Life With Brian

Chapter 1

It started innocently enough as a fantasy. Visions of numbers- 150, 160, 170, 180, 190...- would get me off in the privacy of my single dorm room. I had no idea that years later, I would actually go through with it and lose control. Sure, I chugged milk and ordered in food, but the effects on my 100-pound, 5"3 frame were negligible.

I can't trace exactly when I started gaining momentum. Compulsive stuffings became regular meals, and the kinky became the mundane, making me subconsciously up my game. At 150, I felt stocky. Having busted through my 2nd or 3rd new set of clothes since 50 pounds ago, I felt fat at times, but painfully thin during others. It was only looking at photos that I saw what other people saw. Some days I would lament how little I ate, only to plug it into a calorie calculator and discover that I had over 3000 calories without trying. This probably should have been a sign to pump the brakes while I still could. I was still only slightly overweight, with broad shoulders that made my rounded belly seem natural. I had no idea what the next six months would have in store for me.

The first catalyst to my life changing forever was Brian. I had practically given up on the apps, feeling like nobody could really understand my bizarre fetish except for flakey people who would delete their profile before we even got to know one another. But when I least expected it, he came into my life. A big man himself at 6 feet and some 300-odd pounds, he wasn't overly involved with the gainer scene, but he had quietly doubled his weight throughout adulthood, and was searching for an outlet to his desires. When we started dating, I was already soft-launching the idea of losing control over my weight, as it was no longer a completely intentional endeavour. My belly hung over the buttons of my new size 32 pants as for the first time in my life I actually felt a bit out of shape, struggling to walk the 6 flights of stairs to my office job.

Almost immediately, we incorporated food into our sex life. My former 3000-4000 calories a day were complimented with a mandatory 5k calorie milkshake fed to me every night before I was allowed to cum. At first, I was so bloated and sick from this influx of fat and sugar that I found it hard to eat the mountain of pancakes and bacon that he would insist on making me after my nearly-nightly stays at his house. But shockingly, within a month, I would wake up feeling like I hadn't eaten in days, even with my belly still bloated and painfully full from the night before.

As someone who was normally so hyper-aware of any changes in my weight, I was surprised by how I would get caught off-guard by my rapid weight gain. By the second month, I was having trouble getting into my stretchiest pair of 32s no matter how much I contorted my growing belly. Finally, after lying down and shoving a mound of fat upwards and sucking it in as much as I could, they buttoned, only to burst open once I exhaled. Amongst the thrill of stuffing myself beyond my capacity almost every night, I had forgotten that there were real-life implications. None of my other pants would even go over my waist, and I had to go to my yearly doctor's appointment later that day.

I hid the lack of a button with a belt, although this was hardly an improvement as I had to similairly contort myself to get to the last notch, still leaving a few inches of exposed flesh between the fly. I looked at myself in the mirror, my stomach grumbling from the smell of Brian cooking breakfast. The effects were really starting to show themselves. My shoulders were still broad and muscular but buried under a layer of pudge. My arms were getting bigger too, thanks to my gym routine. A mix of pectoral muscle and squishy flesh slightly covered my incision scars from several years ago.

Other than that, it seemed that every excess gram of fat that I had consumed over the past several weeks went straight to my gut and love handles, which could no longer be remotely hidden by baggy t shirts. My belly wobbling with yesterday's shake, as well as an almost unbearable amount of breakfast, I made my way to the metro. I could feel a cool breeze along my beltline, which turned out to be a slightly exposed mound of angry flesh threatening to snap my belt an any time.

My doctor tried to hide his judgement, but the fact was that I was now obese at 175 pounds, something which no medical professional, no matter how open-minded, would be thrilled about. He reminded me that, biologically, I now had the same health risks as a cis male. He also pointed out that it was unlikely for me to receive a revision on my chest results- I had some complaints about aesthetics- if I gained any more weight.

In just two months I had put on 25 pounds, again, mostly in my midsection. As an abnormally short guy, there was no way to hide the extra weight. Far from looking just stocky, I was plain fat, with a bit of muscle buried underneath. Now that I was obese, I considered if I should slow down, as I was quite happy with how I looked. Had my accident not happened, I likely would have maintained this weight or maybe even shed a few pounds with the support of Brian- but instead, this was at once the heaviest I had ever been, and the lightest I would ever be.