#stuffing story

[chunkubis-xxx]

I wish I had a feeder stuffing my face full of Christmas snacks rn😣😣😣 i guess I'll have to do it myself 🤭

On Christmas Eve you see me in the kitchen rolling out dough, we didn’t have any plans with family this year so why is there so much? I start making raviolis sheet after sheet with 12-15 raviolis all morning. In the end you count at least 7 sheets. I sit you down at the table and serve you a plate of 5; you finish that and more replace it. You don’t want to be rude so you keep finishing whatever I put on your plate. Raviolis then sausage then braciola every time you think you’ve hit your limit I give your rounded out tummy a rub and a pat and somehow you’ve discovered room for one more plate. Once you’ve been sufficiently backed you’re belly filled to the brim I lead you to the couch with some oil so I can rub your belly secretly hoping you find more room in that pit for dessert ;)

[quantralia]

Clara’s fork trembled as she pushed another spoonful of creamy risotto past her lips, the weight of Victor’s gaze pinning her to the chair. The dining room, lit by a single chandelier, felt like a cage, the polished table cluttered with plates of rich lasagna, buttery rolls, and a towering chocolate torte. Her dress clung to her swollen belly, the fabric straining against the taut curve that had grown with each forced bite. Victor leaned forward, his smile cold and unwavering. “Keep going, Clara. You’re doing so well,” he said, his voice a velvet-coated command.

She swallowed hard, the food settling like lead in her overfull stomach. Her breath hitched, shallow and strained, as she set the fork down for a moment. “Victor, I—I can’t,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I’m so bloated… it hurts. I feel like I’m going to burst.” Her hands hovered over her midsection, fingers brushing the tight dome that pressed against her waistband. The sensation was overwhelming, each movement sending a dull ache through her core.

Victor’s eyes narrowed, unyielding. “Nonsense. You’re stronger than that. Another bite.” He slid the torte closer, its rich scent cloying.

Clara’s throat tightened, panic rising as she stared at the dessert. “Please, I’m already so full,” she pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper. “If I keep eating, I’ll… I’ll get fatter. I can’t do this to myself.” The words spilled out, raw and desperate, her fear of losing control over her body crashing against her dread of defying him. She imagined her reflection, swollen and unrecognizable, the thought twisting her gut tighter than the food ever could.

“Clara,” Victor said, his tone sharp now, “you don’t get to decide what’s enough. Eat.” His words were a whip, snapping her back to compliance.

Her hands shook as she picked up the fork again, tears prickling her eyes. The shame burned hot, mingling with her fear of gaining weight, of becoming someone she couldn’t recognize. Each bite deepened the psychological toll—her autonomy eroded, replaced by a suffocating sense of helplessness. Her mind churned with self-loathing, whispering that she was weak, that she deserved this for not resisting. The bloating was more than physical; it was a symbol of her surrender, her identity fracturing under Victor’s control.

As she forced down another bite, her stomach protesting with a sharp pang, Clara’s thoughts spiraled. “I’m going to be huge,” she murmured, almost to herself, her voice trembling with dread. “This is ruining me.” But Victor’s smile only widened, feeding on her distress, as her body and mind buckled under the weight of his will. The food, the bloating, the fear—they were all his tools, carving away at the woman she used to be.

[doctorbeth]

Just a spa (or two or three!) for Monkey

Monkey's first person loved him for years, and then his first person had a little boy, and after a generation plus five more years of love, Monkey was feeling a bit worn. Here is his diagnosis photo:

Monkey is a local creature, so once we agreed on a treatment (spa, bald spot treatment, wound repair, new eyes, seam tightening), he was hand delivered by his family.

He started with a spa:

As you can see, the black turned white fairly quickly, but it was almost paint like in texture. I actually wrote to his family, to ask if he had ever had a paint job! The answer was no, it was just oils and dirt from years of an adventurous life. So he had another bath, and another, and a LOT of hand scrubbing, and gentle, one hair at a time, oil removal. Oils aren't uncommon, but this paint like density is. I actually followed the treatment used to remove oil from birds and mammals who get caught in oil spills, and that was eventually the ticket to restore Monkey's fur.

Here's his heart being made and installed with a bit of his original stuffing:

You can see he got modern, hypoallergenic polyfiber stuffing as part of his spa to replace the foam (which disintegrates with time).

Here he is all better! He even got a new nose based on one of his baby photos (his face had been so thickly coated originally, we didn't know it was missing till he was clean!).

You can also see a small fur transplant he needed on the side of his neck for a larger bald spot in the last photo.

In any case, Monkey was ready to go home, but he had to hang out at the hospital a few more days, till his original person was off work. Then both generations came to pick him up. Their reaction:

Absolutely incredible!!!!!!!!!!! I’m still in shock ! Thank you so much !

[chloesimaginationthings]

Into the pit is FNAF’s own Coraline story..

[homoquartz]

a show doesn't necessarily have to be ABOUT queerness to BE a queer show. it's a cultural dialect that cishets don't quite speak.

edit: i gotta clarify that the shows do indeed still have to have actual queer characters in them to count

[pureseasalt]

at woe's hollow straight up jorkin it haha. and by it i mean..... well..... haha... ha.......oh god. oh dear god. oh lord oh dear lord. oh go d forgiv e me

[queercoshon]

The din of the crowded bar faded as the door to the bathroom closed behind you. You click the lock, undo your pants, and immediately take a breath of relief.

It had been a long night of celebrations. Your friend was getting married and this was his last night of 'freedom.' The festivities started at a steakhouse, where appetizers, mains, desserts, and many drinks were had.

Your pants were already on the brink of being too tight when you left the house, but you could definitely feel your gut straining against the fabric as you jaunted out of there with all your buddies.

Next stop was everyone's favourite bar. On the way over marajuana was passed around. You have no idea how many joints were circling at once, you just know by the time you made it to the pub, your head was floating and gut roaringly hungry, despite being backed to the brim.

Some sportball event was blaring over the tv when you arrived. You didn't care, but your buds were all stoked, so many appetizers and beers were ordered. You forgot to feign interest in the game 4 beers after getting to the pub.

At this point everyone is visibly drunk, and you are definitely feeling it yourself. Hiccups were wracking your body, jostling the pressured contents of your stomach, shaking loose several beers. You suddenly realised you needed to pee, and somehow managed to stumble your way over to the 1 stall bathroom, missing the door handle on the first try.

Which brings you to now. You stumble/waddle over to the toilet, do your stuff, then do up your pants. Well, you try to. You automatically suck in to close the button (you have to do this even when you're not packed with food and booze now), but the button doesn't quite make it to the hole. When you try again, you try to push your gut out of the way with your arm, but its so rounded out you still have a hard time seeing over it. The button does not get any closer. You drop your belly and belch, which lets loose a new string of hiccups.

God, you're a pig. You'd given up dieting 6 months ago, gaining 20lbs in the first 3 months. All clothes starting to cling to your softening body. Not that you were horribly skinny before, but you were now nearing the heavier end of chubby. Three months ago you'd discovered the empty calories and lost inhibitions of alcohol, and all the benefits weed had. At least twice a week you pass out on your couch, empty takeout containers and beer cans scattered around you, gut creaking and gurgling dangerously. You think you've put on maybe 30 lbs in the last 3 months, but it's closer to 45.

This is evident in your clothing. This is your last pair of pants. You had to lay on your bed, suck in your gut, and use all your strength to get them closed. You could still feel the red indentations on your skin under your gut.

And rather than take it easy and be mindful of what you put in your belly, you consumed with reckless abandon. Leading you to this little bathroom, too fat and bloated to dress yourself decently.

You shake your belly, trying to belch out enough bloat to maybe get them done up. Even in this predicament, you start to fantasize about the beers you'll order once you go back out there, and maybe another basket of fried things.

You drop your gut and hazily look in the mirror. You look sloshed. Eyes completely red, a stupid grin plastered on your face, and even though your upper gut is clearly completely overfed, your belly still hangs low.

Your belly is hanging. You can barely see the button isn't done up. You manage to wiggle the zipper up and grin. No one will notice a thing! And now you definitely have more room without those pesky pants digging into your belly.

Satisfied, you pat your gut and waddle out the door, back to your friends, the food, and the many beers that await you.

[khimkhim]

It’s kind of pathetic how weak I am when it comes to stretchmarks. I’m fucking obsessed with them. Obviously getting fat is already a physical manifestation of how much of a piggy a person is but stretchmarks are different. They’re a tangible symbol of how *desperately* greedy a piggy is. You ate so much and so quickly that your skin couldn’t even keep up with your swelling body. Bursting at the seams — literally. When my feedee started to scratch her belly more often I knew what was about to happen even before she did. I saw faint little red marks that could’ve been scratch marks but sure enough — a week or two later they were little red lightning marks. Once the first ones appear they’re almost always followed by more, and sure enough again, a month later she had them all over her tummy. It’s fuckin magical. Don’t even get me STARTED on when a new feedee stretches, raises their arms up, and that shirt lifts up justttt enough to reveal those cute little jagged lines on the bottom of their tummy 😩 I’m a big fan of stretchmarks if you couldn’t tell. Please DM me your stretchmarks!! Haha just kidding. Unless… 🥺

[fatty-lit]

I want to show you off. Show the public how good I've been taking care of you. Show them how fat pampering can make a person. Show them how big you are, how you got there, and most importantly that you're all mine.

Take you out to eat and order appetizers and entres. I place the order and make sure the waiter knows it's all for you. I want them to know that I'm the one keeping my big girl so well-fed. "Oh, you can set that in front of her." "Oh, no that's not to share. You can set that there." "Yeah, she said she was pretty hungry tonight." And then feed you from across the table while people shoot side eyed glances at our display.

Then when you've finished it all like the good girl you are, I'll help your heavy body out of the booth. My hand around you soft widening waste, squeezing you closer to me as I help you waddle out of there. A victory lap of sorts, showing everybody how much my baby likes to eat.

We obviously got desert at the restaraunt but no date night is complete without ice cream. Kisses and PDA while waiting in line and discussing what you're going to get. Everyone loves seeing a fat girl in an ice cream shop, and I need them to know this fat girl is mine. I make sure to order you and extra scoop on top of your cone.

Kisses and squeezes while you eat it as strangers pass by and see. I made you fat and I couldn't be prouder.

[fillthattank]

Hey there, congrats on the 2000 followers! I wanted to see if you were still taking submissions for the mini celebration you were having. If you are, could you do a story about these progress pictures?

Keep up with the great blog and here's to another 2k followers

He was already one of the bigger and stronger guys at the gym when I first saw him. Nice bic pecs, a defined mid-section, and arms that earned him many stares. I was one of those, I won't hide it: I wanted to be that big too, one day.

But when I talked to him, I soon found out he didn't care for all those envious - and sometimes lustful - stares. All he wanted was to grow bigger and get stronger.

"The bigger you get the more you want to grow," he said, when I pointed ou he was already massive. He was drinking a gigantic shake in the locker room, his abs already bloated. After giving me some more advice, he tilted back his head to chug the last of his shake, his belly inching forward ever so slightly.

"Damn, I'm so bloated," he laughed nervously, noticing my eyes staring at his belly.

"You always have this much?" I asked, still in awe.

"Lately, yes. Trying to bulk up, but it turns out you need a real lot to be in a surplus when you're my size."

He moaned and rubbed his belly with one hand, as he flexed his other arm. In every gym, you see guys with big bloats, but this was seriously big.

"But like, is it safe to let you belly get this big?"

"Yeah, it's kinda freaky how big it gets. But it's just a bloat. And I want that extra muscle so bad."

*

This was indeed a daily occurrence. He'd bloat himself crazy after each session. Earning himself plenty of stares, from terror to jealousy passing by fascination, sometimes freaking himself out by the size of his bloat. But for his efforts, he was rewarded with consistent strength and muscle gains.

One day, he turned up at the gym with an already bloated tank, stretching his shirt tight.

"Big lunch?" I asked

"Big dinner, really. I was still so bloated when I woke up," he said, slowly rubbing his huge round gut. "Fitting breakfast and lunch in there was rought. But I want those gains so bad."

He really was huge. I'd seen him leave the gym after some monster chugging sessions with a smaller bloat than this. Watching him pump iron with a belly that looked like it would explode if poked the wrong way was both fascinating and terrifying.

And yet, his workout done, I found him in the locker room, holding the same monster shake. His bloat hadn't gone down one bit, digestion being offset by the water he'd been drinking between sets.

"There's no way you've got room all that, right?" I let out.

"I'm gonna make it fit. Can't miss out on any gains."

He didn't so much chug the shake as brute-force it into his already overloaded belly. His neck muscles working hard, leaning back or to the side as his stomach was forced to stretch. I stood fascinated, both telling myself I might need to jump in if he hurt himself, and in awe of how a single belly could hold so much.

Once done, he opened his mouth to burp, but no sound came out. He was beyond maxed out. Way past his limit.

"I think I need a belly rub," he said.

His belly looked so full I was scared to touch it. But, no one had ever looked as desperately in need of belly rubs as ths guy had.

Just a slight touch and I straight away felt the insane pressure inside his huge belly. As if the huge volume of food and shake was pushing against my hand with all its strength. Just touching the belly seemed to provide a visible amount of relief

"I needed that," he said.

I tried moving my hands around a bit. Like any self-respecting gym bro, I'd overdone it with the shake or the cheat meals a few times, and had some experience, but this was no ordinary bloated belly. His already huge stomach was so overloaded it seemed like he had gone beyond his capacity, forcing it to stretch. There really wasn't much I could do, though it seemed

I offered to drive him home. And to stay with him for at least a bit, as it didn't feel right to leave someone alone with a gut this dangerously stuffed. We lied him down on his bed, his enormous belly taking up a freakish amount of space. Jutting out vertically from below his beefy pecs, and rising up high in the air before it even started to curve back down.

"You really do want those gains bad," I joked.

"Yeah," he replied. I got a chucke out of him. "So bad I almost burst."

Desite almost all the energy in his body being redirected to managing his gargantuan bloat, he mustered enough strength to flex one of his arms.

I ended up staying the night.

The next morning, his bloat no longer looked like it was at risk of bursting, but still stuck out from beyong his pecs by a few inches. Not surprising, as even big muscle guy like him couldn't digest that much in just one night.

What did surprise me was how hungry he was. Even with a bloat big enough to freak out a smaller guy, his belly was still grumbling in hunger, loud enough to wake both of us up. Begging for a gigantic breakfast that he immediately got up to make for himself.

"How are you still hungry?" I asked.

"I don't know, I just am. My belly feels like it's empty."

The hunger only faded when his belly was back to being close to the size it had been last night. I was concerned, but he was now getting excited: with all this food, he was going to be able to put on even more muscle.

*

Rather than try and calm down after overloading his belly so much, he only increased his intake. His belly did not explode, but his strenth did. PR after PR was crushed. He was adding size at an insane pace.

All that weight wasn't muscle of course. A gigantic belly stuck out at all times. The constant overeating made it adapt. It kept getting bigger, of course, and it got sturdier. His belly no longer looked like a bloated six pack that would burst if poked the wrong way, but like a solid powerbelly, capable of digesting just about anything.

His abs were now gone from sight (though likely bigger and stronger than ever), but he didn't care. The giant belly wasn't just a tool to get bigger muscles, it was a point of pride in itself: just like he had the biggest guns, he also had the biggest gut. And he wanted both bigger.

[bellyaz]

CW: Teasing/Degradation

You have to feel at least a little guilty…

There’s no way you can look and eat the way you do and not be.

If not in the moments after you carry out the most sinful acts of gluttony, or even after you finish cumming yourself senseless because of how tight and sore your gut is, you have to feel guilty the morning after when you wake up and still have that feeling of slight fullness mixed with nausea… You know? Right before you gorge yourself again, cause you’ve convinced yourself that when you’re not filled to the brim and gasping for air, you’re not full.

When you’re in front of your family and they make little remarks out of love and concern, telling you how they go on walks, or how they’re trying this new diet they think you’d “like.” Isn’t it embarrassing?

The looks you get from them at holiday dinners don’t make your heart sink? That one distance relative who gets drunk and tells you how big you’ve gotten since the last time they saw you, but they’re joking of course. And your aunt bragging about how your cousin lost so much weight since they’ve started going to the gym.

When your smaller friends continuously bitch about how fat they are, and you realize you’re double almost triple their size. When they say it, the others instantly reassure them. But when you say it, they all kind of go silent or coo and tell you you’re still beautiful.

Aren’t you ashamed when you run out of breath laboring your weight back to your bed with bags of food to pack your gut? I mean, you get winded from eating.

When you hear your jeans creaking while you sit. When you keep tugging the bottom of your shirt in public, trying to keep it down. When you avoid the gaze of strangers, cause there’s something inside of yourself letting you know they’re staring and judging. When you rip and pop buttons on clothes that fit less than a year ago.

And the amount of money you spend on food is disgraceful. You could’ve used that money on so many things… bills, nutritious groceries, a vacation, a gym membership. Hell, by now you could’ve built a home gym with how much you’ve spend on your gut.

Any normal person would be disgusted with themselves. But you’ve cummed yourself into submission to your mound, right? And I can bet you’re eating or touching yourself right now.

What’s wrong with you?

[queercoshon]

Here's part 3 of a thing. I have no plans for this series. Just gonna write hot scenarios until I get stuck and then let it fizzle out. So enjoy until then! (Don't worry, I have plenty more ideas for this. Just don't expect like, plot or character development lol.)

--------------------------

"Hic-urrp! Ohhh..."

It wasn't even 1pm and it sounded like Shavon had eaten themself to a drunk stomach ache already.

This wasn't quite an everyday thing since summer started, but pretty close. Mornings started with a hair of the dog drink and a blunt or bong rip, left conveniently within reach by Millie. Then she'd bring out some sort of breakfast, and that would set the precedent for the day.

"Mil-hic-lie! CannI have anothr drink please?" Millie smirked and flushed just a little. That pig doesn't know how to stop.

She set what she was cooking to low and grabbed a 6 pack from the fridge.

Shavon's face split into a dumb smile as Millie cracked a can open for them. "Thaaanks, Millie. You'rr the best-hic!" They took several large gulps, letting out a raucous burp when coming up for air. More burps followed as Millie rubbed along their stretchmarked gut, feeling it work away at everything inside.

"Are you hungry now, or can you wait for what I'm cooking?"

Shavon was lost in the belly rub, barely able to register that they needed to respond.

"Huh? Hic! Oh, I cn wait. I'm kinda -Urrap-hic- ugh full. Hic!"

"Okay, hon," Millie patted their gut and watched the outer layer of fat ripple, unperturbed by the stuffed mass beneath it. For now, at least. "I'm gonna leave a joint here in case you want it. Call me if you need help lighting it."

Shavon nodded, their dull eyes floating back to the tv, their hands absent-mindedly caressing their belly, feeling absolutely in hog heaven.

Unfortunately Millie had to work this evening, but it didn't mean she couldn't influence Shavon's habits while away. She had taken to making big batches of foods like casseroles and crockpot dishes. Most of the time there would be enough left for her to get a meal or two out of it. But when it was one of Shavon's favourites, like tonight's mac and cheese, Millie didn't expect any leftovers.

She knew the way she cooked was devious, maybe unethical or immoral, but if Shavon enjoyed it and she enjoyed it, what was the harm?

The sauce started out with a load of butter, and the liquid was pure heavy cream with just a little pasta water. The amount of cheese that got grated in made the whole sauce stretch and string like a cartoon pizza. And then there was added shredded cheese on top, broiled to turn crispy and golden.

She was busy thinking about what all these calories would do to her ballooning roommate when she heard a thud by the door.

Shavon was leaning heavily on the doorframe, somehow still swaying. Their gut was so rounded out from gorging all morning, but it still hung lower and lower every day. Their eyes tried to scan the kitchen, but Millie could see that Shavon couldn't.

"What're you doing up, Chevy? If you want something, let me bring it to you." She popped the dish in the oven and approached Shavon, wanting to be within arm's reach in case they went down. It would be a lot easier to stop them from hitting the floor rather than getting their 315lb mass off of it.

"I wan...I want.. uh..." they looked around the kitchen confused, trying to place why they got out of their cozy spot on the tiny recliner. "Urrp. I thinkk I wan food," they giggled and swayed a little more. Millie could smell the joint on Shavon's breath and skin.

"Munchies hitting you hard?" Shavon nodded a little too enthusiastically, all of their fat jiggling in the aftershock.

"Well, the mac and cheese won't be done until I have to leave for work-" the face Shavon wore could only be described as devastated, "but why don't I get you set up with some snacks until then?"

Their face screwed into a thoughtful look, and then nodded approvingly. Millie helped them turn around and gently led the lumbering mass back to the abused recliner. If she didn't have to work she would have guided them to the couch, where there was enough space for Millie to sit and help...

She cracked open another beer and handed it over, Shavon drinking it automatically,  guzzling as much as they could before letting out a monstrous belch.

No wonder they can barely walk, that's the fourth beer from the six pack. Drunk pig.

Millie made a few trips back and forth from the kitchen, bringing a big bowl of ice cream, a box of cookies, 2 different kinds of chips, and a coke with vodka (which was maybe two thirds coke...)

"Yyure -urrrrp- thhe beshs Millie." She didn't know if Shavon was barely intelligible due to inebriation or the two cookies shoved in their mouth. They were cute either way.

"I'll bring you dinner before I leave for work." Millie ruffled Shavon's hair, almost making them purr.

And with that, she left to take a cold shower before work.

---------------------------

You evef wake ykurself up vy burping? Happend to me all the tkme now. How long have I been passsed out for? Urrrp.

Whee the fuck is my phone? Oh, haha ut 's under my bellu. I losd a lit o things there now .

5:16pm. And a message drom Millie.

Dinner's in the oven on warm. Your bong is in the drying rack. Refilled the fridge, too. Have a good night;* xx

Mmm Millie's mac abf cheese. I been smelling it sunce thus afternkon. Just gotta grt yp to gfab it. One, two. Hnnnbg. Whoa, i,m up, and barely even stumbled! And not because i'm drunk. Thus is barely tipsy. But my gut has been gfowing do fsst, i havent fugured out my nfw centre of gravity yrt. Urp.

Millie says I'm starting to eaddle, but i don'f thjbk so. All my fat judt sways a lot more, and my beelly kinda grts in the way of my thighs. I just have to adjezt my gait a lil to make walkbg easiet.

Okay. Things I've remembered to do: turn of warming on oven. Use oveb mitts to get this dish out. Not bute into it right away even thoufh it smells irresistble because it's gonna br way too hot still. Grab a cozy sk i can put the tray on my stomaxh when i'm back in thr living room. Move the case of ales to thr living room, and geab cutlry. What am I nissing? Og right, the bong. Aww she even left fower in the grjnder for me. I just gotta fill it eith waterbefogre setting it up

Ahhh. I dn't realose how tired I am intil I sit down now. This gut is getting heavy, and standing maked my knees and back kinda sore. Sitting eases that.

Si does weed. Fee deep tokes and wverything is so relaxdd. It's alfeady hitting when I crack the first can.

I'm staving. Legit, I can hesr my belly grumbling. Not for long...

Ugh thid is seriously the best mac and cheerse. I din't know whst she does to it, but it's so cresmu and smooth, and rich and garlicy, sith a perfectly toSted bread crumv crustong on top. O know this pan is huge, but i hope she doesn't wsnt wnough leftoveds for a full meal.

Ressstong ot on mu belly means itXs super close to my mouth, so it,s easy to shovel right in. I'm enjoying the flavour too, I swer! So much that I judt need more of it right now. I just need more.

Fhvk. The tray feeks so fucking heavg. It's lighter now. Because mkst of the stuff is crammed un my gut. Im sk fuvking full, the trag us adding sk mych pressure. But i dont wanns move it, thered only like a 6th kf it left. I judt gott Urrrp! Ooooh rest a bjt.

Braaap! Hic-urp! Dowwsnt help havung 6? 7? Beerrs in my gut, tajing ul space. I mean, ig goes ggiod with the mac and cheese, and bser makds ne hungry. Urrp Mosf thhbngs make ne hungrh.

Weed. Weed will help. Unph f i can reach the sfupid bonb. Dont wanna spill the trayz and my gut is starting to get n the wau. Buuuuurraap! Mmm the presssure reaaalu helped pish that one out. Ok lihyt up and then buiiiig unhale.

Yeahhh thats it. This reclinner id so comgy i coukd mekt rught into it. Crack another beed for the ckttonmouth  and for the effecf its gonba have . Im still so stuffed, but noe i just need tk eat

Unnnggh braap. Jusf keep shovellig it in. Barely has a tastd now, im not even chewing. Jusr wallow forkfil after dorkful dosn. My bdlly us gettging itchy. Soon i finish the fray i can deak with that, but im so close, cant stop now.

Fuck. Fu-urrrp ohhh. I fodtgot to vdeathe i think. Im panting luke a dog. Im completely rund, better put thd tray diwn befjde ot slips off. Fuck eveth breatb is makinf ny ght bob up and doen rjght kn my lap

Oh my god belky rubf fdsl heavenkt right nkw. Its ao tight. I shoved a wbole casserkle tray of pssta and chesse saucd into my mkhth. Theres like, no giveto mu upper belly ehe  i press- urrrrrp! Burrrrp! Urrrap! Yh i needfed thast. Burks helo.

Means beer will hell? Chug, chug, chug mmm nopr the pressure ud back and wordr yhan befo- braaaaaap! Hic-buurp! Hic-urp! Urrrrrp hats helpful. Mmmm brerrrp ffffuck.

Ibdontbthink j can stag wake mhch linger. Igs so hkt tk be thid fuked up and rjoubnd, but i cant keeo mh eyes open   beshdes i cang even eeach wirhb all this dyiffed in me .... i dunno if u can reach at allk any mire.

I hope Millie's proufd kof me.

[fillthattank]

I just want a dominant tall skinny guy with massive hands and feet that just want to turn me in to short chubby bear. Just stuff me full and praise me for eating all and being his good bear.

He's half your weight, but he towers over you. Probably not as strong, but something about him means he has such a hold over you. Maybe it's his height, maybe it's his big hands, or feet, maybe it's his personality. Maybe it's that you'd let him do anything. Probably all of them to a degree. You are his bear.

He's feeding you. It's your 6th meal of the day, but it's a feast for a fair sized family. He told you to take off your shirt, and you did so. The heat of digestion, the size of your belly.

It's still bloated from the 5th dinner, 3 pizzas he had you eat at a local restaurant. When you met him, a long time ago, it was a small belly. You were almost as skinny as him. The more he fed you, the bigger the belly got, and the bigger it got, the more he could feed you. Now, your belly is big and round. It can hold so much food.

"You're a good bear," he says, as you eat. Your big furry belly is full and heavy, but you're still eating. You want to please him, only stop when you can't manage any more.

"A bear can never eat too much. More is always better," he says. His approval encourages you to eat even more. Your belly, big as it is, is heavy and tight from the sheer volume inside. It was soft this morning when you woke up, but now, it's getting hard. You force more and more in.

"My belly's so big," you say, eventually lying back, too stuffed to feed yourself anymore. The enormous belly sticking out before you. The fur dampened by sweat.

"Your belly's so big," he agrees. "It needs more food."

His big hand on your belly has such an effect on you. As stuffed as you are, you keep on eating as he now feeds you.

"Good bear," he says, your belly growing bigger and bigger. You'd probably let him feed you to bursting point.

But your belly holds. It keeps growing. He knows your body better than you do, he knows how to rub your belly so it will be able to hold more food.

Eventually, you've eaten it all and your belly is massive. So heavy, so tight, but his hand on your belly makes it all feel good. You could not move if you wanted to.

"You're a good bear," he says. "You've eaten it all."

[bellyaz]

You place your generous slice of cheesecake and a bottle of soda on your bed as you rolled your eyes, looking at the 3xl shirt your aunt bought you for your birthday.

“This shit looks like a blanket.” You scoff, holding it up to reveal its width.

She’s a “you’ll grow into it” type of person, so everyone in the family got their share of huge shirts that they’d end up just sleeping in. But with you it was different.

You’ve always been the chubby one growing up. So obviously, while everyone got sized up by one or two, yours were at least 3 sizes above what she thought you were. And as you got bigger, so did the shirts.

They always ended up fitting loosely, but it still did something to you.

You push these thoughts to the back of your mind and took a bite of the cake. You lick your fingers before deciding to try the shirt on.

You throw it over your head and to your surprise, it was a struggle to get it over your head. But, you don’t think much of it since everyone says you have a big head.

You get confused though, when the fabric felt tight around your upper arm. You force your other arm in and felt the familiar tightness then hear a creak.

You frown a little, feeling some worry. But you convince yourself that this certain brand of T-shirts had small sleeves. Duh. It happens all the time.

You successfully pull it over your boobs, even though it drags a little over your nipples.

It’s usually at this point when the shirt would fall over your stomach to your upper thigh…

But it didn’t this time.

This time it stops right by your belly button before you had to physically pull it down. This time you can see the imprint of your stomach and feel the fabric against your stomach…

And back rolls…

And you can feel the sleeve cutting into your fat arms.

You look at the mirror with your mouth agape, seeing the way the fabric clings to your body was alarming, but exciting?

“Oh my gosh.” You gasp, realizing that a 3xl shirt not only fit you, but was a bit tight. “When did I get this fat?”