i screenshotted these from a video i took a few days ago and i figured you guys might wanna see ;) a new set of photos with this dress will be uploaded soon!
2023-04-14 21:58:37 +0000 UTC View Post
“Scoot over,” you say, tugging at the hem of your shirt, which I am disappointed to see that you’re still wearing. Your belly, freed from the tyranny of your tightly-belted pants, cascades over your boxers and out from under the cotton of your t-shirt, and no matter how you pull it down, several inches of soft flab are visible. I look to my right, where there is approximately one inch of available mattress space. “Scoot where?” I ask drily. You glance over at me and sigh. “This bed is small.” I blink. You’re big, more like. I smile a little, elbowing you and then holding back a gasp at the way your side squishes and yields, your ribs buried under all those thick inches of pudge. I can feel you start relax, your plush, padded back pressed into me. Even through the thin cotton of your t-shirt, I can see- and feel- the way your love handles wrap around your body, the way another thick, soft roll forms under your arm and stacks on top of it, so much extra fat that it’s literally piling up. It’s all I can do to resist the urge to sit up and look you up and down; see what your tummy looks like when you’re on your side. Big. It probably looks really big, all spread out and— “Maybe you’d be more comfortable on the couch. You can-“ I immediately hold up my hand. “I hate sleeping alone.” I admit. “And you’re nice and warm.” “That why you’re here now, Nico?” I ponder the question. “I’m here because I’m sleepy,” I lie. “Then go to sleep,” you say, your voice a little tough, a little sweet, like you can’t quite decide which you want to be. … I am quiet for five minutes. Ten. I’m frozen, completely aware of the heat of your body; how warm and close you are; the way my shoulder is pressed gently against the aching softness of your back. Twenty. “Turn over,” I finally say. You clear your throat. “Why?” “Because I know you’re awake.” There’s a beat of silence that goes on so long that I’m not sure you’re going to do it, but then you start to move. I hold my breath, watching in the dim glow of the streetlight through the window as you heave yourself over, using your hands to push yourself first onto your back, then rolling slowly onto your side so that you’re facing me. It’s not particularly graceful- a little like a turtle on its back- and when you flop over to face me, your belly fills all the available space between us, squishing up against my arm and ribs and hip like a warm, heavy pillow. “Not enough room this way,” you mumble, and I can see the blush stain your cheeks even in the dim light. “Yes there is,” I say immediately, making absolutely no move to scoot over at all. There’s nowhere for me to go, anyway. “It’s fine.” I shift, turning so that I’m facing you— so that your fat, fat stomach is pushed up against me, from my chest all the way down to my pussy, which I seriously hope you can’t feel due to how wet I am. Your body takes up so much room— spills into my space so much— that it almost doesn’t even feel like a big deal, when I place my hand very, very gently onto the side swell of your enormous belly, where it’s spilling out from under your inadequate t-shirt. It feels so soft, like butter beneath my hand, malleable and thick and warm, that I can barely breathe—and you quit breathing altogether. “So how did all this happen?” I ask, keeping my voice even through sheer force of will. We might as well be talking about the weather. You inhale harshly, and your tummy rises like dough under my hand. My grip tightens around a side-roll automatically. Suddenly I’m not just touching your belly, but pinching a generous handful of it. If your dick wasn’t hard before, it is now. (part 5)
2023-04-10 12:58:31 +0000 UTC View Post
We’re both six beers deep, the shark documentary long ended and given way to a special about arachnids, when I yawn enormously, sprawling back even further against the sofa cushions. The beers seem to have relaxed us a little; drained away some of the tension. “Wanna stay here tonight?” You ask, the words falling out of your mouth without any consideration at all. You immediately wish you could pull them back. I stare straight at the tv, as if I’ve never seen anything more engaging than the spider on the screen. “Depends. Do I have to sleep on the couch?” You swallow hard, thinking about your own bed now, how much of the full-size mattress you take up all on your own. How the bed sinks under your weight. How your tummy spreads out beside you on the mattress, undeniably and embarrassingly fat. “What, you’re too good for the couch?” You’re staring at the spider, too, watching an unsuspecting fly buzz into her web. Trapped. Stuck fast. I scoff, glancing over at you. “I’m not sleeping on the damn couch. I want to be close to you.” I stubbornly insist. You inhale and your heart flutters. You’re not so sure you and I will both fit in the bed, either. “Prima donna.” “I don’t snore,” I offer, draining the last of my beer. You watch my throat move with each swallow. “Fine, fine. Always so goddamned pushy,” You say, your delivery pleasantly blasé, as if your heart isn’t thundering in your chest. …… The magnitude of what it means to stay overnight, to sleep in your bed doesn’t hit me until it’s actually happening. I hadn’t really thought about it- about how frighteningly intimate it will be- until I’m sitting on the edge of your bed, waiting for you to emerge from behind the closed bathroom door, and I realize I have no fucking idea what to do with myself. It had seemed as easy as breathing, agreeing to sleep over. I’m half convinced I’ll break apart with nerves before you walk back into the room. Finally, I just swallow hard and tug my shirt over my head and kick out of my skirt. ‘Maybe he will strip down, too,’ I think, and immediately feel guilty for it; for the rush of instant, white-hot arousal and curiosity and aching, torturous desire that flits down my spine at the thought of you sliding out of your t-shirt, revealing your big, soft body, the outrageous rolls and curves of it. That big belly. Fuck. Every torturous masturbation session I’ve had in the last month, every moment I’ve spent in agonizing contemplation of every additional pound packed onto your strained frame, comes rushing back to me in shameful clarity. Before I can really work myself into a proper fit of arousal, you amble out of the bathroom in that weirdly seductive, rolling strut you have now. You walk like a cowboy, legs spread wide, gait sprawling and loose-limbed, your enormous belly and thick thighs dictating every step. You’re still fully clothed, to my perverse disappointment, but your hair is freshly brushed, and the minty-medicinal scent of toothpaste wafts in with you. “Make yourself at home.” You say sarcastically. You give me a pointed look up-and-down, your eyes lingering on my tits for just long enough to make me blush. “Can’t sleep in clothes,” I say, resisting the urge to cross my arms over my bare chest. “It’s a thought,” you say awkwardly. I cough. “You were never this shy before.” You blink, looking at me for a second and then looking away. The “I was never this fat before,” goes unspoken. “Move over, that’s my side,” you finally say. Obligingly, I shift back onto the bed and scoot to the opposite side, feeling painfully awkward and hating it, barely resisting the urge to pull the sheet up and over my face. This shouldn’t be so fucking hard. I’ve slept next to people I’ve been attracted to before, many times. So why should this be different? Because he’s different, I think, staring helplessly as you pad across the room, your fat belly leading the way. You stop at the edge of the bed, legs spread wide to support yourself, and you look so fucking big, so wide and fat and plush that I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of looking at you. There’s just so goddamned much of you now. You stand still, almost frozen, for so long that I open my mouth to speak. Before any words can come out, though, you seem to come to some kind of internal decision. You turn off the bedside lamp, leaving the room in shadow, and then shrug the tiniest bit before reaching down to your waistband. Which means, of course, that you have to reach under your stomach. Which means that you have to lean forward and tilt just a bit sideways in order to get your hands beneath the dome of your enormous belly, where the roundness of your gut gives way to buttery softness. I realize, with something like awe, that it’s a chore, just maneuvering around your belly to get undressed. Fuck. That’s hot. From my vantage point on the bed, I can see the way your tummy spills over your waistband; hangs over your belt— and I can see the way you have to heft it out of the way with one hand and flick open your belt buckle with the other. The way your soft, wide gut gets pushed up by your hand, all that soft, tender flesh— fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I finally throw my arm over my eyes, leaning back against the headboard like I’m exhausted, just to keep from staring. Just to keep from doing something I regret. If you notice my avid interest, you don’t comment on it. You’re silent, and the only thing I can hear in the room is the jingle of your belt buckle as your jeans drop to the floor; the slight hitch of your breath as you lean forward. Over your tummy, probably? I squeeze my eyes shut tighter beneath my arm, willing my own breathing to stay even. The images of you I’m conjuring in my mind- you leaning over your enormous tummy, slowly resting a hand on your swollen belly, short of breath from four plates of fattening, rich, creamy pasta and half a dozen beers and a few bottles of Coke thrown in for good measure- are probably even worse for my composure than actually watching you in real life, when you’re just trying to get into bed like a normal fucking person. Before I can even peek out from under my arm and sneak a look at you, see if the reality of you undressing is anywhere close to the earth-shatteringly sexy sight I’m imagining, the bed dips dangerously to the left. You flop back against the headboard with a sigh, your soft side pressed against my bicep; your padded hip and fat thigh smashed into mine. You’re touching me everywhere, taking up all the available space and spilling over against me. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. This is more than I was bargaining for when I demanded to sleep in your bed. This is exactly what I was bargaining for when I demanded to sleep in your bed. (part 4)
2023-04-09 01:16:51 +0000 UTC View Post
When you had volunteered to cook this evening, throwing it out casually on our way back from getting coffee, it had felt like a little bit of an offering. It had felt intimate, somehow; domestic in a way that made my heart skid pleasantly along in my chest. Sort of like how watching you amble up the stairs to your apartment, heavy and slow and oddly graceful, had made my heart race, too. Sort of like how just being next to you makes my heart pound. Sort of like how right now, watching you casually chopping onions, is enough to have me practically beside myself. Fuck. You look beautiful, standing there in your little galley kitchen. You’re looking down at the counter, concentrating on chopping that damn onion like it’s your job, the knife in your hand moving so quickly that I think vaguely that maybe I should be concerned that you might lose a finger. You’re looking down, and it makes your double chin look enormous, a soft ring of pudge that, combined with your very full cheeks, makes your handsome face a perfect circle. And your belly— Fuck. Your belly is resting heavily on the counter, several inches of t-shirt-covered tummy flab spilling onto the counter. You don’t have a choice; it just sort of flops there, filling up the available space. I swallow hard and remind myself not to stare. “What should I do?” I ask, coughing to hide the way my voice cracks a little, like I’m a teenager again. You peer up at me from under the little curtain of loose hair falling over your forehead. “Put some water on to boil?” You jerk your chin toward the cabinet beside you. “The pot is in there.” I smile. “All you want me to do is boil water?” “I’ve eaten your cooking. You boil everything. You should have a natural aptitude.” You’re looking back down at your work, but I can hear the smile in your voice. I step behind you, moving around you to reach into the cabinet as instructed, and my chest brushes against your broad back. It’s unavoidable— in your narrow kitchen, you take up most of the available space— and it makes me inhale so hard I end up coughing. You feel soft, so fucking soft, and even in the .3 seconds it takes for me to slide past you, I can feel the way your plush love handles wrap around your back, the extra weight you carry on your midsection marching all the way around your torso and forming rolls of soft, plush fat that ring your entire frame. Jesus Christ. Why does it matter to me so much? Why is it all I can think about? Why is it all I can feel? I try a few more times to offer my assistance, but you mostly wave me off, and I find myself standing in the corner of the kitchen, just watching you work. You dice chicken thighs, your knife again moving with a fearful kind of quickness. You sauté onions and garlic, throwing them into a skillet with oil and butter and spices, while penne boils on the back burner. You grate cheese, measure cups of heavy cream, and throw additional chunks of butter into the pan for no apparent reason that I can discern beyond whim. It’s sort of mesmerizing, watching you cook, and I am struck by the quiet confidence of your movements. You hand me a plate of buttery, indulgent-looking pasta, drenched in cream sauce and tossed with chicken and mushrooms. That’s all you, shooting me a cocky smile. “Told you I could cook.” “I didn’t think you couldn’t,” I say, my eyes darting down to your belly before I can stop them. You raise an eyebrow but don’t say anything, just waddle out of the kitchen and past the little table by the window, flopping down in your customary corner of the couch and flipping on the tv, settling on a documentary about sharks. You rest your plate on the arm of the sofa, a perfectly reasonable thing to do, but I wonder perversely if you prop it on your belly when you’re alone. You certainly could, if you wanted to. It’s big enough. The conversation over dinner slips seamlessly from past to present, from reminiscing about the old times to harmless gossip about new drama surfacing. It feels easy; comfortable between us, so much so that I don’t even hesitate when you scrape your plate clean. I just reach out and grab it, heading to the kitchen and refilling it without asking. I put my own plate in the sink and grab two beers on my way back. When I hold the plate out for you, there’s a slight hesitation, just long enough for me to hold my breath, but you eventually reach out and take it. “Thanks,” you say. I shrug it off, and this time I sit down a little closer to you. Not quite next to you — still far enough away for propriety — but closer. When you finish your second plate, I reach out again, wordlessly, and you hand it over. The fourth time it happens, you shake your head. “I’m good, thanks.” “You sure?” I mean for it to come out casually, but the words feel like they catch in my throat somehow, suddenly feeling weightier than they should be. You raise one wide shoulder a few inches. “Not exactly wasting away over here.” “Thank god,” I mumble, and then snatch your plate and make a procedure out of rinsing and stacking it in the sink, desperate for something to do with my hands. (part 3)
2023-04-07 22:13:01 +0000 UTC View Post
my hair is now black 🖤 I’ll add a new part to my story in the next post ☺️
2023-04-07 02:58:22 +0000 UTC View Post
You glance over at me a few times as we amble down the sidewalk, only half-listening to what I’m saying—something about food—in favor of just enjoying the sound of my voice. I sound happy. I look happy. It’s been a month now, since I showed up uninvited on your doorstep. A month of weekly visits, occurring like clockwork every Saturday morning, with me showing up on your doorstep, still looking like a kid on a date, although you try to disavow yourself of this notion. It’s hard, though, when I always have my hair done and my eyes all earnest, and i usually have some little offering tucked under my elbow. A dozen donuts in a bakery box; a six pack of dark beer; fresh bagels and coffee. At first, you had hesitated every time I handed over whatever I’d brought with me, but I had always just waved off your concerns and shoved over whatever form of carbs I had happened to have brought that day. Today, though, is the first time we’ve done something besides sit in your little apartment, locked away from the world. It’s just a walk, a short ambling stroll to and from the coffee shop a few blocks down from your house, but it feels like it’s bigger than that; more significant. This is what normal people do. They go get coffee on weekend mornings, basking in spring sunshine. It’s bright, the sky an endless sea of blue. It’s the kind of day that makes you squint, makes you want to tug your jacket off even though it’s still 50 degrees. It’s beautiful. And it feels good, you walking up the sidewalk next to me, past all these pretty old mansions. They’re full of apartments now, quirky old buildings full of students and poor families, artists and couples. I like it here. You adjust your grip on your caramel mocha, watching the steam rise into the air. It’s sugary-sweet and rich, the exact opposite of the Americano I’m holding. You wonder if I ever thought about that contrast; if I noticed it the way you had when we’d placed our orders. It’s such a classic Nico thing to do, to order the blackest, bitterest stuff on the menu, as if I’m doing penance for something. You wonder if I think about those things. If it’s always in the back of my mind, all the contrasts between us. Maybe I’m right about us not always talking, because we haven’t said a word about how fat you’ve gotten, not since that first day. It’s just been the elephant in the room. The thing that you can’t talk about. The thing that I also can’t stop thinking about. Like now, as we’re climbing the three flights of stairs to your apartment. I can’t stop thinking about the way your cheeks are probably flushed with the effort of it, the way your breath is a little short, the way your heavy belly touches your thighs with each step, turning your gait into something perilously close to a waddle, although you studiously avoid even thinking that word. You don’t always feel as fat as you are, but climbing the stairs is always a swift reminder. It’s hard not to realize you’re fat when your belly’s brushing your thighs. I, meanwhile, am practically skipping beside you, like it’s taking all of my restraint to slow my steps and stay next to you instead of bounding ahead. When we get to your little balcony, you pause a minute to catch your breath, looking down at yourself, the way your sweater clings to your tummy; the way your tummy sticks out between the two sides of your jacket that haven’t met since last fall. In contrast, I look like I could sprint another twenty flights without breaking a sweat, and my jacket is neatly zipped to my chin. (pt. 2) (sorry for the wait, I’ve been celebrating my bday) (the next post you’ll see of me, I’ll have black hair)
2023-04-02 12:54:19 +0000 UTC View Post
Your apartment is on the third floor of a Victorian mansion, a gorgeous old house judiciously cut up and turned into little apartments. Narrow flights of stairs have been attached to the back of the house, a zig-zag of white-washed steps leading up to what had once been a grand balcony, and is now apparently your front porch. There’s a little charcoal grill and a snow shovel propped up beside the door, and it makes my heart clench with an absurd fondness. Look at your house. Look at your domesticity. I’m nervous, when I knock on the door. I don’t want you to feel overwhelmed, or frustrated, or angry with me. I should have let you know I was coming. After all, it’s been a few years. I even have your phone number. I could have called. Why didn’t I call? There’s no answer for a few long minutes, even after I knock a second time, and then again a third time. Then, just slightly, the blinds in the window move. “Hey,” I say, clearing my throat awkwardly and feeling sort of stupid, speaking to a closed door. “I—I’m sorry to surprise you, but I’m freezing my ass off out here.” There’s the sound of footsteps, and then nothing. I wonder, briefly, if I have the address wrong. Then I wonder if you’re just going to ignore me; just refuse to open the door. I open my mouth, not sure what I’m going to say but determined to say something, when your voice, familiar and comforting as an old t-shirt, drifts through the door. “Goddamn it, Nico.” “Good to see you, too,” I say sarcastically. “What a warm welcome. This feels great, standing on your fucking porch in front of a closed door and—“ The door swings open, and I immediately shut my mouth. And I let it fall open again. And shut it again. “Holy shit,” I blurt out. You are—well. There’s no tactful way to say it, except that you are fucking huge. And not like, ‘Oh, I see you’re taking steroids and you’re unnaturally muscle-y’ huge. Like ‘Wow, I think you doubled in size and swallowed a person’ huge. You are frozen in the doorway, neither telling me to leave nor inviting me in. You’re just standing there, very very still. I think wildly that if you hadn’t spoken before you’d opened the door, I’m not sure you would be recognizable. That’s how much weight you’ve gained. Your features are blurred; your high cheekbones buried under pouches of chub. Your jawline, never razor-sharp even when you were skinny, is completely gone now, invisible beneath a double chin that’s threatening to triple. You’re wide, filling the entire doorway. Your belly is enormous, almost comical, and I feel absurdly, crazily guilty for dropping my eyes to your swollen midsection, but I’m completely unable to keep from looking. I inhale, bringing my gaze back up to your face, looking you in the eye. And there, that’s something recognizable; a blush spread across your cherub face as you look away. “I’m sorry. I should have called, huh?” I say, because I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to say. What’s the protocol here? Dear Abby, the man I love and haven’t seen in years blew up like a fucking balloon. What should I do? “It would have been nice to have some warning,” You say mildly, and before I can stop myself, i nod in agreement. “Yeah, a heads up would have been useful,” I say, wishing I could swallow the words as soon as they fall out of my mouth. “I needed to see you, I guess.” You just flush. “Come in, I guess, you pushy shit.” You move out from where you’re standing in the doorway and I can’t help but imagine that one day I’ll make it hard for you to fit. (pt 1) - note: i may end up writing less in April because that’s a busy month for me + i’ll be 20 and celebrating. I will, however, keep posting my normal content. thanks for your patience and understanding!!!! :)
2023-03-24 15:43:09 +0000 UTC View Post
Hey guys! I’ve been pretty busy lately, so I haven’t written anything new yet. Please enjoy these while you wait and I’ll have a new story uploaded with the next set I post! Thank you :)
2023-03-21 17:26:16 +0000 UTC View Post
imagine me feeding you 😈 imagine how big I could make you 😈
2023-03-17 18:46:33 +0000 UTC View Post
My hands are shaking as I reach for the first dumpling and bring it to your parted lips. You grab my hand and force the dumpling in with one bite, chewing quickly. “Cmon, Nico, why are you so nervous?” You ask while grabbing a second dumpling and popping it into your mouth. I sit on the question for a moment and ponder it, then answer, “I never thought I’d get to do this. I am having trouble knowing whether or not you really want this.” You grab my face and hold it in your hands. “If I didn’t want this we, wouldn’t be doing this right now. A king is supposed to be fat, and one day I’m supposed to be a king. Plus, I need to train my appetite. Lady Heidi of Riverside keeps sending me food and I’ve been struggling to finish it, which isn’t like me. So, I think I need help.” You snake your hand up my shirt and feel my flat tummy and I shudder out a breath. I nod and trust in what you are telling me. I reach for another dumpling and feed it to you. You chew it quickly and demand, “Faster. If you want me to finish all of these, you need to speed up.” I nod and pick up the pace, now feeding you two at a time. You moan in ecstasy as you continue to eat and I am practically drooling from the sight: you, sprawled out beneath me, one hand rubbing your growing gut and the other placed on my hip, growing impatient and reaching for another dumpling. You grab one and eat it eagerly, chewing fast in preparation to eat the next one from my patient hand. You are halfway through the tray when you begin to feel your own erection. “Help me with this?” You ask me, pointing to your lap. Your fingers are tapping against the slope of your round belly. I smirk and move the dumplings to the table to get better grounding as I reach for your clothes. “Take these off. It’ll help you make room.” I insist, and you lift your hips with a groan. I pull off your pants and watch as your protruding gut falls into your lap. I can’t help but reach forward to grab the prince’s soft, doughy stomach. You shake with pleasure from the sensation of my cold fingertips on your warm, taut belly. I pick up another dumpling and feed it to you. “I’ll help you with that,” I nod down to your cock, “when you finish your food.” My sudden surge of dominance causes your cock to throb uncontrollably and you throw your head back with a growl. “Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.” You plead eagerly. “Please, Nico, keep feeding me.” You moan. I feed you another dumpling, and then another, and you eat each one obediently. Your hands are running across your aching belly frantically by the time you reach the final dumpling. I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead and pick up the dumpling, but then decide to set it back down. I reach out my hand and place it firmly on your stuffed belly, eliciting a moan out of you. “More. I need more.” The prince pants. My eyes turn into slivers and a devious smile spreads across my face. “That’s my good boy.” I poke you in the tight, stuffed middle of your gut and you whine high and loud. “You’re such a greedy little pig. So used to always getting what you want.” I tease with a flame rising in my eyes. “I know you want me to touch your cock, don’t you?” “P-Please. And I want you t-to feed me even more. Make me your greedy king.” You shudder, beginning to grind into your palm beneath the table. I grin and disappear down the hallway and into the kitchen. You let out a sharp moan and rub your hand over your pulsating cock and then over your big, fat belly. You pant and wonder how exactly you think you’ll be able to fit more food in there. If anyone will find a way, though, it’s Nico. (pt 2)
2023-03-14 00:30:18 +0000 UTC View Post
Your back is to the wall. You can’t see anything in the darkness of my room, but you can hear my footsteps approaching. You try to disguise yourself as much as you can; slinking against the wall. Your belly pushes out and exposes your position, but you’re oblivious to that. You hear the footsteps pass, pattering up the stairs, and sigh out a breath of relief. You proceed to turn on the bedside lamp and rummage through my bedside dresser until you find what you’ve been looking for: my recipe book. Maybe it’s stupid to break into someone’s room to find something that can be easily asked about, such as a recipe, but you are too nervous to admit why you want the recipe. You’re not quite ready to admit to me that you want to eat the food I cook for you until you can’t get up; pinned to the couch by your own overindulgence. The shame and the thought of overeating are the perfect combination for you to begin sporting an erection. You stumble upon a recipe for dumplings that you want me to make. You are about to rip it out when you notice writing on the back of the page. Your own name catches your eye. You sit down on the bed and don’t even try to refrain from reading the entry. You’re much too curious. “I want to touch him again. I want him to feel as good as he makes me feel. I want to cook for him and feed him and be the reason why he grows. I want people to look at him and think, ‘his appetite is out of control’. I want to make him my greedy pig, just begging me for more and never truly satisfied. I don’t want him to flinch when I touch his tummy. I want him to push it into my hands and beg me to make it bigger. I want him to moan and pant desperately as he lets me grow him. I know it’s wishful thinking, but he’s so beautiful that it’s becoming hard to resist temptation.” Your cheeks flush red and you slam the book shut, too cautious to venture further into my mind. You move to stand and feel your hard cock pressed against your restricting pants. ‘That’s odd’, you think, ‘I’m turned on by this. There’s no way I’m-‘ the door swings open and you are greeted by none other than me. My eyes grow wide as I notice you and I freeze as you move to stand. “Sorry, Nico. I was just looking for a recipe. I found it and I want you to make it for me.” You say hastily; your voice shaky. “Which one?” I ask, sounding a bit more relieved upon hearing that you are hungry. “The pork dumplings.” you demand. I am turned and halfway out the door when you grab my wrist to stop me. I freeze and look back to face you, but when I do, your nose is brushing against my own. “Nico,” you whisper, “I want you to make me 50 of them, like the recipe calls for, and I want you to feed them all to me.” Your words surprise me. I’ve dreamt of this for years and now it’s actually happening. You want me to feed you enough dumplings for a banquet. This seems too good to be true. “You’re fucking with me.” I whisper apprehensively. “You think so?” You ask in disbelief. “Let me show you something.” You grab my hand and move it to cover your hard-on that throbs beneath your pants. “I read what you wrote about me, and I liked what I read. I liked it more than I expected to and I want to eat for you. Please.” You step closer to me and grab my hand, placing it center on your gut. I inhale sharply and squeeze my eyes shut as you allow me to roam your body freely. “Please just… I want to try it,” you plead. You move forward and pin me to the wall with your massive gut. “Now go make my food. You’ve got work to do.” You demand, stepping away, and I have never run anywhere so fast in my life. (pt 1) (just imagine that you’re a prince and I’m a castle cook)
2023-03-11 16:57:23 +0000 UTC View Post
A man without a belly is like a house without furniture ❤️
2023-03-09 19:35:09 +0000 UTC View Post
One snowy afternoon, we spend the morning cooped up together in cozy companionship, with me playing video games while you read in the armchair. You made yourself a couple bacon-grilled-cheeses, and I watch out of the corner of my eye while you eat them quickly and neatly, turning pages with your greasy fingers and licking crumbs from your lips. When the two sandwiches are finished, you put your book down and disappear into the kitchen, and I smell the unmistakable savory odor of cooking bacon. You come back a while later with two more grilled cheeses, plus a big bowl of Doritos. You settle again into the armchair, leaning back and running a thumb around the waistband of your sweatpants like they’re irritating you, and I watch as your shirt climbs up and reveals a tantalizing strip of bare, bloated belly. You munch on a handful of Doritos before starting in on your grilled cheese, and I watch your stomach swell ever-so-slightly further outwards as you finish the third and then fourth sandwich, and demolished the bowl of chips. You’re flushed by the time you’re done, clearly full, and you use the heel of your hand to rub soothing circles on your belly while you read, your shirt lifting and falling over the tight roundness of it. Every so often the shirt lifts in such a way that I can see the waistband of your sweats folded down beneath your gut; your sides bowing subtly outwards, too, a hint of a roll. I find myself saying, “Was thinking of running across the street for a cupcake or something. You interested?” “Sure,” you hiccup, as if you aren’t already swollen from breakfast and your four-sandwich lunch. “Just give me a few minutes.” “I'll go alone, I don't mind,” I say. “Just stay seated, baby. What do you want?” “Surprise me,” you say, your eyes heavy-lidded; fingers digging into your stomach. I come back with a coconut cream pie, and without thinking too hard about it, I serve you an enormous piece, nearly a fourth of the entire thing. You don’t even blink, just put down your book and pull the plate onto your knee and begin stuffing eager forkfuls into your mouth. I can hear your heavy breathing; can hear you squirm a little as you try to find a more comfy position, but I pretend not to notice. I don’t look until he hear the last scrape of your fork on the empty plate, and a series of stiff little burps, followed by the whoosh of a difficult breath. Then – then I look. Your hand is cupping your gut gently, thumb moving slow, soothing circles over your belly button, which is clearly visible through the stretched cloth of your t-shirt. Your stomach is round and poking out over your waistband, and your chin is squishy, your cheeks fuller. You’ve always been a little soft, but you are a little bigger now than you’d been before – a little bigger, and differently-shaped, too. You used to be smoothed in a small, soft layer of fat like an otter; had a few little rolls when you sat down, but now you’re growing round and squishy. Your firm stomach pushes out solidly in front of you, instead of folding like it once had done, and I have a sudden, desperate urge to see it bare. I haven’t seen you shirtless since summer, when you’d been so thin. “Think I'm gonna go take a nap,” you say, interrupting my reverie. “Sure,” I say, “cool, yeah, I'm just gonna --” I wave my game controller, trying to push down the blush that is clawing its way to my cheeks. You push yourself to your feet, your face wrinkling in discomfort as you get vertical, but instead of trudging into your room, you detour into the kitchen, and my jaw nearly unhinges when I see that you’ve helped yourself to another enormous piece of pie, easily as huge as the first one. “Pre-nap snack,” you blush, eyes on the floor, and a moment later you disappear into your room. I abandon all pretense of playing the video game, and steal off to my own room, where I have my hand in my pants almost immediately, my eyes slammed shut as I imagine you across the hall, pink mouth wrapped around the pie fork; your strained, too-full breaths; that stomach getting even rounder as you eat. I almost feel guilty for sexualizing you this way – sexualizing the person who was probably slipping into a food-nap right as I cum in my underwear.
2023-03-06 22:20:52 +0000 UTC View Post
“I think we did a pretty nice job.” “Can’t decide until we taste it.” You reply, sipping down the remainder of your milk and slipping out of your seat to refill the glass. I take the time to drink down your body, noting the way your shirt is beginning to scrunch up in all the usual places: hips, belly, arms. I wonder if you’ll ever start to plateau and part of me hopes you never do. Twenty minutes later and we’re seated at the table with a heaping bowl of homemade chili in front of you, topped with red onions, sour cream, and shredded cheddar. I help myself to a small bowl, a quiet moan slipping out in satisfaction. “The meat is a little overcooked, but the flavor is perfection.” You nod, though you seem characteristically unaware of the finer details and much more focused on consumption. You scoop up bite after bite, making a bit of a mess of your cheeks in all your haste. I can’t get enough of the sight: your greed on full display, mouth stuffed and gut getting fuller. “Do you even taste anything?” I ask, getting only flushed cheeks and a scowl in response. You’re clearly too interested in your chili to offer much more, already close to halfway done with the bowl. I give your gut a firm pat, neglecting my meal for a few moments to watch you enjoy your food, and goodness does your love for food seem to get stronger every day. You revel in every bite, tiny confirmations of enjoyment showed in short moans, even your eyes flutter shut every now and again. You finish the bowl in even less time than I had anticipated, leaning back in your chair and resting a hand on your big belly, seeming just as surprised as me at how quickly you wolfed your food down. I refill the bowl like a reflex, finally sitting back to work on my own food as I watch you eat with keen eyes, loving the sight. You slow down a bit during your second bowl, finishing just a couple minutes before me and taking a short break. I get to my feet to get a drink and glance at you when you loudly clear your throat. “Will you get me another bowl? My belly is a little…uh…” you give the dome a firm pat, the tightness obvious. "Admitting you're full and asking for more?" I blush, satisfied with my half-full bowl and shifting to serve you a third, heaping portion. "You're like a walking definition of greedy." “Shut up. I just can’t sit up very well…” You mumble, squirming in place as you begin scarfing down the chili, hastily at first, but you seem to taper out a bit after the first few inhales. You hum at the taste, one hand slipping beneath your shirt to cup your stomach; feel the tight heaviness of it. I can hardly help sneaking my hand in next to yours, feeling the product of all your hard work so big and impossible to ignore. I move to serve you your next bowl the second you slurp down the dredges of your third, hands moving straight back to their place on your stomach one you had the full bowl. “Think you can finish four?” You hum, making a pleased noise and pondering, though you seem plenty confident. “Bet I can, if you help me.” “I’ll give you all the tummy rubs you need, piggy.” I offer, fingers dancing along the massive bulge of your stomach, making soothing patterns along your skin. You let your head loll back, resting the bowl on your chest and scooping bites straight past your lips. The both of us work hard to get exactly four and a half bowls of chili stuffed in your belly. You’re heaving and exhausted by the end of it; I had to shovel the last few bites in. I revel in your pained moans and burps with every bite, slipping a hand delicately up your thigh when you shift your hips up in an easy rhythm. “This okay?” I ask before pressing my palm against your navel, and you nod frantically. You seem to love every second of it, but I keep my hand still, deciding not to roam too much. You’re not done eating until I say so, and I can’t give you that satisfaction yet. The moment you swallow the last bite, I sink down to pepper kisses along the taut skin of your belly. I rub the width of it and I can feel how firm and swollen with food the top is, while the bottom is soft and malleable. I give it a smack and you moan, and I notice how hard you are. “You like being my big pig, huh?” I ask, and your cheeks flush red as you nod. “Good,” I smile deviously, “because we don’t have room for this pot of chili in the fridge, so you’re going to have to eat it all for me.”
2023-03-04 16:46:55 +0000 UTC View Post
I know that I’ve been eating good lately because my tits are starting to spill out of this piece now 😈 I’ve gone from a B cup to a C cup in just a month hehe New story will be on my next post, so be ready! Also, if you have any post requests or suggestions of what you want to see, please drop those in the comments or in my inbox. Thank you all for the love and support and keep eating!
2023-03-03 15:48:38 +0000 UTC View Post
here’s part 2 of the post i made yesterday 😈 i’ll be uploading more and writing a new story this week, so be ready 💞🐷
2023-03-01 17:38:51 +0000 UTC View Post
i’m back and i feel better today :) here’s a lil post hehe 😈
2023-02-28 16:26:38 +0000 UTC View Posthey guys. i’ve been super sick this week which is why i haven’t posted. i’ll make a new post tomorrow since i’ll be off work. if you guys have any ideas, poses, outfits, etc. to request, please message me or comment below. thx 💞
2023-02-27 03:26:13 +0000 UTC View Post
Four hundred finds you waddling in earnest, swaying back and forth as you take small steps, pausing every so often to test your balance before you move forward. You huff from the couch to the kitchen; huff from the bed to the bathroom, and rest your belly on the countertops when you’re snacking in the kitchen. Your belly is still mind-bogglingly round, and your arms look short in comparison; your bubble-butt widening into thick thighs. Your gut now slopes down over all your waistbands, and you have to lie flat on your back and hold it up in order for me to blow you. Your ass hangs off all our chairs and your gut is too big to let you sit comfortably in booths anymore – though you try anyway. “Babe, what is this?” I tease, watching you wedge yourself into a booth at our favorite pizza joint. The table digs into your belly as you try to get comfortable. “Is this denial?” “No,” you say, adjusting yourself so most of your belly is slung between your legs beneath the table. “I just like the pressure. Feels good. And I figure, hey, pretty soon I won't fit at all, so I should get my kicks while I can.” It's another few months, though, and another twenty pounds, before that prediction comes true. You can still squeeze yourself in, sure, but it's an unbearably tight fit, and after trying for a minute to make it work, you squeeze back out and hoist yourself up, shaking your head. “Better make it a table,” you say. Your cheeks flush red with embarrassment and I wrap my arm around your waist, giving your biggest roll a squeeze. “This chair digs into my ass,” You say, shifting, cheeks getting pink from exertion. “Fuck. I feel fat.” “You are fat.” “Yeah, but I don't always feel it. Right now, oof. I feel heavy. Think I gained another couple pounds, actually. My thighs feel bigger.” You prod them with your fingers, and huh, they do look a little thicker. “Your gut looks bigger,” I point out. “You think?” You look down and pat the sides of it. It wobbles beneath the touch. “Honestly, I feel like it can't get any bigger. I mean, look at this thing.” You skim a hand down from your chest to the round curve of your belly. “Oh, it can get bigger,” I say. “Look, you can still put your arms around it. Someday...” I trail off. “God,” You gasp. “That day's still pretty far off, I think.” But it isn't. It is, in fact, just three weeks later when you shout for me. I come into the bedroom to find you sitting on the bed, your hands resting on your gut with about a hands-width between them, framing your deep belly button. “I can't touch,” you say. “Holy shit, I'm fat.” “You're gorgeous,” I say. “Come have breakfast.” You spread your legs, leaning forwards, preparing to stand, but then you stop. “Bring it to me in bed,” you demand, and begin scooting back up against the headboards, swinging your thick legs up onto the bed with a groan. Your belly is massive, spilling over your lap and jiggling as you moves around a little, and your once-muscled chest is soft and girlish. You have so many rolls and they’re all so thick. By the time you’re pushed back against the headboard, you’re out of breath and I’m crawling on top of you. You look into my eyes and you can see how turned on watching you struggle beneath your weight makes me. (pt 4)
2023-02-21 16:02:26 +0000 UTC View Post
Ninety sticks of butter later, you’re up twenty-eight more pounds. “The thing is, butter doesn't feel like eating,” you explain early on. You just chugged a blender full of butter and hot chocolate mix, and then whined to me that you needed real food, which was, in this case, a plate of buttery fettucini alfredo and half a loaf of buttered bread. Now you’re spreading butter across chocolate chip cookies while I rub your rumbling tummy. “It doesn't make me full or anything,” You continue. “So I need all my normal food on top of the butter. God, I can feel the calories, though, like each mouthful's going straight to my gut. I feel like I'm about to pop.” “You look it,” I say, smoothing my hand over your bloated belly, which rises and falls heavily with each breath. I tuck a finger in your deep side roll, then tickle the underside of your left tit where it rests against your gut. You wiggle a little in protest, your chin sinking cutely into the pad of fat around your neck. You drop a hand to the armrest of the couch and begin rocking in preparation to stand. “What do you need?” I ask. “I'll get it.” “Glass of milk or something?” You say. I get a glass of butter. (pt. 3)
2023-02-20 02:53:32 +0000 UTC View Post
I propose challenge, and it's pretty simple: eat as many cheesecakes as you can in three weeks, and for every ten cheesecakes you manage, you get one day of me being your sex slave, feeding you at your complete beck and call. Every morning, you blend a full cheesecake with milk in the blender, and sip it continuously through a straw as you work on your paintings. You eat thirty-two frozen cheesecakes in twenty-one days, and I spend three days feeding and blowing you, fetching your snacks, letting you take me whenever you want. Those twenty pounds go on so fast that you’re not inclined to move much, so we’re holed up in my apartment together in a miasma of sex and food and love. Your ass seems to have taken most of those last twenty, and it begins to spill over the sides of your chair and mound up behind you when you sit. By summer you’re up to three thirty, and by the next fall you’re up to three sixty-eight, thanks to a quality A/C unit and endless servings of homemade ice cream. You’re truly fat now, not just big, and you’ve started waddling a little as you walk, your thighs rubbing together, your gut pulling you forward. Your belly is finally beginning to lap over the waistband of your pants, and when you sit down to tie your shoes, you come up bright red and wheezing for breath, laughing a little at yourself as you try to catch your wind. “Jesus,” you huff as you thump down in the booth at the local buffet. You scoot your ass back, adjusting your gut on your lap as you try to wedge your belly beneath the table. “I just can't get comfortable. My sides are getting so fat I can't put my arms down normally, look at this. And my back is killing me.” You take a big bite of a fried chicken leg and mound some macaroni onto your spoon, your elbows planted on the table. “Plus, I'm so fucking hungry. We ate, what, an hour ago? And I'm starving already.” I reach under the table with my hand to prod your fat belly. “You've got a lot of room in there. Thank god my paintings are selling,” I say. “Otherwise we'd never afford your appetite.” “Or my new clothes,” you say. “Or those,” I agree. You pluck at your t-shirt with a grimace. It's getting tight around the chest and shoulders. “Babe, will you run up and grab me a plate of mashed potatoes? I need 'em for this chicken. Grab some biscuits, too, if you don't mind.” I oblige with pleasure, and take my time sauntering back to the table, observing you from a distance. You’re hunched over your plate, eating steadily, your chin sinking into your second chin with every bite. There's still the frame of a strong guy beneath the fat: your shoulders are broad and firm, your forearms corded still with muscle, and the taut roundness of your sloping gut speaks to the invisible abs that hold it up beneath. As I watch, you pause to dig your fingers into the side of your belly and blow out a breath, then rub your thumb across the stretch of your belly button. You trace the pudgy round curve of your lower belly where it sits on your lap and lean back in your seat with a chicken wing, continuing to stuff yourself while rubbing careful circles on your belly. I drop down in the booth next to you and slide the mashed potatoes towards you. You watch as I drops four pads of butter into the middle of the biscuit, and you take it with a kiss to my cheek. “Thanks,” you say, and begin munching. You clear both of your plates pretty quickly, then let out a big belch. “What do you say to a new challenge?” I ask, idly turning a wrapped pad of butter over in my hands. “What'd you have in mind?” You respond, fingers drumming the round crest of your gut. “Three sticks of butter a day for seven days.” “Easy,” you scoff. “I'll just drink it.” “You'll get sick of it,” I say. “Of butter?” you ask incredulously. “This is the easiest challenge yet.” “A month, then,” I say. “Three a day for a month.” “Challenge accepted,” You say confidently. (pt. 2)
2023-02-19 00:26:49 +0000 UTC View Post
“Mmphf,” you huff, shoving the last bite of your second meatball sub into your mouth and then flopping back onto the couch, your breath audible from where I’m sitting a few feet away. You arch your back, and your stuffed belly peeks out from the bottom of your t-shirt. You’ve had nearly an entire liter of Coke, too, not to mention an order of onion rings and most of my fries, and you look positively thick, your belly round and swollen. You arch your back again, and I notice how your jeans are cutting cruelly into the chub on your hips, and leaving a painful-looking red mark on your lower belly. “Baklava?” I ask innocently, offering you one of the squares of buttery pastry. You take one and put the whole thing into your mouth, smiling your thanks at me. You take the entire pan and set it on your lap for easy access, arching your back again in that catlike movement, then tucking both thumbs into the waistband of your pants and tugging, confused, trying to make room for your bloated stomach. You put another piece baklava into your mouth, crumbs landing on the upper curve of your belly, and I have to sit on my hands to resist reaching over to brush them off. “This is so good,” You groan around another huge mouthful. You frown down at the crumbs that fell from your lips. You brush them away, and I see, with a clarity not unlike religious ecstasy, that your rounding belly jiggles ever so slightly beneath your fingers, and when you crane your head your chin is beginning to hint at softness. How could you see the crumbs, but not the belly beneath you? “Mmphf,” You mumble again, that little grunt of fullness, tugging your shirt down and trying again to adjust your pants. Finally, lazily, you undo your jeans button, letting out a relieved sigh as your belly pushes out joyously between the flaps of your pants. You pull your zipper down an inch or two to get even more breathing room, and wriggle in your seat, testing the newfound freedom before picking up another square of baklava and pushing it into your mouth. I notice that you’re breathing around the food, taking little sips of air as you chew, mouth partially open, one hand still resting on your gut, thumb rubbing the exposed skin of your lower belly in little strokes. “S'good,” you say again, more of a sigh, and begin nibbling the last piece of baklava, slowly, cheeks bright. “Really good,” I agree, watching your lips. (pt. 1)
2023-02-17 15:14:45 +0000 UTC View Post
I forgot to post these yesterday hehe ☺️ I hope you all had a good valentine’s day! Tonight I will try to upload another set for y’all so stay tuned 😈
2023-02-15 14:01:03 +0000 UTC View Post
met up with a feedee (he would prefer to stay anon for now) and fed him 2 lemon bundt cakes and a shrimp platter hehe 😈 it was a struggle getting him up off the couch 😅💞 next time i’ll record a video but we were a bit distracted this time around 🥴
2023-02-10 20:06:38 +0000 UTC View Post
part 2 😈 I’m so bloated that I can’t even suck in hehe ☺️ it feels amazing
2023-02-09 04:43:35 +0000 UTC View Post
My tummy is so full and tight after a night of eating ramen. Make sure you eat something, too, piggies. 💞
2023-02-09 04:40:04 +0000 UTC View Post
I’m gonna post the results of another stuffing tonight 😈 sorry I haven’t been online, I got super busy with work. Thanks 4 your patience :)
2023-02-08 18:04:48 +0000 UTC View Post
