chapter 2

"Oh my gosh, look at you!" Amber exclaimed, a mixture of shock and delight on her face.

"Yes, it's me," I sighed, walking in with Evan, my boyfriend of six months.

"Wow, you must have really enjoyed your cruise," she giggled, looking me up and down.

"I may or may not have gained 17 pounds in 14 days," I admitted.

"Well come out to the back, everyone's in the pool," Amber grinned.

I mentally called her an unkind word as we followed her out back. A slight smile played on Evan's lips as I shucked off my shorts and t-shirt and stood there only in a bikini, revealing my new form to the world.

So okay, maybe not all men were so easy to fatten up. I had met Evan shortly after breaking up with Mark. Things had been going okay with Mark, but after he had gained about 70 pounds and found cellulite on his butt and thighs, things had kind of gone downhill. I figured it was okay, I was looking for a new challenge anyway.

I randomly met Evan in a bookstore, he was tall and kind of had that bronzed-skin blonde-hair muscular surfer look going. I imagined how he'd look hauling around an eighty pound gut in front of him with man boobs that would fill out D cups.

Since I met him in a normal fashion, I had assumed he wasn't actually a feeder himself. That may have been why I let my guard down the first time he cooked for me. Before I knew it, I had eaten three full plates and was relaxing on his couch while he gently massaged my taut, stuffed belly. Between groans and belches, I got him to admit that he liked to feed and fatten up women.

To be honest, I kind of enjoyed that he had gotten one over on me. It had been so long since any guy had presented any sort of a challenge.

The next time we ate together I planned on showing him that I was not someone to be trifled with. And then I somehow ate a quarter pan of lasagna, not realizing what I was doing until I became aware of my jeans digging into my distended midsection. Half an hour later I was belching as he hand fed me a huge bowl of gelato. An hour after that I was sitting pantless on his couch with his head between my thighs, shuddering my way to a second climax.

When I awoke the next morning, I couldn't believe what had happened. I decided wallowing in shame wouldn't help so I vowed to up my game. The gloves come off!

Well, actually my pants came off because I ate so much barbecue that my belly bloated up like I was seven months pregnant.

I decided to fight dirty - I'd get him drunk.

And then I drank two bottles of wine and woke up the next morning still feeling like I had just eaten a twelve course meal.

My worst fears were realized as I became just like one of those easily fattened girls on the internet. My clothes became snug, then tight, then unwearable. I popped a button off a pair of slacks one night while eating Chinese takeout. I started eating ice cream straight from the container. Evan serviced me so thoroughly that I started to get aroused just from overeating.

Soon the girl in the mirror finished her transition to being truly plump. My breasts were fuller and heavier. My belly couldn't even be sucked in any more, I now sported an actual pot belly that spilled out over the waistband of my pants. Speaking of spilling out, my new love handles were now full handfuls. Thighs thickened, hips spread, and my bum grew in every direction.

Then Evan announced he had booked a two week cruise for us.

Have you ever eaten way too much food and found yourself trying desperately to force out a burp to relieve the terrible pressure? Try that for fourteen straight days. I was practically rolled around, from the cabin to the dining room to the deck to one of my massage appointments.

I was either sleeping, eating, or recovering from eating. Evan enjoyed filling me up right before taking me for a massage. All I could do way lay there as they worked me over, grunting like a stuck pig as their hands worked my swollen form.

Then more eating. Then laying out in the sun with my gut rising above me like a bloated monument to unrestrained gluttony. Then a multi-course dinner until the seams on my dress were creaking and I could hardly breathe. Then on my hands and knees on our bed, looking and feeling like a cow as he took me from behind.

One evening after a particularly gut-busting dinner, he helped me strip bare and guided me onto the scale. What kind of sadist puts a scale on a cruise ship? I looked down but my bulging gut blocked my view of the numbers.

"Oof, I can't bend over," I groaned. "What does it say?"


Evan peered down then grinned at me. "161!" he announced. "That's 37 pounds . . . so far."

He poked me and I belched.

I think I was nearing 170 when we finally disembarked, which pretty much brings us up to date.