the-fatty-bread

[the-fatty-bread]

God, the number of you who are PAINFULLY GORGEOUS and just ACHING to be stuffed full by the ffa of your dreams and just NOT is absolutely criminal. I want to drop into every one of your Asks and ask why. What are you looking for that you can't find? What is stopping you?

We need a fun secret crush game, like candygrams in middle school, only for feedists. Send your feedist crush a pizza anonymously. Just so they know you are watching, that you want them.

Maybe just the emoji kind at first. I'm here, I'm reading. I'd choose you. 🍕

[the-fatty-bread]

Patience

The one where he eats a ton and makes me watch him jerk off.

I don’t know if this is particularly good, but I needed to write it down.

feedism, ffa/bhm, some sexually explicit stuff

~

My face is hot and my chest is tight, making it hard to keep my breath steady. I’m going to lose this little competition - this I know for certain - but I should at least try to maintain composure.

It’s harder than I thought.

The idea was simple: sit still and patient while you demonstrate just how gluttonous you are. I’m not one to back down from a challenge, so of course I agreed. My overconfidence blinded me to the well known fact that I’m less patient than you when I’m not in control. This was making itself very apparent.

I struggle not to bite my lip as I watch you unwrap the last burger of the mountain of fast food you’d come home with. I’m sitting across from you in our living room, the TV playing some mindless show for background noise while you torture me. You look stuffed to the brim, pants undone and shirt riding up, as you take a bite of that last burger. You wash it down with a big swig of soda, playful eyes meeting my heated gaze. Your hand moves to massage your heavy gut and you belch, low and deep.

Fuck.

I shift in my seat, fingers gripping my forearms. My face is burning.

“You okay, baby?” You ask with an air of innocence. “You look unwell.”

I roll my eyes.

“Use your words.” You’re having way too much fun with this.

“I’m fine,” I say, the words coming out more strained than I’d like.

“You sure?” You ask, stuffing the rest of the burger in your mouth. Your hand starts wandering lower and I lean forward in my seat.

“Uh huh,” I say, breathless. You pull your hand back and I huff ever so slightly. You’re so smug and it’s making me not want to cooperate, but I know if I want to touch you I have to be patient. It’s all part of the game.

You burp again and shift to pull you pants down past your knees before kicking them off.

“Much better,” you say, winking at me. You’re very clearly turned on. I resist the urge to quit this game, kneel between your thighs, and make you forget why you wanted to try this scenario in the first place. “Fuck, I’m full.” You press your hands into your soft lower belly and give it a shake, letting out a low moan.

I whine, despite myself, and immediately regret it when I see how delighted you are.

“Do you wanna see me touch myself, baby? Is my pretty feeder soaking wet just from watching me?” I squeeze my legs together as if on cue, unable to stand this teasing.

“Yes,” I whisper. Your hand slips under the waistband of your boxers and you moan when you finally touch yourself. I take one shaky breath and try not to moan myself. It’s all I can do to keep it together.

I rock my hips against the chair, desperate to give myself any stimulation. This is unfair. I need to touch you, feel how full you are, tease your cock myself. I need to feel you rut against me as I force more into you.

At some point my mouth opened and I can barely believe I’m actually panting, but you’re picking the pace and I can tell you’re getting so close. You open your eyes and meet my gaze again, lost in the sensation.

“That’s it, baby,” you say, “watch me show you how much I love this, how much I fucking need this. I think I could eat more, you know.” You slow down, walking that line that tips you over the edge. “I could eat more, but only if you’re feeding me.”

“Oh god,” I answer.

“Do you want me to cum?”

“Please, baby.” My face flushes again with how desperate I sound. “Please cum for me. I need to touch you, I need to feel you.”

“It’s so fun teasing you, though,” you say with a smirk. “To see you all worked up like this, it’s so hot to know that I do this to you.” You make a show of thrusting your hips into your hand - at least as well as you can with being so full.

I think I’m sweating.

“I need to fuck you,” I choke out. “God, please baby. Let me fuck you.”

You laugh and renew your efforts. You’ll cum this time, I can tell by the way your breath starts to hitch.

I’ll never get tired of watching you cum. Once I know you’re finished, I rush over to you and kiss you, your lips curling into a smile beneath me.

“God that was so hot,” I say in a rush, my fingers fumbling with my own pants. “Please touch me. See how dripping wet your pretty feeder is for you, baby.”

You’re more than happy to oblige.

[the-fatty-bread]

you should wear tight jeans/sweatpants and tuck your dick upwards in the waistband, then put on a belt as tight as you can<3

sit down, start stuffing. one burger in each hand while you rock back and forth in the chair to try and get any sort of friction. eat faster, feel your precum leaking against the underside of your belly, its okay if it’s too heavy, ill lift it for you!

keep eating until it hurts & then loosen your belt a notch. let me tease your nipples with your shirt on and mock you for being so desperate to get bigger…we will keep doing this every day until you either burst out of your pants or cum in them <3

then we will start doing the same on the bed, get on all fours and start eating without your hands. the only stimulation you will get is teasing words and permission to grind your desperate crotch into the mattress…that is until you get too fat to make the friction feel good, because your belly is in the way and you can’t reach the mattress properly…

you either keep eating until you are fat enough to get yourself off by rubbing your dick against your own fat, or get better at making a pig out of yourself while eating so i do it for you <3

[the-fatty-bread]

Fun thought:

Me pegging you in front of a mirror while teasing you about how much your fat jiggles with each thrust 🥰

[the-fatty-bread]

get on all fours and eat, if your belly doesnt touch the floor you are not fat enough for me yet<3

once you finish the entire thing i will make you sit up and shove a burger in each one of your hands for you to keep eating while i rub your belly and touch all of your body…

i will keep feeding you more, over and over until you are moaning after each bite, lightly teasing you for how greedy you are, and only once you hit a wall and cant eat more will i get you off, asking you to lay back and lift up your gut so i can put my face under it and make you feel good, only picking up my pace when you are forcing weight gain shake and food down your throat~

keep getting fatter for me, my spoiled overfed piggy<3

[the-fatty-bread]

Love to have someone’s hands on this tank 😈😁🥴💪

[the-fatty-bread]

The Pill

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

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

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

Then your shirt twitches.

You freeze.

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

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

It doesn’t stop.

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

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

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

And then your eyes widen.

Your arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your husband.

He cooked dinner tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

You feel something else stirring.

Something you don’t want to name yet.

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

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

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

Then:

“Oh, wow…”

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

He’s standing in the doorway. Watching.

Your husband.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You drugged me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hands flutter uselessly at your sides.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He only smiles. “Then we’ll go slow.”

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

He leads you to the bedroom.

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

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

But with awe.

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

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

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

You hesitate. Swallow. Nod.

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

The number appears.

And it’s massive.

You gasp.

He exhales, his hand wrapping gently around your side.

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

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

But the number glows back at you, undeniable.

You’ve gained over fifty kilos in twenty minutes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can,” he says simply.

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

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

The way he looks at you…

It’s not just lust.

It’s reverence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re real.

And so much bigger than you were.

Time slips by in a haze.

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

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

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

Your belly lets out a low, insistent grumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He disappears for a moment into the closet.

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

Now, it might barely cover you.

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

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

Changed.

And then you see it.

On the nightstand.

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

You stare at it.

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

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

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

You’re enormous.

And you could be bigger.

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

But he doesn’t move.

You reach for the pill slowly, fingers trembling.

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

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

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

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

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

And you pop it into your mouth.

Swallow.

His fingers tighten gently around yours.

“Good girl,” he whispers.

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

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

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

Only this time, you don’t panic.

You wait.

You watch.

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

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

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

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

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

He watches you like a worshipper in church.

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

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

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

You chose this one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[the-fatty-bread]

Inspection

“Steady, my darling,” I say, my warm hand settling on your pudgy hip to steady you as we stand in front of the mirror, you in front of me, my body pressed up against your back. Your low groan brings a smirk to my lips and I rest my chin on your shoulder, my free hand roaming the opposite hip, pressing into the soft layer of fat and giving it a squeeze.

“Sorry,” you say with a labored breath. “I’m so fucking full, baby. Hard to stand up at all.”

“I know.” My smile grows as I meet your eyes in the mirror. “That’s the point.” You roll your eyes before returning my gaze. I notice a flush on your cheeks and I laugh.

“Embarrassed?” I ask, voice playful. “How weird, when you were only just begging me to do this after eating everything in sight.” I see your cock twitch in your boxers, straining further against the fabric, and I try to keep my composure - something that gets harder every time we do this.

“And?” You’re almost pouting now, your hands resting gingerly on your swollen gut. You don’t have a rebuttal, as we both know it’s true.

I let it slide, instead much more interested in the image in the mirror. My gaze shifts darker as I take in your gluttonous form, my practiced hands sliding down your sides to grab handfuls of your overhang.

“Fuck, baby,” you groan as I jostle your stomach.

I hum in agreement. I’m sure you can feel my heart thudding behind you and my own face heats up despite my efforts to stay cool. “So full,” I murmur, pressing down ever so gently into the top of your taught stomach. “I love inspecting my handiwork. Do you think you’ve gotten bigger?”

You nod, a soft belch coming up at all the movement.

“Where?” I ask. I pinch a soft lovehandle. “Here? Or maybe…here?” My other hand moves to squeeze your plump chest. You moan again and lean back into me.

“What do you think, baby?” I ask again. I bring a hand back around behind you and grab a handful of your ass, squeezing there too before letting go with a light smack.

“I don’t…um,” you gasp as my hands continue to roam your body, jiggling and squeezing your most delicious parts, stopping only to soothe your stuffed gut, still so firm from everything I fed you. I meet your gaze in the mirror again and I can see the need plain as day on your face. I’m sure you can see it on mine, too.

“Oh fuck,” I breathe. I’m frozen my mouth is dry; I’ve realized with a jolt of arousal that I can’t reach your dick standing behind you anymore. I turn you around and back you up against the wall, taking care not to put too much pressure on your stomach. One hand reaches down to brush your bulge while the other pulls you in for a deep kiss. You moan, pressing your hips into my hand and gripping my waist for support.

I pull away and lean close to your ear. “Get on the bed, my love.”

I don’t need to tell you twice.

[the-fatty-bread]

Sorry for being gone for so long! Schools been kicking my ass but I’ve been really wanting a feeder/encourager recently… been fantasizing of having someone that I can go from casual chit chat to teasing me for being a fat pig, right back to talking about movies or video games, and then being told to just eat one more slice, you have more room! So if this sounds like something you’d be interested in, lmk!

[the-fatty-bread]

maybe I’ve put on a few pounds since that photo, but you don’t mind, do you? 🥺

[the-fatty-bread]

So big

[the-fatty-bread]

I want it to be humiliating when I turn into a berry. People will give me weird looks and stare as I turn blue, making me confused and uncomfortable but I'm too stupid to notice until my stomach starts to blow up. It'll start as a small potbelly and I'll grow flustered and try to hide it. But then I realize it's not just my stomach but my sides and back filling out too. My clothes grow tight around me and my shirt pulls up to show my blue belly. I'll start panicking and I'll try and push it down but it doesn't stop - I'll just feel the gurgle of juice under my skin. Now people will stop and circle around me, talking about how big I'm getting, asking if it's an allergic reaction or if it's something contagious, that I look like a balloon, that I'm putting on an act. They'll pull out their phones and record me. My clothes burst open as I'm forced to spread my thickening arms and legs, my body one big round ball and still growing. My crotch will sink between my knees and my sides will lift up and out until my limbs are sucked into my belly. My blubbers for help will become muffled as my neck disappears into a divot where my chin hits my chest and my round cheeks fill in the space until there's no gap. I can't turn my head anymore - I'll be forced to stare forward into the watching crowd as I feel myself expand even bigger. My hands bounce off my sides as my arms are swallowed to the wrists and my crotch finally presses against the floor. More pressure and then my feet lift off and I'm wobbling balanced on my crotch.

The swelling will have stopped but the humiliation won't be over. I'll be perfectly round, as wide as I am tall, and completely immobile. People will poke and pat me all over and push me into a roll. They can do whatever they want with me: make me their ball for a game, or squeeze the juice out of me, or climb on top of me like I'm a circus ball to walk on, or try to breed me. They can see if they can squeeze me through a doorway and get me stuck. I can't stop them and I don't want to even if I could.

[the-fatty-bread]

Tight as hell

[the-fatty-bread]

Just a cute story about a couple of feedists who go on a date.

~~~

Date Night

It’s date night, and we go out for an early dinner to one of our favorite spots, a casual local place with decent food for decent prices. As usual, you pick out an appetizer, finish your entree and mine too, and we skip dessert in favor of driving through somewhere on the way home to get you a sugary drink you can dip on for the rest of the evening.

When we get home, I watch you as you get out of the car and head inside. By the way you are moving, I can tell you are full, but I know you’re not at capacity. A little later, you’ll probably let me feed you more while we cuddle and watch a movie. In anticipation of this, I stopped by the store earlier and grabbed a carton of ice cream and a few things to assemble a basic charcuterie board for us to share.

I head to the bedroom to change into something more comfortable. You follow me there and open my dresser drawer, pulling out the filmy nighty that opens in the front that you like me to wear. You toss it my way and tell me, “Put it on.”

Realizing the night may be heading a different direction than movie cuddles and snacks, I wiggle into it and then bring out a shirt I picked up for just such an occasion. It’s at least a couple sizes too small for you, and you struggle mightily to button it across your fat belly as I watch with bated breath, knowing you’re playing up the struggle a little for me. Finally, it’s buttoned. It gapes open between the buttons, your flesh showing through the creaking fabric.

With a smug grin, you plop down on the bed, and a button goes flying. My breath hitches, and I watch you push out your stomach, trying for a second button. You lean forward a bit, and the second button gives way, your belly surging out of the now much larger opening in the shirt. You look at me for approval, and your gaze draws me like a magnet. I straddle your lap, carelessly ripping the shirt open the rest of the way, the remaining buttons scattering. The shirt has served its purpose.

Our lips crash together. I push on your shoulders until you lay back on the bed, pulling me over with you. Your hands settle on my hips, pulling me closer to your body. I start to slowly grind against you, feeling you harden against me. 

“What do we have for dessert, baby girl?” I hear you ask through the fog of desire clouding my brain.

“I got you some ice cream,” I reply.

“Perfect,” you say.

[the-fatty-bread]

I just want a girl who's unabashed about her love for food.

I don't need stuffings and I don't want weight gain shakes.

I need a girl who gets donuts when she wants them. Who isn't afraid to ask for ice cream after dinner. Who eats the whole burrito when it tastes good. Who cleans her plate and asks for more. Who talks about food the way she talks about sex.

Obviously anyone who truly enjoys food is going to over eat every once in a while. And anyone who loves sweets is going to soften up. There's going to be a belly. There's going to be a round face. There's going to be fat. That's just what happens when you don't care about the consequences of your indulgence. The collateral of hedonism.

The changes will happen slowly. Almost inperceptibly if you're not paying attention. The softness will gradually accumulate until you look back on a picture from a month or two ago and notice how that double chin has grown around the jawline. A picture from a year ago and there wasn't a belly. I'll know what happened. I'll know how much you enjoyed everything that went into it. I'll know how much you and I are still enjoying it now.

That's what I want.

. . .

this is an ode to a girl who knows who they are

[the-fatty-bread]

KIKI'S GUIDE ON BEING A FAT FUCK

1. How to eat more

Set a limit - for beginners i'd recomend 3, for fatter ones 5. Whenever you feel full, eat the amount of your limit more bites. Even if it's painfull.

If you ever feel full and eat more then your limit, congratulations your limit just got higher!

Example:

Your limit is 3. You have lunch and got full. 3 more bites, no less. If you eat more then 3, for example 5, your new limit is 5. Next meal when you eat and get full, you need to eat 5 more bites.

What happens if I dont have enough food for that?

You get more, and leave it for later.

Result?

Not only does this streach your stomach. It teaches you that you are glutton, you're a fat fuck thats only good for eating. It teaches you that there is always more food - more food you can force down your throat.

[the-fatty-bread]

The tightness. It's the tightness in your clothes that you start feeling first. Jeans don't fit right anymore, you have to suck in your gut to get them to button. Your shirts start riding up, letting your belly poke out a little bit more every day. Your bra's feel more constrained every time you go to put it on. Your panties dig into your hips with a less and less showing the more that spills over.

Then the tightness of your belly catches your attention. After every meal your stomach is just bigger and harder to reach around it. Your thighs start rubbing together and it changes how you walk. Your ass has a far more noticeable jiggle to it now. Same with your arms and your face.

You sometimes think of slowing down and getting healthy, but the food is just too good. You can't stop. And with how good and sensitive everything feels now, why would you want to stop?