Grinch

Chapter 1: Craig

Craig Butler leaned back in his plush office chair, his gaze sweeping over the skyline of Manhattan through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the thirtieth floor. The Financial District buzzed far below, a fitting backdrop for his high-stakes world. His name was circulating amongst the higher-ups, whispers of "the kid who closed the Nakamura hedge fund deal" floating in the breakrooms and hallways. He had just secured another multi-million-dollar deal that morning, ensuring his rapid ascent continued unabated.

Yet, as he sat at his desk, a glass of sparkling water in one hand and his other lazily scrolling through market projections, Craig’s mind was elsewhere. Not on Christmas bonuses or the upcoming holiday party, nor even on the relentless grind that had defined his first year at the firm. No, Craig Butler had a secret—one so peculiar he had never shared it with a soul.

Craig Butler was a feedee.

His fascination had puzzled him for years. Sitting there, he allowed himself a moment to reminisce, tapping a Montblanc pen rhythmically against his desk. It likely began in middle, or maybe high school when a few of his teachers—kind, patient, and decidedly round—had caught his attention. Their plump bellies, stretched shirts, and the way they filled a room with both physical presence and warmth intrigued him. At first, he thought it was admiration, a peculiar form of aesthetic appreciation. Over time, he realized it went much deeper.

He fondly recalled his physics teacher in high school, Mrs. Oblonkz. Unknowingly to the students, she had become pregnant over the summer and Craig had found it stimulating that every few weeks, she appeared to grow just a little bigger. A little wider. Her pencil-thin frame slowly starting to round out and soften. He’d noticed the swell of her hips and paunch of a belly straining against the buttons on her blouse. Sitting in the front row offered him the best view, as frequently, she would bend over her desk to verify a fact or turn a page. There, her buttons would strain against the fabric. He’d gotten to see enough exposed skin and outlines of a bra to be seared into his brain for a lifetime….

But the formative moment for Craig to truly realize who he was, came when he was a college freshman during a particularly chilly December.

Craig smirked at the memory, his hand instinctively rubbing his flat stomach. Bethany had been a lean, athletic swimmer with a razor-sharp jawline and an even sharper tongue, she had been his college fling. One December night, they were in his dorm room, tangled in the throes of a passionate make-out session. He still remembered the scent of her perfume to this day. Craig had hesitated before pulling back just slightly.

“Hot in here, yeah?” he’d asked her, wiping his face and smiling at her.

“Sorry, that must be me. I’m like a furnace. I just worked out.” She’d said brightly, blinking her eyes at him.

"In that case, let’s order a pizza," he suggested, his voice casual, though his heart pounded.

Bethany had stiffened, her brows knitting in disbelief. “Pizza? Seriously? Do you know how many carbs are in one slice?”

Craig had shrugged. “Come on, it’s almost the holidays. Treat yourself a little. I’m starving.” He reached out a hand to grasp hers. “Besides, you’re an athlete. Don’t you burn like 10,000 calories a day or something, like your pal, Michael Phelps?”

His charismatic smile had won her over. Barely.

Her sigh at no longer being kissed and fondled, had been audible over the sound of his laptop as he placed the order. When the pizza arrived—extra cheese, pepperoni, and sausage, of course—Bethany had taken one dainty slice, nibbled at the crust, and declared herself full.

Craig, emboldened by the smell of melted cheese and garlic, had nudged her toward another slice. He had already enjoyed three quick slices, the hot cheese narrowly burning the roof of his mouth. “Just one more. It’s not a big deal.”

Her glare could have melted the toppings. “You’re kidding, right? Some of us care about staying in shape, Craig.”

“But Bethany,” he implored, setting down his slice and reaching for her. She pulled back slightly, stung. “Don’t you think you deserve a little treat now and then? Surely a few slices during the holidays won’t hurt.” He laughed, “you’re a fucking athlete for god’s sake. You’ll burn it off in no time. Now, how about one more slice? For me?”

He’d tried to reassure her by placing his hand on her toned stomach. “Besides, it’s not like either of us will get…fat, or anything…maybe you could just feed me, then?”

It had been the wrong move.

She’d stormed out minutes later, leaving him alone with a rapidly cooling pizza and the realization that he was, perhaps, an outlier. Undeterred—and hungry—Craig had polished off the pizza himself. The aftermath was euphoric. The tightness in his stomach, the heavy satisfaction—it was like nothing he’d ever felt before.

Craig stirred in his office chair; at the first time he’d exposed himself as a feedee. He remembered sitting in his dorm, so full that his shirt had ridden up exposing his rounded belly. His pants felt snug, and he had unbuttoned them. Alone in his dorm room, he’d envisioned being even bigger. And, with no Bethany to aide him, Craig had done the unthinkable and ordered another two pizzas.

He remembered every minute of the ordeal. He’d masturbated during each consumed pizza. Each orgasm more powerful than the one that came before it. He remembered feeling so raw and weak after the ordeal, falling asleep in the nude, his too-small clothing lay on the floor. His belly full and oh, so glorious.

It had been bliss.

And, as he lay there on his bed, hand on his stomach staring at the ceiling that night, he made a pact with himself: once a year, around the holidays, he’d indulge. No judgment, no shame—just him and the season’s bounty.


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Craig’s reverie was interrupted by the sound of laughter from the corner office. He glanced up to see his boss, Richard, and two other senior associates leaning against the glass wall, drinks in hand. Their banter was loud and uninhibited, fueled by the early start of holiday festivities.

“Craig! Get over here, rookie!” Richard called, his ruddy face splitting into a wide grin.

Craig plastered on his most charming smile and sauntered over.

“Don’t let the kid’s baby face fool you,” Richard said to the others, clapping a hand on Craig’s shoulder. “This guy closed Nakamura with one hand tied behind his back.”

The group chuckled, and one of the associates, a wiry man named Tom, raised his glass. “Here’s to Craig. Keep this up, and we’ll have to start calling you ‘The Closer.’”

Craig raised his own glass of sparkling water, nodding along to the ribbing. “Well, I couldn’t have done it without a team like this,” he said smoothly, earning a round of approving noises.

The camaraderie was genuine, but as the conversation shifted to golf trips and ski vacations, Craig’s focus drifted again. He thought of his carefully laid plans for an upcoming evening he was planning for himself. It was mid-December—prime time for his annual indulgence. He envisioned his fridge at home, stocked with the essentials: thick-cut honey-glazed ham, buttery mashed potatoes, a mountain of dinner rolls, and, of course, a decadent chocolate cheesecake for dessert.

‘I’ll eat so much I won’t be able to see what’s between my legs.’ He thought, willing away the beginnings of an erection surfacing, stiffening against one thigh. All he had to do now was choose a day where he could fully commit to the act of stuffing himself.


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As the office party began winding down, Craig slipped back to his desk, checking his watch. The thrill of anticipation coursed through him. He could, of course, choose any night he wanted around the holidays. And he knew that whatever night he chose, he would finally be free to be himself. No longer pretend. “It will be for me. My ritual. My secret.” He said softly to himself.

Tapping out an email on autopilot, Craig allowed himself a small, private smile. The world might see him as the ambitious wunderkind of the financial district, but beneath the polished suit and sharp wit was a man who understood the importance of indulgence—and, occasionally, overindulgence.

Somewhere in his gut, a rumble of hunger stirred. ‘Soon, soon.’ He mused to his stomach. ‘When I’m ready, it’s going to be perfect.’


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