Chapter 1

“And this is the ham?” Aunt Abigail asked with trepidation, poking the suspicious looking mystery meat with a serving fork. “No,” says Francine, voice quavering. “It’s the turkey.” Everyone’s eyes at the table widened, and there was a silence.

“Why…” started her mother cautiously in a tone better suited for a hostage negotiator looking to keep a bank robber calm. “Why is it pink?”

Francine burst into tears and sprang up, her chair clattering backwards loudly as she ran towards the bathroom with her face in her hands. It was her first thanksgiving ever, her first time hosting her whole family, and the entire spread was inedible. Her house was perfectly decorated, she had alcohol and games, but she’d massively underestimated how hard it would be to prepare the traditional exorbitant spread.

It’s just cooking, she thought. How hard could it be? Little did she know that the preparation of a turkey alone is a multi step process, a process that apparently cannot be started the day you plan to cook the bird. Wednesday night at 7pm she was staring down a counter full of unmade sides and a turkey that was frozen solid, so she knew it was time to get creative. She combined several recipes, she cooked dishes at a higher heat for a shorter amount of time, she added extra sugar to everything to make it taste good, and yes, maybe one or two things had burned. Maybe three. Four if you count the rolls. Without a moment to spare, she’d set the table with the questionable dishes, attempting to turn them and finesse the dinner's presentation to put its best face forward. She’d hardly been able to take the looks from her family as they filed into the dining room, the disgust and concern not easily (or willingly) concealed. She’d held it together through her grandmother's family prayer, but as soon as the moment came to dig in and no one moved a muscle, a flood of tears welled precariously behind her eyes.

“Franny,” called her mother's voice, knocking lightly on the locked door as Francine cried. Her hands were balled into fist and pressed into her eyes as she sat on the lid of the closed toilet in the dark. “Franny, really love, it’s ok! Everything is great Franny, I tried the mashed potatoes and they're super great!”

“I didn’t make any mashed potatoes!” Francine wailed, dissolving into further hysterics.

“Francine…” her mother pleaded helplessly, pressing her palm flat against the door as if her daughter could feel the comfort from her touch. “Francine sweetie, it’s ok. You’re good at so many things. And the house looks beautiful. And you’ve been doing so much at work. Really, it was too much to expect you to cook it all yourself.”

“But you cook it all yourself,” Francine sniffled accusingly, finally opening the door to reveal snot stained sleeves and a tear stained face. “Oh Franny,” her mother replied unconvincingly, wrapping the young woman in a tight hug. “It’s ok.”

“It’s just, I started prepping too late,” Francine explained, her voice beginning to quaver again as she let her head settle into her mothers shoulder. “I can do it. I swear, I can do it.”

“I know you could Francine,” soothes her mother gently, rubbing her back.

“No, really,” says Francine with a start, pulling back slightly from her mothers embrace. “I’m going to. I’m gonna do Thanksgiving next year, and I’m going to do it perfectly.” She sets her mouth in determination, noting with dejection the marked lack of the sounds of forks and plates coming from the other room. “I’m gonna make the perfect thanksgiving dinner next year.”

“Sweetie…” begins her mother hesitantly, but Francine cuts her off with a hand. “No mom, I have to.”

Her mother sighs, considers, and aquiesses. “I’ll tell your grandmother.” She gives her a smile lacking in conviction. “I’m sure it’ll be great next year sweetheart,” she says, patting her hand. “Shall we just order pizza for now?” Francine looked down, ears burning. Next year, it was going to be different.

Francine took her promise seriously, committing herself wholly to her flavorful new field of study. She was determined to make the best Thanksgiving food anyone in her family had ever eaten, and she was more than willing to do whatever it took. She read recipes, watched endless YouTube videos, and visited restaurant after restaurant to try different dishes, bringing along a small notebook to jot details of the meal she didn’t want to forget. She practiced endlessly, and slowly the burnt pans that filled her sinks every Saturday, her designated cooking day, were replaced by empty pans scraped of their delicious contents. She was getting good. Almost too good. The constant fixation on food had increased her appetite significantly, and between her rapidly improving cooking and her newfound penchant for snacks, Francine found herself beginning to grow.

The first 20 pounds left her with ample curves, but by the next 20 she was dangerously thick, her widened ass threatening to shred the few remaining pairs of pants she could still button. She was fully aware that she was putting on weight and had resolved to lose it after next year's Thanksgiving triumph, but her rounded figure was getting harder and harder to ignore. She was starting to develop the beginnings of a chubby potbelly and her ass had exploded, its fatty shelf wobbling obscenely at the slightest movement.

After popping a button in her weekly cooking class, she finally caved and bought new clothes, skipping the next size up for one two sizes larger with the rationale that she wanted to dress more modestly anyways. The new clothes were anything but modest, and clung to her fattening body suggestively as she struggled to cover her tummy’s ever burgeoning swell. She was hyper focused on her goal, her pride driving her to forgo all other cares with the single minded goal of cooking like a world class chef.

March passed, then April. As the weather warmed Francine was forced to buy new clothes for a second time, her old summer shorts so tight she couldn’t even force them up her plush, thickening thighs. She bought the clothes in an even larger size, now officially 3 sizes up in just a few months. She acknowledged this absentmindedly, mentally writing a grocery list for the meal she planned to cook that night.

She prepared a full thanksgiving feast at least once a week, and it was really beginning to show. She piled on another 30 pounds, the mashed potatoes that required equal parts butter and heavy cream and the dozens of fluffy dinner rolls she crammed down night after night doing an absolute number on her figure. Her food was getting better and better, and she nearly cried with joy the first time she pulled a perfectly golden, crispy skinned turkey from the oven (she’d nearly finished the turkey too). Her appetite was becoming insatiable, and she often convinced herself she needed to eat the entirety of a dish to make sure every bite was up to par. She ate tooth mumbling sweet serving bowls of candied yam nearly gritty with entire bags of sugar, trays of ham cooked in enough butter to need two cows, gooey mac and cheese oozing with lard, and every pie she could possibly conceptualize, even dreaming of new concoctions while she drove. She stopped relying as heavily on recipe books and instead aligned her cooking with what she enjoyed best, preparing the most calorie laden iterations of each side and entree.

As more months rolled on she grew larger, noticeably waddling as her ass and thighs expanded. She was forced to buy new clothes again and again as her swelling fat strained the seams, and leggings had become her go-to uniform after blowing the button on one too many pairs of jeans. She was too preoccupied with her new, all encompassing hobby to check how much she’d put on, but she’d solidly crossed the line into obesity, her ample belly pushing further and further into her lap each time she sat. She outgrew everything, and her office chair, kitchen chairs, and even the love seat in her living room had needed to be replaced. Her hips had just grown too wide and she was struggling to wedge herself in, grunting and panting with the effort as her fattening meal waited for her. She’d replaced the chairs without dwelling too much on what it meant, snacking on pork rinds as she’d shopped online for something studier. I could lose weight any time I want, she thought, brushing the crumbs from her fingers on the side of her protruding belly. I only have one chance to show everybody up this year.

August passed, then September. A comment she’d seen on Facebook about ‘Francine’s little situation last year’ had ignited a new fire within her and she was cooking like mad, her recipe and technique for each dish nearing perfection. She was swelling faster and faster and was shocked at how large she looked every time she waddled past a mirror. Her gut had finally succumbed to gravity and hung lightly, exaggerating her stomach’s wobble as it swung unconfined by the bottom of her too-small shirts. Her entire body had exploded with soft fat, and even her arms were beginning to develop fatty, fleshy rolls. She refused to buy new bras, and her plump tits, still fairly perky, rested on the swell of her always stuffed gut. Her gut was as round as ever despite its droop, and she often pressed both hands against its sides when she was overly full, working out a few boisterous burps before giving it a gentle slap to relieve some of the pressure.

She ate constantly now, even when she was cooking, and the fat around her face was forming the swell of a double chin that rippled as she chewed. Even her fingers and toes were getting fat, and her pudgy digits were starting to look like stuffed sausages as she outgrew even her rings.

She’d just finished another hearty thanksgiving dinner, leaning back and patting her massive gut as she reflected that it was one of the best she’d ever made, when she realized that she’d left her second pumpkin pie on the counter. She leaned forward with a grunt, breathing more heavily as the swell of her belly pressed into her lungs when she bent, and heaved herself to her feet. It took her body several seconds to ease its wild jiggling, and she caught her breath from the effort of standing as the wobble slowed. She placed a hand on her gut instinctually, burped loudly, then waddled slowly to the kitchen, the second pie the only thing on her mind. The first was good, she thought lazily as she made her way to the rich dessert, but the second one might not be, you never know.

She reached the counter and grabbed the pie, waddled to the freezer and grabbed a gallon of ice cream, then made her way back to the chair, thousands of calories piled in her hands. She cracked open the ice cream and took a first giant scoop, moaning at the taste of the sweet, creamy vanilla despite already being packed full. She began to eat the ice cream faster and faster, digging into the pie with one hand while she gulped. She powered through a terrible bout of brain freeze by focusing solely on the pie, returning to guzzling the now melting ice cream only when the chill inside her head had subsided.

She finished both treats in a matter of minutes, licking the pie tin greedily as she groaned from over fullness. She was far too fat and lazy to haul herself onto the scale anymore, but her indulgences had packed over 50 more pounds onto her bloated frame, bringing her total weight gain for the year to 90 wobbling pounds. Her belly had surged impossibly far forward and she was burping non stop, the movement making her tits jiggle and bounce uncontrollably. She heaved herself forward with another grunt only to discover her fattened body barely budged. She gave it second go, heaving her mass forward with all her effort, but she realized quickly that she was stuck, beached by the seemingly impossible amount of food she’d stuffed into her porky belly. She lay one hand on her gut and let her eyes close, sleep suddenly overtaking her. At least the pie was good, she reasoned foggily as she slipped from wakefulness.

By the time the last Thursday in November rolled around, Francine couldn’t have been more prepared. The turkey had undergone a three day brining process, she’d made 16 different sides, there were 5 desserts, and the green beans with bacon bits were the best she’d ever made (although her preparation of the dish could more accurately be described as bacon with green beans bits). The table was set, the house was decorated, and a stretchy XXXL wrap dress was nearly painted onto Francine’s enormous body. The pressure of the approaching d-day had clearly invoked stress, stress she’d attempted to bury under a mountain of calories. She’d put on a grand total of 110 pounds in one year, the hundreds of thanksgiving dishes she’d prepared transforming into the swelling rolls of fat that threatened to burst out of the too small dress.

“Francine?” Her cousin had blurted in shock when she answered the door, stepping back to take in the newly enlarged proportions of the no longer familiar face.
“Franny? You look so…different,” her grandmother had questioned, hesitating as she realized that Francine would need to move in order to let her in as she was now wider than the doorway.
“She’s just been eating good,” dismissed her grandfather casually, giving Francine’s tubby gut a good natured pat as he placed a square pan covered in tinfoil in her arms. She flushes a bit, embarrassed at her soft wobble, and takes the dish with a smile, not letting slip that whatever her grandmother brought will pale in comparison to Francine’s michelin star quality feast.

As she welcomed more and more family, their reactions to the fatty waddling to greet them became more and more dramatic. Her aunt's mouth had simply fallen open, gaping so wide Francine could see her back molars, and her favorite cousin, the one with a certification in personal training, had pulled her to the side and discreetly pinched her rolls, assessing the damage while promising free workout sessions.

“Holy shit Francine, you exploded,” another cousin had let slip, his face flushing as he realized the abrasiveness of his statement. She simply gave a demure smile and waddled away, certain everything would be worth it once her family had eaten her cooking and their words.

Finally it came time to eat, and they were all seated exactly as they had been the year before, her grandmother leading a winding, rambling prayer for the group. This time however, eyes peaked open to marvel at the mouth watering spread before them, each dish looking more perfect and delectable than the last. The second Francine’s grandmother uttered the word amen dishes were passed, scooped from, and fought over as everyone filled their plates. Tears welled in Francine’s eyes again, this time from joy, and she joined in the ravenous ruckus, stacking her plate till it was teeming with greasy, delicious food. She smeared another pat of butter on her rolls and dug in, the only audible sound being the scraping of forks and contended chewing.

“This is delicious,” a cousin praised, breaking the silence, and the rest of the fell upon themselves joining in, praising the taste and presentation, asking for recipes for their favorites, and even remarking on the improvement from last year. The family enjoyed themselves enormously, all eating until they were too full to reach for the fork. Francine kept at it, ravenous from both relief and her newfound sense of gluttony as she put away plate after plate. She finally called it, panting as her belly strained outwards, testing the limits of her overtaxed dress. “I’m *hic* done.” She forces out. “Who wants dessert?”

Far too full to move, Francine directs her cousins to the kitchen to retrieve the expanse of sweets: 2 types of pie, a cake, brownies, and cookies. There was enough to feed a small army, and the spread of deserts covered the table almost as completely as the meal had. Everyone oohed and aahed, showering the bloated Francine in compliments as she smiled, stifling a burp.

“Before we get into the dessert,” she started, drawing everyone’s attention. “I just want to thank you guys for coming and giving me a second chance. That’s what I’m grateful for.” A chorus of awwws filled the room and she smiled more widely. “Let’s cut the pie!”

The knife had been placed on the table directly in front of her, but her bloat had forced her to push the chair back further so her belly didn’t press into the table, meaning the knife was just out of her reach. She unsuccessfully attempted to shift herself forward, flushing a bit at how her mass began to jiggle and wobble, and then heaved herself forward again. Nothing. She was stuck. She’d eaten herself so fat she was beached and bloated in front of everyone, too round to move. Her face was beginning to redden as all eyes at the table remained fixed on her and she gave one last Herculean effort, heaving herself forward with all her might until…*CRACK* the chair splintered and exploded beneath her, sending her crashing to the floor dramatically.

She landed flat on her back with her belly bulging upwards, her entire body jiggling uncontrollably. Her dress ripped straight up the middle, exposing her fattened gut and causing it to surge even higher into the air. Everyone gasped as she groaned, rubbing her gut while it undulated rhythmically beneath her fingers. She’d grown so fat she’d entirely demolished the chair, it’s once solid wood unable to hold up under the porky young woman’s added weight.

She burped loudly, still lying flat on her back as she panted, far too full to make any attempt to struggle to her feet. I didn’t even get any pie yet, she thought absentmindedly as the room burst into a bustle of activity, the stunned silence shooed away purposefully as her strongest cousins coordinated on how to best pull the greedy fatty to her feet.

Maybe, she thinks, unabashedly letting out another loud burp, I should’ve just let someone else cook.



*Thanks so much for reading! I have a ton of weight gain stories and you can check the about me on my Fantasy Feeder profile for more:)*