Chapter 8 - August: Weigh-In

*Note: this chapter is long, but my favorite one so far. HOT. Some degradation, but nothing too intense. If it helps, I came twice writing it…*

I plodded up the stairs, one hand gripping the banister while the other cradled my soft lower belly. With the speed at which I’d put on weight, my body hadn’t adjusted to my new center of gravity, and this felt like it was getting harder by the day; like I was being pulled forward by the growing mass of fat that was becoming dangerously close to bouncing against my thickening thighs each time I raised one to go up a step.

Last week, Will replaced the decorative chair on the landing between the two sets of stairs with a wider, more comfortable one. Next to the chair, there was a small table with a bowl of snacks. “I don’t want my princess burning more calories than she has to,” he said. “So each time you walk up these stairs, you’re going to take a seat on that growing ass and eat a bare minimum of 250. I made sure each of the candy bars in the bowl are at least that much. And when we get to September, we’re raising that number to 350.” Now, instead of dreading the stairs each time I needed to get up them, I saw them as just another vehicle for the constant onslaught of calories. Plus, the break in the middle was becoming more and more necessary as the days passed.

I could feel my heart rate accelerating as I reached the landing— I was never a big athlete, but during my pre-wedding workouts I could run a mile and barely break a sweat. Now I could feel my face getting warm and the sweat starting to bead just walking around my house. I plopped my body into the chair gratefully and grabbed a king-size pack of Reese’s, greedily unwrapping the first and stuffing it into my mouth whole like I hadn’t eaten in days. Like I wasn’t a spoiled little pig who’d broken 2,000 calories by breakfast and knew I had a doordash waiting for me less than 30 minutes from now for lunch.

It was weigh-in day, and I wanted to pack in as much as I could. I stroked the top of my belly lovingly, trying to reduce the pressure, and adjusted the band of my tightening bra. My tits were getting huge, but they were no match for the swath of pure, soft fat spreading over my thighs. I was wearing pajama shorts and couldn’t see an inch of them, but I felt them digging into my hips and constricting my thighs. I tried to remember what size they were, and determined that whatever it was, I’d need to get new ones soon. I finished the Reese’s and pushed myself up, a hand on the small of my back to counterbalance my weight, the other hand pressing firmly against the arm of the chair. I grunted in exertion. This, like the stairs, was getting harder.

During my meeting, I took a screenshot of my face, the double chin and growing cheeks now completely undeniable. My face was fatter than that of a coworker’s who I’d always considered plus-sized. Even with my perfectly done makeup and hair it was clear I was becoming the fattest one on screen. I guzzled the shake in my coffee mug, fantasizing about a triple chin that shook every time I took a gulp. How far off was that? Honestly, at this rate, I’d be there by next year, maybe sooner.

I decided that for lunch I’d put on a little show. I remembered a few months ago when Will had caught my belly popping out on the doorbell camera as I picked up my food delivery, and I wanted to show him how much had changed. I’d mostly given up on pants and even leggings at this point, preferring the maternity dresses, but I struggled into one of my largest pairs. They didn’t come close to covering my belly, and the overhang of love handles was extreme, but wasn’t that the whole point? I added a shirt that fit normally in May, but was now closer to a crop top. I checked myself in the mirror, pulling it down as far as it would go. Inches of stretch marked gut protruded, my bellybutton completely visible. Perfect.

I’d ordered the same meal I’d gotten that day, but a lot bigger. Nearly three times as much — a massive stuffing, even for me. I recalled the words “wardrobe malfunction” back then; the first realization I was getting fat, when Will called me just “chubby” in the image. Well, now I was more than chubby. I was ready when the doorbell rang, and waited until the delivery guy was walking back down the sidewalk to go outside. I waved to him as he got into his car, my belly proudly on display. If anything, I was pushing it out even further than normal. Then I bent down to pick up the two huge bags of McDonald’s. In that position, my stomach slapped against my thighs, extending nearly halfway to my knees, and my leggings rolled down even further as my shirt rose up. Struggling, I stood and winked at the doorbell camera for Will. He was going to be so hard under his desk at work. I couldn’t wait for him to come home, and I had a feeling he’d leave early, so I needed to eat this fast. It was nearly 5,000 calories, and even though my capacity had skyrocketed it would take some time to inhale.

Inside, I sat on one of the kitchen island chairs, my round belly pressing against the counter, creating a soft seal around it. I wanted him to walk in to me like this; to make it clear that I was getting too fat for the counter; that my gut was so big I had to sit further and further away. Even the chair felt uncomfortably small. I started eating. And eating. And eating. Three quarter pounders and two large fries down. Halfway through the nuggets drenched in ranch, alternating them with the last order of fries dipped in mayo. I was almost too full to breathe after my huge breakfast, shake, candy, and lunch when Will walked in the door and stopped. Instead of rushing to me he took out his phone and took a picture. He walked over to the mantle and picked up one of our wedding photos. Then, finally, he came over to me and gave my belly a hard slap that made me wince. He took my chin in his hand, noting the softness, and turned my face toward him. He kissed me roughly, then sat the picture on the counter.

“Look at you in your little dress. Look how thin you were. Your thinnest. You worked for that for months, to get tiny and look good for all of our friends. You were so beautiful that day.” I looked. He was right, I was beautiful. Slender. Defined arms holding my bouquet in front of my slim waist.

“Now look at this one and tell me what you see.” He held up his phone. I was completely, totally unrecognizable. An absolute whale leaning back in her chair, belly pressing against the counter, stuffing a whole handful of fries into her fattened cheeks. Just a few months ago, when I’d started to gain enough to look pregnant, I never could’ve imagined I’d look like this by August. I thought about how my goal had been 215 by the end of the “pregnancy.” Looking at the picture, it was clear I’d exceeded that. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say I gasped. Then, I dove back into my food as Will pulled down his pants. My hands and mouth were busy, so he started stroking himself, moaning lightly as I moaned heavily from the food. “We’re going to finish at the same time,” he said. “By which I mean you’re going to finish stuffing your enormous gut while I finish on you. So speed up, because I’m getting close.” I sped up. I devoured the fries, the nuggets, the sauce. Then I took the bottle of ranch and upended it into my mouth, feeling his warm cum across my belly, his cock pressed deep into my side.

“You’re such a good girl,” he said. “See what you do to me? Look down. Look how far it spreads across your lap. How small your tits look in comparison. I think my wife may be at nine months already… and she isn’t knocked up. I don’t even think I can reach you to get you off right now, this is in the way.” He shook my belly, hard, forcing out a moan, and slid his hand underneath, feeling how wet I was. “So you’re not allowed to cum yet. And you’re certainly not presentable for going out. Take a nap, I’ll pick out some clothes.” He helped me up and led me to the bedroom, alternating between sweet caresses and slaps to my ass hard enough they’d leave a mark.

A few hours later, I woke up, still a mess, cradling my stomach. I couldn’t hear Will, so I got into the shower, then reapplied my makeup and started to curl my hair. My arms were getting tired from holding them up like this. Maybe I’d start booking salon appointments from here on out. Good thing we made a lot of money. I eyed the scale, wanting so badly to step on it but knowing I couldn’t. When I got back to the bedroom, there was a dress laid out — one of the size large maternity ones we’d bought just over a month ago that I knew would be far too small now. I managed to pull it on and knew why Will had picked it out — not only was it so tight you could see every bulge and fold, it was also a horizontal stripe pattern that accentuated just how fat I’ve gotten, with a plunging neckline that barely covered my tits.

When I walked into the living room, he was waiting for me, and approached to caress my softened sides. “Tonight, you’re not pregnant,” he told me. “Tonight, you’re just a fat slut who’s going to be embarrassed in front of a whole bar.” I gasped. Humiliation was one of my favorite things, and he usually went light with it, but I knew tonight he was going to indulge me. “Is my fat pig of a wife ready?” I was very, very ready, and he led me to the car. About 20 minutes later, we pulled up in front of a bar I’d never been to before. It was a seedy place, almost dingy, and I read the sign up front: TONIGHT ONLY! WET TSHIRT CONTEST! PROCEEDS TO CHARITY!

“Here’s the fun thing,” Will said. “Everyone else up there is going to be a slim little hottie, and everyone’s going to want to see them drenched. Maybe their tits will be as big as yours; maybe they’ll even be curvy. But nobody — nobody — is going to have a belly as round and sexy as yours.” I was mortified, but wet. Like really, really wet. I was so fucking ready.

We sidled up to the bar, and Will helped me onto a stool. Was it actually small? How did truly fat women deal with this kind of thing? He ordered himself a beer and me a mudslide, extra whipped cream. The bartender — herself fairly big but very much pear shaped — glanced at my belly in my tight maternity dress, still round from the earlier stuffing, and asked if we were sure that was a good idea. “Oh, my wife’s not pregnant,” Will said. “She’s just gotten a little chubby lately. A vodka soda may be better for her figure, but she’s been so insatiable lately. Can you believe she’s gained almost 50 pounds in the past year?” He grabbed a handful of me and shook, to assure the bartender it was all fat.

My cheeks burned and I was confused. It was… a lot, lot more than 50 pounds. Closing in on 100. Why was he minimizing it? Was the real number just too shocking? I didn’t know how the bartender would react, but she seemed to get it. “Girl, my husband has put nearly 70 pounds on me, and we’ve only been married three years. I get it, and you look gorgeous, for what it’s worth.” I blushed and thanked her as she slid over my mudslide… then brought me an extra drink, something strawberry and full of cream, and winked at me. Will told me to chug, and already placed an order for another, plus onion rings, a burger, a side of fries, and their appetizer sampler. His eyes smoldered, he kissed me hard, and he kneaded my soft lower belly.

“Tonight,” he said, “you’re getting drunk. I’m going to get as close to fucking you in public on that dance floor as is legal, you’re going to get soaked on a stage in front of an audience, and then we’re going to use that.” He pointed to the corner by the bathroom, to an old scale, the kind you put quarters in to weigh yourself that used to be at a bunch of malls and restaurants, but was no longer common. He’d done his research. “So eat up, drink more, and be my fat little whore so everyone can see how beautiful you’re getting.”

The night went exactly as he said it would — I ate all the food (he had a few bites to keep up appearances) and I drank so many drinks (all very high calorie and packed with sugar and cream) that I stumbled when they called for the contest. Before I walked up, Will pulled down my neckline so my tits were even more visible. He wrapped his hands around me and whispered in my ear. “I can’t believe how fucking fat you’re getting. And everyone’s going to see. That jiggling, flabby mass of lard is going to be on display for this whole bar, and then I’m going to weigh you. And I’m going to say the number, loudly. Everyone’s going to hear, and then we’re going to dance. If you even can without getting out of breath. Then I’m going to watch as you waddle out to the car, stop at fast food on the way home, and fuck you on the floor as soon as we get in the door.”

That’s exactly how the night played out. I was humiliated on stage, chugging another sugary drink while I was sprayed with a hose to raise money next to eight other women. Some weren’t thin, but nobody was as fat as I was. Honestly, I was so turned on I was glad I was getting sprayed, because otherwise my wetness would be visible through my dress. Will took me to the dance floor, I was winded within five minutes, and he covertly pressed his thigh between my legs — as close as he could get with my packed belly in the way — and grinded his body into me until I came. Luckily, the music was loud. He bit my shoulder, grabbed my ass, and told me how fat I was getting. How much fatter I was going to get if I kept this up. Then he led me, stumbling, to the scale.

He put in a couple quarters, and we waited as the display beeped. I was so stuffed, out of breath, and tipsy it was hard to stand that long in my ridiculously high wedges. Then the number came up.

“234!” He shouted it, loud. “My wife has gotten so big! Just look at this absolute tub of lard. I can’t believe how fast she’s been packing it on. She’s going to hit 300 a year from now if she’s not careful”Honestly, nobody probably even heard with the music and the background noise. But I still flushed, so incredibly embarrassed. Especially because I knew, at this rate, 300 wouldn’t be a year from now. It would be by Thanksgiving.

In the car, he kissed me roughly, deeply, hanging on to my lip with his teeth. He bit my neck, my shoulder, my ear. He slapped my belly, shook my thighs, and reclined my seat, finally letting me breathe. Then we drove to Wendy’s, where he ordered me an enormous amount of food.

“234 isn’t a very round number for such a round girl, is it?” He asked. “I think we need to get you to 235 before I can really fuck you tonight. And I said I would do it as soon as we got in the door, so I need you to eat up. By my estimate, there’s close to two pounds of food in that bag. Enough to feed a family. Finish half of it by the time we get home, and I’ll do whatever you want.” I dug in. I felt more stuffed than I’d ever been, but the drinks helped, as did the reclined seat. I was a total mess, my hair ruined, my makeup running, fry crumbs and frosty covering my tits, shoving food into my mouth as fast as I could chew. I knew today would be a record for calorie intake. My capacity would expand. I would do this as often as I could until I was so fucking fat I couldn’t sit on a bar stool. Or in a booth. Or even in our car.

We got home, I somehow made it up the driveway, and the scale was right inside the door. “The thing is,” Will said, “is that we don’t know how accurate the scale at the bar was, but we know this one is perfect. So hopefully that one wasn’t too high, or you’ll need to do better tomorrow. I can’t have my wife wasting away, can I? Anything under 235 would be such a disappointment. Less than 30 pounds a month would just be embarrassing with how much you’ve been stuffing lately. And you don’t want to disappoint me, do you? You want to be a good girl and get fat for me? You’re still a long way from fat, but you’re getting closer. Every calorie, every pound, piling onto your body. More and more beautiful by the day. I know we’ll slow down eventually, but it’s not time for that yet, is it? Maybe by the end of the year. Maybe with another hundred pounds…”

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I just needed to be fucked. I pulled off my dress, stepped onto the scale, and couldn’t see my weight. Fuck, I couldn’t see my weight. All I could see was a massive, rounded, stretch mark covered ball of fat. My fat. The fat we’d put on me together. Will didn’t tell me the number I couldn’t see, but he fucked me, so I knew it was good enough. He pulled my hips against him and set me on his cock. I was so full I could barely move, but he did all the work from the bottom, my belly slapping against his chest. I must’ve cum three times within five minutes.

“Hey babe?” He asked, my body full and sweating and overwhelmed. “The scale was wrong. 236.”