one more

chapter 1 one more

One more bite.

I stare at the cake on the table in front of me. I'm so full -- I'd already passed the 20,000-calorie mark for the day before I started in with my dessert, and now I'm wondering if a three-layer chocolate cake with a quart of cream to wash it down was such a good idea. My stomach is so heavy and bloated; it's pressing against the table so much that I can't even see my thighs underneath it. I wonder if maybe I've reached my limit today.

One more bite. One more sip.

But my feeder is going to weigh me tomorrow, and I don't want to disappoint her. I want her jaw to drop when she sees all the weight I've put on since our last weigh-in.

I take a bite of cake and wash it down with a big sip of cream, feeling both settling in my stomach as my gut seems to push out even further. I want -- no, I need -- to eat every last bite. For her and for me.

One more bite.

* * *

When we first met, I was quite a bit smaller than I am now. I'd been with feeders before, and I was pretty proud of my then-210-pound frame. I was accustomed to being praised for my gluttony, to feeders marveling over all my fat.

And then I met her.

We'd chatted on a feedism site; she was in my area, and though I'd expressed a desire to meet up, she always seemed to have a conflicting schedule. Part of me wondered if she really wasn't that into me, but based on everything else she said and did, it didn't seem likely that she was just stringing me a long.

From the beginning, I could tell she was different from other feeders. For one thing, she was big; bigger than me, in fact. She'd ask for pictures of my progress, and I'd happily comply, expecting nothing but praise. But she expected more from me. I'd send her a picture of my swollen belly after stuffing myself, and her reply was almost always "Seems like you have more room in there. I don't think you're full enough yet." Spurred by her encouragement, I'd find a way to pack in more food; I wanted to please her.

She knew just how to nudge me to my limits without pushing me past them.

One day, she sent me a message asking what I weighed and how much I'd gained. I dutifully hopped on the scale and was shocked to see the result: I'd put on 15 pounds since we'd started chatting. I let her know I was at 225; I suppose a part of me expected her to finally offer me the praise I wanted.

But she was silent.

I sent a few more messages, but got no response. And then, a few days later, she texted again.

"What are you doing this weekend?"

I told her I hadn't made any specific plans (aside from eating, of course -- I didn't want her to think I wasn't taking this seriously). I half-expected her to go silent on me again, but a few minutes later my phone buzzed.

"I'm glad you were planning on eating, because I was going to suggest the same thing. How about I keep you company and make sure you keep that belly full?" We made plans to meet up that Saturday.

When we met up, I was pleasantly surprised to see that she was even bigger than I'd originally thought. She was shorter than me, probably 5'3" or 5'4", which only served to make her size even more striking in person. She was stunning: long black hair, deep blue eyes, pouty lips. Her body reminded me of those 1950's pin-up girls, except there was a lot more of her to pin up; I wondered how her dainty ankles could support such chubby (okay, fat) legs that curved all the way up to her wide, round butt in one direction and to a soft belly in the other. Her hands were petite, but it was as though someone had stuck a in bicycle pump at her wrists and inflated her arms; the sleeves of her blouse were wrapped tightly around her upper arm fat. I tried to mentally calculate her weight as I casually looked her up and down, but while I was doing it, she interrupted.

"I can tell you're wondering how much I weigh. I'm 270. Is that going to be an issue?"

"No, no," I assured her, "absolutely not. I don't just love my own fat; I love it on other people too." Mentally, I cringed for making such an oddly-phrased compliment, but she seemed amused. She smiled, her beautiful white teeth seeming even more vibrant against her deep red lipstick. "Good," she said.

We sat at the bar, had more than a few bourbons and talked. After a while, the conversation turned to feedism. I had enough liquid courage in me to ask a question that had been weighing on me since the beginning of the night.

"So, I have to ask...what took you so long to take me up on my offer to meet?"

She didn't say anything at first, just aimlessly swirled her finger around the rim of her glass. Without looking up, she finally replied "Honestly? I wanted to make sure you were serious."

She turned to me, a pleading look in her eyes.

"I can't tell you how many guys I talk to who tell me they're all about being fed and getting fat, but when push comes to shove, they eat half of a large pizza and admit that they don't stuff themselves that much."

I nodded wordlessly, sensing there was more to her reply.

"Even when I'd meet guys bigger than me, they'd suddenly confess that they weren't gaining. One guy even told me he was trying to lose weight. I started to feel like guys were pretending to be into this just so they could get into my pants or feel better about themselves. I wanted to make sure you weren't one of those guys."

I took a sip of bourbon. Further emboldened as the drink warmed my body, I put my hand on hers.

"Well I assure you, I'm serious about this."

The pleading in her eyes turned to mischief, and I could feel her dainty hands grabbing my belly underneath the bar.

"Oh, I know you are. That's why I said yes to the date."

That was Saturday night. I didn't go home until Sunday evening.

After the bar, we went back to her place. It was a whirlwind of feedings, belly rubs, and incredible sex. I'd never experienced such hedonism: everything I could want, she provided. I laid in bed with my head in her lap as the sun started to sink lower in the sky on Sunday, a freshly-finished plate of food tilting dangerously as it rested on my swollen belly. She gently ran her hands through my hair.

"I have something for you."

I couldn't sit up -- my belly was much too full for that. As casually as I could, I replied "Oh yeah? What's that?"

She continued running one hand through my hair as the other reached for something next to the bed. She took the plate off my gut; in its place, she gently rested a box of donuts on my full stomach.

"I don't know if I can eat all those," I protested. "I've been eating nonstop for the past day."

She leaned down and kissed my forehead. "Oh, I think you can. And I'm your feeder now, so it's not about how much you think you can eat -- it's about how much I think you can eat."

My heart leapt when I heard that, and without a word I opened the box and started eating. She kept running her hands through my hair, cooing softly and giving my belly a little encouraging rub every time I finished a donut. She was right -- I could eat them all.

* * *

A few months later, I stood in the bathroom at her place. She laid the scale down at my feet; I started to step towards it, but she held up a hand to stop me.

"Not yet. I don't want those clothes to artificially boost your numbers. Down to your underpants, please."

I sighed inwardly. I was worried -- what if I didn't weigh enough? What if she thought I wasn't serious about gaining? About us?

She must have sensed my nervousness; she turned to me and gave me a deep, passionate kiss. Her hands reached down and grabbed the bottom of my shirt, along with a handful of my hanging belly.

"Oops," she giggled. "Looks like your gut is starting to get in the way."

She gave my belly a little squeeze, then lifted the shirt over my head. My belly and moobs bounced as they settled, and she giggled again. I slid off my pants and made another move to step on the scale. I hesitated -- before she saw the number, I wanted her to know how committed I am.

"I hope I weigh enough -- I've really been trying. I ate a whole cake with a quart of cream last night."

She looked at me, those beautiful blue eyes exuding warmth and compassion. She took my hand and turned me towards the full-length mirror.

"I know you've been trying. Look at you -- you've gotten so big and round."

She stood behind me and wrapped her hands around my body, gripping my hanging gut as she kissed the back of my neck.

"I'm proud of you."

I looked down -- our arms were next to each other. Her fat arms didn't seem so fat anymore next to mine; in fact, mine were a little bit bigger. All of her didn't seem so fat anymore compared to me.

I stepped on the scale, holding my breath as it calculated. It beeped and I looked down: 276 pounds. I was finally bigger than my feeder. I breathed a sigh of relief as I felt her hands encircle my gut again.

"Now," she whispered, "the real fun begins. I hope you're ready for 300, fatty."

I turned to her, our bellies pressing together as I pulled her close. "Nope," I shook my head.

"I'm ready for 400."
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Ateitall 2 weeks
My favorite line of the story!

"Oh, I think you can. And I'm your feeder now, so it's not about how much you think you can eat -- it's about how much I think you can eat."
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palndrm 2 weeks
Great story. There are so few mutual gaining stories or gaining stories involving a fat female feeder. Would love to read about both of them letting go together to mutually encourage and feed each other fatter and fatter.
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Fiji 2 weeks
I second built4com4t's motion!
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Nicely done
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More, please