. You swivel and take a step back, quickly wiping the dampness from your arm, sneer on your face.

“What do you think you’re-?” You look up then, capping your chapstick and pocketing it. Placing an indignant hand on your hip, you give an incredulous look to…

“Gwen? Is that you?” Your hand shoots up to your mouth as yo gasp, eyes wide.

You get a tentative nod in response and a shy, “h-hi.”

“I almost didn’t recognize you, holy shit.” You breathe. And it isn’t a mystery why that would be the case? Where Gwen’s usual dainty little figure used to be is a fat mess. Well, maybe not fat, just chubby. But in your eyes, they are one and the same. Big and gross. Gwen’s bulging with rolls and folds of lard, positively dripping in it. Not to mention the disgusting sweat stains drenching the crevices of her newly softened body. Her clothes barely fit, too; bursting at the seams.

You can’t help the next words out of your mouth, “is that why you wanted to go clothes shopping? Nothing fits?” You raise your head high and circle Gwen like a predator, eyeing her from top to bottom. Gwen quivers in response. “Or is it the promise of dinner that got you?” It’s mainly meant to be an observation, but as cutting as your words are, it’s no shock that they make Gwen’s cheeks flush. You can't help but feel a rush of power through you, you ask, “seriously, what happened to you? You blew up like a balloon!” You place your delicate hands on the newly formed gut Gwen is lugging around. It’s a soft double belly, stretching the seams of her dress ridiculously. Although…

“You’re totally sucking in, stop that!” You poke your finger into Gwen’s softened side, right between two warm rolls. Gwen squeaks and… “There we go. You’re fatter than I thought!” You cackle, catching the exact moment Gwen stops sucking her gut in. It protrudes against her dress and causes it to lift a little higher on her body. You hum to yourself as you cup the bottom roll of it, lifting and dropping; jiggling the sack of chub obscenely.

Gwen, for her part, looks positively mortified, too shocked at the sudden turn of events to do anything but stand there and take it. A part of you revels in this. After months of dodging you, you have finally cornered Gwen into a position beneath you. “Is this why you’ve been so flaky?” You start, voice a mockery of comfort. “Were you embarrassed you got so fucking fat?” You feel your anger rise and slap Gwen’s belly, delighting in her stuttered denials.

“I-I! I’m not fat!”

But you just laugh. “Yeah? Have you looked in a mirror lately?” Your tone turns gleeful then, pleased at the humiliation the girl is being put under. “I mean, I knew you were never the brightest, but you can’t be that stupid. Look at this huge gut you have! You look pregnant.” You pinch the fat there, bouncing it between your palms. The power coursing through your veins is intoxicating, worth ignoring the little voice in your head telling you you’re going too far. You can’t help the almost devilish smirk that overtakes your face. You splay your hands lower, grabbing at huge love handles and widened hips.“And your ass is barely covered by your dress!” You slaps the slightly exposed flesh, watching the lard-packed flesh jiggle wildly. You feel bumps beneath your smooth palms and grimace. “Eugh, and so much cellulite on your fat ass and thunder thighs. Nasty.”

A few passersby have noticed the exchange, some just grimace at the clearly too-small outfit Gwen is wearing and move on, while one or two sneakily look on as you dig into her. You can't help but smirk. A part of you has always envied Gwen. So tiny and pretty in her doll-like beauty. And now look at her! An absolute lardass begging to be made fun of. And so you do.

“Look at your face, Gwen! It’s all round now. You have a double chin too, ugh, gross!” You pinch the sagging bit of fat under her chin. “Your face used to be so pretty, too!” You laugh, holding your flat belly at the wet look in Gwen’s eyes. “You look like a pufferfish!” You blow your cheeks out to show what you mean. The laughter grows muffled then, but quickly bursts free when Gwen tries to deny it again.

“No! Stop that!”

But you keep going, “how dumb are you? Stop denying it. You’re an ugly, fat slob now!” Lithe hands gesture toward the sweat stains under Gwen’s pert tits. “I mean, how did you get so fat but gain none of it in your tits?” You fondle the little breasts, snickering meanly. How shameful Gwen is now. “You really should take better care of yourself, fatty.”

That seems to be the last straw for Gwen, as she pulls away, eyes wet but furious. “You’re such a bitch!” She growls out before stomping away. And stomping is right, even her steps are heavier now that she’s chubby.

“Aw, c’mon, Gwen! It was just a joke!” You laugh, smug at having beaten Gwen in this way. The two or so onlookers watch with you as Gwen waddles into the crowd, disappearing. You just roll your eyes. “Ugh, dumb cow can’t handle the truth.” Gwen will come around eventually. She always does. Everyone does with you.

Except… This lasts longer than you would have thought. You thought Gwen would come around after about a week. But as the two-month mark passes and you receive no word, you get slightly worried. It can’t be because of what you said, right? You were just telling her the truth. If anything, she should be grateful. And if Gwen was so upset over your words, then she would have used them as motivation to get back in shape. Hopefully, that’s what she’s doing. As much as you like being so much prettier than her, it’s bad for your reputation to be seen with a blubbery mess.

Oh, well. Not your problem. You’re not the one the size of an actual whale.

It’s another month before you hear anything. It’s in the form of a note. It’s smudged and has grease stains on it, but the message is clear: an invitation to Gwen’s house, an apology for ghosting you for months on end. It leaves you smirking; you deserve an apology after having to put up with Gwen’s shit for so long. And after you went out of your way to help her, too.

And so you are quick to heed the contents of the letter, heading over on the specified date and time to Gwen’s house. When you arrive, the lights are off and the door is unlocked. Strange.

“Hello?” You call. You get no response. But you sense movement in the shadows of the room. Heading to the dining and kitchen area, you say, “Gwen? Is that you?” But garner no response.

Suddenly, you sense a presence behind you. But before you can even investigate, you smell something… sweet in the air. The moment the scent hits your nose, you begin to feel woozy. “Oh, n-no. Gwen?” Is all you can get out before you fall unconscious. The last thing you see is a large, hulking figure standing over you.

It seems to you that only moments pass before you awaken. Your body is heavy, tired; as if you haven't slept in days. It’s strange, a whiplash of sensation that leaves you disoriented, blinking and swaying where you sit.

…Sit?

A surge of panicked energy rushes through you, frantically urging you to check your surroundings. You’re indeed sitting now, but when you attempt to stand, you find that your hands are stuck behind you, held there by glowing binds. Magic. Attempting to kick your legs proves just as fruitless. The bindings, though reasonably loose, do a great job of keeping you where you’re being forcibly kept.

Worse than anything is that you’re naked. You want to cover up and hide, squirrel yourself away like Gwen has been doing for the past half-year. As confident as you are, you recognize a bad situation when you see one. And this is one such thing.

The cold air makes you shiver, leaves you bending your shoulders and knees inward to preserve heat. This is the definition of awful.

“Hello? Gwen? Anyone? Help!” Your cries are distressed, begging for aid that hopefully comes. There is a buzzing in your mind and limbs, the fatigue of before making way for panic.

Then, as if cursed with nothing but pure, bad luck, you hear a heavy stomping coming from in front of you. Looking up, you watch as a large, menacing shadow lumbers toward you in a slow waddle. With each step, the figure seems to wobble like jello, heavy breathing following soon after.

“Um, hello?”

It doesn’t take long for fear to make way for curiosity. The waddling movements and soft shapes piled high to make the figure in front of you not as threatening as you thought it was. The soft grunts accompanying each ponderous step just pique your interest more. That is, until the figure gets close enough for the smell of grease, food, and sweat to permeate the area.

You are quick to try and cover your nose, tucking your face to the side as you scrunch your expression into something filled with disgust and revulsion. “ugh, ew!” You clench your eyes shut and try to hold your breath, allowing the… creature to come into the light. Now, you can hear the slapping of skin on skin. And with one final, thunderous step that shakes your chair, the figure seems to stop walking.

Disgruntled at the proximity of the awful smell, you reluctantly open your eyes and breathe in, coming face-to-face with piles and piles of flesh.

The figure is dripping in lard and sweat, a parody of the human form in how cartoonishly obese it is. Cellulite riddles massive, tree-trunk legs that lead to a horribly round ass. It’s a shelf of a thing, you bet you can rest a plate or a small object on it. Jeez, the figure even has thigh-rolls and cankles. Even its feet are fat!

Your eyes continue their horrified journey upward to a massive gut and a roll just under that, preserving the nude being’s modesty somewhat. A double belly sags nastily over front, creating huge love handles and obscuring what is supposed to be a waist. It seems… bloated, packed tight above and below, making these terrible gurgling noises, as if fighting with something; a disagreeable meal, perhaps.

A hand comes down to slap the giant, blubbery gut then, a large belch and fart releasing a moment later. The hands are chubby, looking as if they’d be unable to form a proper fist if they tried. Forearms roll and fold over onto its wrists, connecting to bingo wing arms, rolling at the armpit. There reside two flabby, sagging tits. They sway and jiggle with every movement, sliding off the glutted bloat of its gut.

Finally, your eyes come to rest on the creature's face. There is no neck to speak of, simply a multitude of chins that seem to never end. Twin jowls roll off onto said chins, pursing the thing’s lips and squinting the eyes. The face of it is swollen and fat, bursting with lard.

And through your inspection, you’re unable to stop yourself from feeling sick at the state of it. Clear indigestion, sweat, food stains, cellulite, and stretch marks littering each blubbery inch. It keeps burping and farting, adding to the terrible odor.

The only reason you are able to recognize who it is, is due to the two greasy pigtails that are on the thing’s head. Or, the woman’s head.

It’s Gwen.

“Gwen?” You exclaim, shocked beyond belief. “What the fuck happened to you? You look terrible and smell just as bad!” And isn’t that an understatement? Gwen is just about the ugliest thing you have ever seen! You didn’t even know such an awful-looking (or smelling) person could exist. Yet, here Gwen is, as horrible as a nightmare.

Gwen doesn’t respond. Properly, that is. She does laugh, though. A brainless sounding thing, in all honesty. The look on her face seems much the same. It’s as if her mind has been emptied of every intelligent thought, eyes blank and face slack. Gwen grunts and lets out a large, rumbling belch into your face, leaving you gagging. Case in point.

You call her name again, tentative this time, unsure if Gwen can even understand you with the state of her deteriorated IQ. Another laugh in response, but this time, Gwen speaks, “terrible, terrible. Big, dumb Gwen looks terrible.” She burps again, slowly plodding her way behind you. “Big, dumb slob. Dumb, dumb, dumb.”

What?

Taken aback, you jump as you hear rustling behind you. A second later, two sagging tits flop over your shoulders. They’re sticky and huge, revolting. You try to jerk away, yelping, “what the hell, Gwen? What’s gotten into you? You’re being gross.” But Gwen doesn’t seem to listen, instead, resting her pile of chins on your head as she squishes your slim face between her floppy tits.

“Stupid, gross Gwen and her nasty tits. Just being gross, gross. Smells bad, ugly and fat.” The words are prattled off dumbly, Gwen’s voice low and empty. They’re spaced out by bursts of gas from either end, too. You can hear them happen, with how close her gut is. But the words are… close to what you were thinking a moment ago, and being called out on it, having your words put out there makes you feel… kind of bad.

And so you backpedal. “W-well, I never said that, exactly-“ you're cut off by Gwen taking a step back and burping on you again. You feel the hot breath on your neck and hear the way it slowly peters out.

You squeal and thrash, “stop it! I-“

So focused on trying to get away from the gas that Gwen released onto you, you fail to notice what Gwen is up to until it’s too late.

“Mmph?”

A soft tube has been forced into your mouth. Looking up at it, you deduce it’s connected to the ceiling and, following the tube, you notice a huge machine buzz to life. It’s a giant vat, seemingly filled with gallons upon gallons of liquid slop. If the transparent window into the vat is to be trusted. You try to shake your head and dislodge the tube, but every time you do, it seemingly follows you, as if enchanted by something. There is a faint hue radiating from it and the vat, now that you really look closely. More magic, you realize.

Oh, you are so screwed.

Still kicking up a fuss, you glare when Gwen waddles in front of you, slowly walking closer and closer until her obscenely glutted gut is pressed right against your face.

This close, you can hear and feel the indigestion happening within. You hear gas bubbles build and expand before being released into noisy expulsions that leave you grimacing. It’s as noisy as a bubbling cauldron but ten times as disgusting. It vibrates your face a little, gives you a grumbled warning before a bubbling fart is released. Gwen sighs in relief, giving her belly a satisfied pat. All you can do is sob in disgust.

“Such a big belly, ugly and fat. No one would want Gwen now!” Gwen cries. She takes a step back and looks down at you as best she can. Her chins seem to be providing some resistance. And the angle just makes her look even worse. Gwen’s right, no one would want her now. But you would never say that. To her face, anyway.

Gwen smiles suddenly, vindictive; the only bit of complex thought or emotion that has passed through her in the short time she and you have been together here. “Gwen knows how you feel. Think Gwen is dumb and fat and worthless.” A nasty burp follows her statement, trailing off into smaller, airy ones afterward. “Gwen will make you feel like that, too. Show you how funny it is.”

You feel the hand of ice-cold fear grip your chest. A moment for it to sink in, and then you’re thrashing, muffled shouts coming from around the tube. You don't want to be fat! You’ve worked so fucking hard to keep your body as slim as it is, you don’t want that to be ruined! You’re hot, smart, perfect! Gwen can’t ruin this for you!

But, unfortunately, that’s what Gwen seems keen on doing. As a moment later, a glow surrounds her chubby hand. She says, “soon, you will be just like-“ Gwen chokes on a burp, slapping her gut afterward as if to stop it. “Just like big, dumb Gwen!” The machine behind her hums to life, and you squeal.

When the first bit of the slop touches your tongue, you want to puke. It’s a thick slurry, tasting of butter and sugar, oily but sweet. It’s just off. It’s as if Gwen poured actual grease or lard and pure sugar into it.

You try your best to stop yourself from drinking it, but you soon find yourself choking, forced to swallow the sludge puffing your cheeks out. It’s heavy going down, slowly, begrudgingly sliding down your throat and settling like rocks in your stomach. It instantly sends your insides into a tizzy, gurgling loudly in protest at the strange mixture. Your tummy feels heavy and bloated, and it’s only been a few seconds. It leaves you moaning sickly, watching Gwen warily.

Gwen, for her part, is back to her new, brainless self. She takes a couple more steps back again, able to look at you without fighting her chins for movement as much. “Dumb, dumb, dumb. Gwen sure is dumb!” She fiddles with her greasy pigtails, cackling to herself like she told a funny joke. “Will you have big boobs like Gwen? A nice ass? Will you have a greedy gut, too?” Gwen questions, fondling her dirty fat rolls.

You want to protest, to scream and hit and run. But all you’re able to do is swallow and whimper, to watch the slob in front of you seal your fate into a similarly monstrous being.

It hasn’t even been that long but you feel sick. Your belly is groaning, blushing red and huge, begging for it to stop. The slop settles so heavily in your gut, expanding it with each swallow. Seeing such a round and glutted gut on your tiny frame sickens you. That’s not supposed to be there, you’re supposed to have a flat tummy. You never eat so much that your stomach looks like this. But here Gwen is, forcing you to.

You try to get Gwen to stop, making muffled noises against the tube, trying to tell her you feel you may be sick or explode! But Gwen seems to mistake your pleas as the opposite.

“Do you want more? Don’t worry, soon you’ll be even bigger than me! Look, your body is already changing!”

It’s then that you become aware of a growing warmth and stretching sensation taking over your body. Looking down, it takes only a second for pure horror to settle in your chest.

The thin planes of your body have begun expanding; puffing out like dough in the oven. Your thighs slowly begin to touch, making your body hang off the chair slightly. Your inflated belly nestles itself onto those thighs, warm and soft. Though it is heavy, filled with Gwen’s concoction. The hard dome of it gurgles nastily, making you shiver in disgust. It seems to be working overtime, churning the magic slop directly into fat. The noise is loud and constant, making Gwen laugh dumbly; much to your embarrassment.

“Ohh, your belly sounds mad.” Gwen places a sweaty hand by her ear and listens to the raucous noises. “What’s that? Your belly wants more?” She makes eye contact with you, and despite your muffled protests, she smiles. “All right! More food for your greedy belly, coming right up!” And so, the speed at which the slop enters you increases drastically, causing some choking at first.

It’s agonizing, the uptick in speed causing cramps almost immediately. It’s left your guts all bubbly, causing air to build forcefully within your expanding guts. You can’t burp due to sucking down the fatty sludge, so all that’s left is to… you grimace, trying your best to hold it in, but after a dreadful cramp, you let yourself release a loud fart. The relief is short-lived, as mortification takes over soon after. The expulsion of gas seems to be timed perfectly with an expanding sensation in your ass, leading to you watching helplessly as it begins to sag over the sides of your chair.

Gwen laughs at you again, coming back around to settle behind you, placing her hands on your slowly softening stomach. “And you said Gwen was a slob! Looks like you're going to be the gassiest slob of them all soon!” She presses down again and giggles childishly when you release more gas in response.

Ashamed, you look down, Which honestly feels a little like a mistake. You notice then a pad of fat protruding where your sex once was; a pocket that seems to be set on sealing away any chance of intimacy with anyone again. As if to mock you, your belly surges forward, plopping on top of it and widening into budding love handles. Though your newly formed fupa still remains visible.

Stupid as she is now, Gwen seems to pick up on this. She croons out, “aw, are you sad no one’s gonna want to fuck you anymore? Don’t worry, you still have me!” She punctuates her sentence with a large belch at the end. “Or is Gwen too fat and dumb for you?” She sneers. When you just look up pathetically, she snorts. “Don’t worry. Soon you’ll even be too fat for Gwen! No one likes fatties, right?”

And a part of you wants to nod, because that’s kind of been your thought process up until today, or until Gwen showed up a little chubbier. At the receiving end of that statement now, though, you feel nothing but dread.

Because, yeah; no one likes a fatty. And that’s exactly what you’re becoming.

The fat on your arms begins blooming, causing sweat to build between your pits and tits. The blubber of your forearms and biceps roll onto each other, slowly tightening the restraints around you there. Your calves, too, are testing them; expanding into cankles that leave you feeling like a middle-aged parent rather than the hot young thing you are… or was. The only thing hot about you is the space between your growing folds, causing sweat to build and slowly streak its way down your rolls. And, fuck, the fact that you have rolls now disgusts you beyond measure.

You think even your feet have fattened. Your hands too, by the looks of it. Porky fingers that make your manicured nails look like pins in a cushion. You’ve seen people with this same look and muttered behind their backs, sometimes laughing in their faces. You’d say what a bad look it was, that they shouldn’t try to look pretty. Because fat as they are, beauty is impossible. And now, watching your dainty wrists disappear with inflating lard, you realize you’re no prettier than they are, now.

You’ll never be pretty again.

And, as if to drive that point home, Gwen exclaims, “Oh, looky! Your face is getting fat, finally! Gwen was scared you’d still have a pretty face. Dumb, silly me!”

She’s right, you realize with a nauseous gulp. Looking down is becoming more difficult, an inflating feeling taking place under your chin and on your neck. Your cheeks have begun to feel heavy and your vision a little squinted.

“Haha, you look like a pufferfish! Let’s see how many chins you have. One, two, three… Three chins! That’s more than Gwen!” And Gwen looks genuinely happy at this, her eyes sparkling in delight. “Hehe, I may be dumb Gwen, but you’re the ugly fatty, now!” She pinches your sagging jowls and flops your numerous chins to rub it in.

It doesn’t take long for the bindings to become painful, digging into your growing blubber. It hurts as much as your massive stomach, and as much as the chair digging into your ass. A thought occurs. If you can break the bindings, maybe you can escape! You know that means you’ll get fatter, but, it’s better than nothing.

With vigor, you begin gulping the slop down faster. It burns your stomach, stretching it horribly, forcing you to fart in order to relieve some of the pressure. Your plan seems to be working a little, your body expanding, your tits slowly dipping lower toward your sides, sloping off the bulge of your belly. You mourn their loss of perk silently.

Gwen, the idiot she is, however, mistakes the increase of consumption for something else. Something that leaves you cold. “Oh, is the ugly fatty trying to make their boobs and butt bigger? They are kinda small…” Gwen mumbles, batting at your small, hanging tits and poking at the cellulite-cratered ass. You try to guffaw, offended, but Gwen seems to have found a home in this insecurity, digging right in. “The ugly fatty with their tiny tits and flat ass, who would want them now? Even the fat on your crotch sticks out further!” Gwen shakes your fupa, quickly wiping her hand on your arm. “Ew! The ugly fatty’s so sweaty. The only fuckable hole people can see now is your belly button! But that’s nasty. Who wants to fuck a mountain of lard?” Gwen asks, lifting your rounded belly by the navel.

The lifting and dropping makes an obscene sloshing noise. One that Gwen can’t seem to get enough of. She shakes it up and down, side to side, laughing all the while. “Your belly is so noisy! Seems like the ugy fatty ate too much.” And then she begins slapping it, listening to the tight smacks it makes. She delights in this, too. “Haha, like a drum!”

It’s all so distracting, so embarrassing, that you almost don’t notice when the magic bindings begin to snap. The fat around them bubbles forth like rising yeast, the ropes creating aching dents in the puffy flesh. And finally…

Snap!

The bindings are off.

You cheer to yourself and Gwen takes a surprised step back. It gives you plenty of room to move. Except…

You can’t.

You cannot move. You’re stuck.

Dread begins building in your chest again. No, no, you can’t be too big for this. Still hopelessly swallowing the slop on instinct, you wobble your arms around comically, flailing your legs alongside them. It makes your formed bingo wings sag and slap your side rolls grossly, leaves your belly and fupa slapping onto your thighs loudly. You’re so engrossed in trying to get up, that you don’t hear the chair struggling until it’s too late.

The chair collapses underneath you, leaving your whole body rippling wildly in every direction. Your lard takes what feels like forever to stop jiggling. And even then, it doesn’t truly stop; still growing every second, your belly’s gurgles literally vibrating the skin of your gut with their strength. The massive shift in weight causes you to fart embarrassingly loud, too.

Gwen and you stare at each other, completely shocked, before Gwen laughs. It’s mean, jovial, relieved; filled with schadenfreude.

“Maybe you should be the dumb, ugly fatty.” Gwen states succinctly, walking to your front. Walking. Gwen can still walk. You can’t. You are now fatter than Gwen. And with the size she is, what hope do you ever have of changing that?

Still, you flap your arms hilariously. They stick up at a funny angle now, your blubber literally too voluminous for them to rest normally. You can’t even look down anymore, your face is so fat. But you can still see your belly with how big it is. It’s remained a large, uniform blob of fat, settled grossly on your chunky thighs and flabby fupa. It grows and grows, filling painfully with fattening slop.

Gwen sees the hopelessness settle on your expression, it would seem, as the teasing picks up again.

“The ugly fatty will never be pretty again! You’re too fat for that now.”

“You’re a worthless blob now. No one will love your useless fatass.”

“Every fat person you ever made fun of would laugh at you now!”

“I’ll be the hot friend now, compared to you!”

“Nasty slob! You’re nothing but a fat piece of shit.”

“Dumb, ugly fatty. Thought you could escape. You’ll be my fat pet forever!

You slowly begin to mentally resign to that fact. But you quickly begin to doubt it. Your belly is overfull, dangerously so. It feels like it’s not digesting fast enough, like your stomach is going to explode. It begins roaring dangerously, shaking the room, almost.

Little by little, your stomach inches ever further, reddening, creaking loudly. You wonder how much more you can take. In fact, you feel you have reached your limit, and that with one last swallow-

Nothing. Only the sputters of an empty machine.

And only then, with the relief that you won’t fucking explode, do you feel the weight of everything settle. You feel drunk, almost. Dazed and stupid. The moment the tube finally, finally falls from your lips, the first thing you do is belch loud enough to burn. And once you’ve released one, they keep coming. Burp after burp, followed by loud farts escape you, preventing any speech whatsoever. But you try.

“I’m… sorry,” you wheeze, belching between words. “No… more,” another two burps, “jokes.”

You expect forgiveness, Gwen’s taken everything from you at this point, ruined you beyond measure. What more damage can she do?

You get a sinister little giggle in response. “Oops! Gwen forgot to joke about her fat ass!” She pats her own, round butt in response. “Butt, butt, butt. Gwen sure has a fat butt!” She smiles, “unlike the ugly fatty’s flat one.” A moment for the jab to settle into your bloated flesh, then, “let’s make the ugly fatty’s ass as big as dumb Gwen’s, hm?” You can quite literally only belch in response.

“Now, where did Gwen put that other hose?”

[fattypostcollegegut]

Packed with pasta and beer this afternoon

[confuseddyke]

[growmydarling]

your new chair came babe

[leylanid]

Imagine your dom and his mean girlfriend command you to sit down in front of the computer, and photoshop all your flaws so you look “pretty.” Even after slimming up your waist, editing your nasty curves, and clearing your blemishes on your skin, you’ll never be as pretty as her.

Maybe for fun, they’ll have you do a before/after slideshow presentation in front of their friends.

[fatfables]

More Than Jake

Columbus, Ohio, 2042.

Jake Joseph-Jackson, thirty five years old, 678 lbs, sits in his armchair in his house. He is dead. His favourite sixth wave ska band is still playing on his antique record player. The upbeat tempo of the triple trombones is ill-befitting the scene. The lively record continues to spin, pumping out songs in major key, unlike his heart. His bloated face is as grey as the November sky outside. Rain drizzles down his window. Piss drizzles down his inner thigh and stains the cushion of his chair. Only three minutes earlier he had been singing along to the lyrics of his new favourite song. Now jaundice is setting into his bare swollen feet. Whatever he was doing before is irrelevant, for Jake it is over.

The heart attack was massive and came without warning. He felt it, but only for a few brief seconds. The worst pain ever, followed by….. His eyes are open, sunken. His teeth stained yellow by Cheez-Its and cigarettes. The TV is on but muted. Jake still has a TV. If he had known he might have questioned. He had been promised. Promises worth no more than the shit in the sewer below him. The inevitable conclusion of a life of excess. Another dead fat Surplus loser.

All his best friends were gainerheads. That’s how he’d gotten into it, like so many others. Where were those friends now? The carpet was as brown as his chair. A teen with low self-esteem he had found comfort in food and solace in his size. Sexual attention based on his growth. It fed him. Gaining was his life, it had taken over it. It took it. This was the life he’d chosen?

The wind blew his letterbox open. It slammed closed with a bang. He still has a letterbox. The sixty ounce cappuccino next to him is now cold. Who wants a cold cappuccino? The chair sags under his weight. Whoever comes to take him out will not thank him. The only son of a single mother he was born by caesarean section. Cut into and out of the world. When he was young he had believed himself to be a hero, a liberator of the obese. Now he was the one who had been liberated. Thick dry grey lips, unkissed. The trumpet played. The carpet once cream, from the 2000’s, browned from age and the reality of death where he sat. A scene of misery punctuated by bass and treble. 

He had bought the house with his inheritance. He had considered himself fortunate when his Mom died young. He had no one to not care for him. His gainer friends would just consider him weak. Not worthy of more. Giving in at only 678 lbs? They were clearly superior. They would continue to eat, and continue to grow. Continue to gain more than Jake. His phone buzzes. The delivery is five minutes away. It doesn’t matter, his card was precharged. 

[ru1nm3]

Female

Age: 36

Pronouns: piece of shit, pig, cunt

Location: East Europe

About me: Fat, stupid ang ugly, slut, gender traitor

Into: Humiliation, blackmail, degradation, misogyny, tickling, head shave, fr33 use, orgasm denial, ruining orgasm, breeding, lezdom, r@ping, pain sl4t, fat shaming

Limits: blood, scat, knife play, gore, diapers(find it stupid)

I beg you to humiliate and degrade me as you want, please.

[fattypostcollegegut]

Gut is hanging lower and lower now due to all my beer drinking

[confuseddyke]

[yesmissnyx]

I saw you liked the idea of chubby subs. Does that ever cross over with your kink for guys feminization and lead into liking guys with wide hips, breasts and smaller cocks by any chance :p lol

Y...es.

I love chub, I love tits, I love hips. I love soft men. I REALLY love small cocks (which is why I struggle with SPH 😂). When he has a FUPA? 😈🙏 Gonna put some lacy panties on that Thang if you let me.

Also, honestly? I'm just kind of into androgyny as a Thing. My nonbinary heart sees it and gets pounding 💓💦