Chapter 1

It started with a single button.

Jacob stood in front of the mirror, shirt gaping just slightly between the buttons, the curve of his belly peeking through like a secret daring exposure. He exhaled and watched it push further outward, a soft convex dome now where there was once a line of abs. That wasn’t an accident. That was effort. Intention. The third week in a row he’d finished an entire cheesecake before bed, chased it with whole milk and a tub of peanut butter spooned thick and slow, lips smacking, throat glugging, as he imagined her reaction.

Aimi. His timid, delicate girlfriend. Half-Japanese, raised with restraint in every gesture, everything about her laced in etiquette. She folded napkins like origami, flinched at loud noises, crossed her legs automatically in every chair. Her voice was so soft it sometimes felt like a whispering breeze. She blushed at compliments. Avoided mirrors when naked. Always wore a towel between shower and bedroom, even in the dark.

She had never seen someone spiral before. But Jacob wanted her to.

The first time she mentioned it, her voice wavered, cheeks pink as azaleas.

“Have you… been eating out a lot lately?”

God, the shame in it. The implied shame. The concern. He got hard the minute she said it. Had to bite his cheek not to show it. He smiled sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Heh. Yeah, I guess I have. Been stress-eating, you know?”

She nodded quickly, relieved to have an answer. “Just be careful, okay? I want you healthy.”

That night he didn’t jerk off to porn. He jerked off to that line, repeated in a little loop: Just be careful, okay? I want you healthy. The way her brow furrowed. The way she tried to smile through it. The tiny wince when he peeled his shirt off in the heat and his belly jiggled. Not twitched—jiggled, the way custard did under a spoon.

He escalated.

Second month, he stopped exercising altogether. Still walked to work, but took elevators instead of stairs. Got winded tying his shoes, which made him smirk in the mirror as he watched his rounder face puff with effort. His ass was thickening, too—he could feel it sway behind him, pants clinging tighter, seams whining at the thighs. He started buying fast food for lunch, and then dinner, doubling the orders. Ate fries two-handed, drinking from milkshake cups like they were life-support.

He started getting subtle with her.

“Can you grab me another soda, babe?” as he lay back on the couch, hand resting lazily over his round stomach. “Ugh, I’m stuffed,” he’d groan, letting his shirt ride up so his gut peeked out, flushed and warm with overeating. “Could you bring me a blanket? I don’t wanna move.”

Aimi did it all. She never argued. She nodded, brought the soda, fetched the blanket, eyes a little uncertain each time. He could see it—flickering in the space between obedience and concern, like watching porcelain crack under pressure.

She was still loving. She still touched him gently. Still kissed his cheek when she left for work, even though she had to lean further to do it now, because he took up more space on the couch, his stomach an overfed hill sloping over the waistband.

But the compliments slowed. The touches hesitated.

One night they were in bed and she hesitated before undressing. He was already shirtless, panting from the walk upstairs, belly slick with sweat where it had pressed into his jeans. She looked at him for a long moment before turning the light off and undressing in the dark.

It gave him the hardest erection of his life.

He ballooned from there.

Month four: he bought new clothes. One size up. Then two. He didn’t mention it. Let her notice. Let her feel it when she hugged him and her arms didn’t reach as far. Let her pause when she touched his side and didn’t find ribs—just plush, soft fat, yielding under her fingers like warm dough.

One morning, she stepped back after trying to adjust his collar. It wouldn’t sit right. His neck had thickened.

“Jacob,” she said carefully. “Are you… happy? With yourself?”

He grinned, full and unrepentant. “Never better.”

She didn’t speak for a second. “You’ve changed.”

He looked down at his belly, then patted it with both hands, letting it bounce. “Guess I have.”

The silence was deafening.

And then—god—then, she said: “It’s just… it’s a little hard for me, that’s all. You used to be… you know. Fit.”

There it was. Her eyes flicked down, flicked up, cheeks burning with shame for even noticing. She looked betrayed by her own standards. Her disappointment laced with guilt, because how dare she judge the man she loved?

He stroked his gut thoughtfully, then let his fingers drag along the curve, pinching a roll. “Yeah, well. Guess I got lazy.”

He said it in a way that dared her to agree.

She didn’t.

But she didn’t disagree.

Month six, and his gut was a proud, sloping monument. His thighs chafed. He wore sweatpants almost exclusively. He’d gained close to seventy pounds. People stared. Coworkers whispered. Aimi stopped bringing him lunches at work. Stopped letting her friends visit when he was home. Said she was tired. Said she needed space sometimes. She still slept beside him, though. Still let him wrap his heavy arms around her, belly pressing into her back, breath hot against her neck. Still whispered “I love you” even though he could hear the tremble in it.

She wouldn’t break up with him.

Not yet.

And so he got crueler.

One day she came home to find him shirtless, gut entirely exposed, slouched in the living room, surrounded by empty takeout containers. He was eating cold pasta straight from the tray, shoveling it into his mouth with greasy fingers, shirt stretched over the armrest, belly spread like a risen loaf, thighs spread wide.

She stood frozen in the doorway.

He licked his fingers, deliberately slow.

“Didn’t feel like cleaning up,” he said.

She stared.

“It’s like you want to be this way,” she said, voice thin.

He didn’t answer. Just grabbed another forkful.

She crossed the room slowly, eyes locked on the mess. “Jacob. This isn’t you.”

That did it.

He leaned forward with effort, arms pressing into the folds of his stomach as he stood. She flinched. He was taller than her now by more than just height—he was wider, imposing in a way he never had been. His bulk made her take a step back without realizing.

And he smiled.

“I think it is,” he said, belly wobbling with each breath. “I think this is exactly who I am. I think you’re just figuring that out.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. Her lip trembled.

“You disgust me,” she whispered, but she didn’t run. She didn’t leave. She stood there, shaking, skin gone pale.

He stepped closer.

“Then leave.”

She didn’t.

His heart thundered. Not from love. From the raw humiliation of knowing she saw him—really saw him—and couldn’t bring herself to love it. From the fact that he’d become something grotesque in her eyes and she hadn’t yet broken. From the sheer, electric thrill of being loathed and pitied at once.

It was better than sex.

But then she finally did something he never expected.

She walked forward, trembling, and touched him—hand against his side, eyes glistening with helpless affection. She didn't pull away when her fingers sank deep into a roll of fat.

“I’m trying,” she said, barely audible. “I’m trying to still love you.”

He should’ve been triumphant.

But her voice broke at the end.

And he realized—maybe this was the last time.

Maybe next week, or next binge, or next sigh when she reached to hug him and couldn't find the man she used to know, she’d pack her bags. Maybe she’d walk out while he slept off another food coma, belly distended like a drum.

But until then?

He had time.

And he was going to get fatter.

But then, a couple days later, she came to him with a bento box.

It was small, porcelain-lidded, delicate as her fingers. The kind of thing she used to make in the early months—back when she cut carrots into flowers, folded egg sheets into rabbits, stacked rice balls in rows like sleeping kittens. He almost didn’t notice it on the table amid the wreckage of his usual gluttony: grease-stained pizza boxes, Chinese takeout smeared in soy sauce, a still-warm donut box with only powdered sugar left inside. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, elastic strained, belly doming outward like it was reaching for the next bite.

Aimi placed the bento down with care. Her eyes flicked across the carnage, nose twitching faintly, but she said nothing about the mess.

“I made this,” she said, as if he might not recognize it anymore.

He eyed the box warily, licking chocolate off his thumb. “Why?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were soft. So soft. Like someone about to pet a rabid dog. He hated how much it hurt. Hated how badly he wanted her fingers back in his hair, on his face, not flinching from the weight of him. Her jaw moved, clenched, relaxed.

“If you’re going to do this to yourself,” she said slowly, “I want you to at least eat something I made.”

His cock twitched.

He stared at her. At the box. At her.

“Babe, are you… helping me now?” he asked, half-sarcastic, but his voice cracked.

She flinched. But didn’t step back.

“Not helping. Just… not leaving.”

He opened the bento. Inside were small, meticulous things. Sweet rolled omelet, glossy with sugar. White rice packed tight, sprinkled with sesame. Chicken glazed in syrupy sauce, thickened until it glistened. A strawberry, dipped in chocolate.

His belly growled.

She watched him.

He took a bite.

And groaned.

It was too sweet. The egg almost cloying. The glaze thick enough to coat his tongue, the rice sticky and dense, sitting like paste in his gut. But it was hers. And that made it holy.

He ate everything. Slowly, reverently, licking each compartment clean.

When he was done, she reached across the table, took his hand. Her fingers barely wrapped halfway around his now-pudgy wrist.

“I don’t like watching you… disappear,” she whispered.

He raised an eyebrow. “Disappear? I’m bigger than ever.”

“You’re turning into someone else.”

He wanted to protest. Say this was him. Say this was always what he wanted—to be big, slow, ruined, adored. But she touched his stomach then, almost absent-minded, like trying to remember it. Her hand pressed into the softness, felt it yield under her palm, and her lips parted just slightly.

“Does it feel good?” she asked.

He blinked. “What?”

“Eating like this. Being… heavy.”

His cock throbbed so hard it hurt.

“Aimi…”

“Show me,” she said.

She got up. Walked to the kitchen. Came back with a pint of ice cream and a spoon. No smile. No seduction. Just ritual.

She peeled the lid off, scooped a spoonful of chocolate chunk, held it up to him.

“Eat.”

And he did.

Spoon after spoon, melting against his tongue, sliding cold and creamy down his throat. She fed him slow, steady, her eyes on his belly, her fingers grazing his lips with every bite. His pants cut into his waist. His stomach rose and rose, pressing against his shirt, lifting it. She didn’t pull away when he groaned.

“Too much,” he panted.

She ignored it. Another spoon.

“You wanted this,” she said.

He moaned when she placed the spoon between his lips. His gut gurgled. He swore he felt the stretch, the pull of skin, the weight of fullness pushing down toward his thighs. She placed her hand on the crest of his belly and leaned in close.

“If you’re going to ruin yourself,” she whispered, “do it on my terms.”

That night, she fucked him.

Not like before. Not gently, not with reverence. She climbed into his lap, straddled his distended belly, lifted her skirt. Her panties were already soaked. She rubbed against him, slid his cock between her folds, used his gut like a pillow to brace herself as she rocked.

He couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. She pinned him with softness. Her moans were quiet but urgent, like every thrust was a secret confession. She ground against him, breasts bouncing, fingernails digging into his doughy chest.

“***,” she whispered. “You’re disgusting.”

He almost came.

“You like it?” she asked, voice trembling as she ground harder. “Being useless? Just a weak *** for me to ride?”

He nodded, dizzy.

She slapped his belly.

It wobbled. Loud and wet and obscene.

He came so hard he almost passed out.

And she didn’t stop.

She made him eat afterward. Fried rice with pork belly. Braised short ribs. Mochi, so sticky it glued to his teeth, sugar soaking into his bloodstream like love. She straddled him, massaged his bloated stomach, kissed his neck.

“You’re mine,” she said.

And he was.

She kept feeding him. Not every day. But often. Quietly. Obsessively. She started cooking in bulk. Left food on the table like offerings to a lazy god. She brought buttered pastries to bed, fed him between kisses, pushed donuts into his mouth while he slept. She never smiled when she did it. It wasn’t a game anymore.

It was something darker. A shared madness.

They stopped going out. Stopped answering friends. Their world shrank to a kitchen, a bedroom, the curve of his belly and the gentle, trembling hands that fed it.

He grew. Slower now, but inevitable.

Her face got thinner. She lost sleep.

Sometimes, she cried when he couldn’t see.

But she never stopped feeding him.

It was summer by the time Aimi started dressing him.

Real summer—sticky, humid heat that clung to every fold, every crevice of his now bloated, immobile body. The AC hummed twenty-four-seven, still not enough to cool the furnace his body had become. He sweated constantly, rivulets running down the slope of his belly, matting the soft hair on his chest, pooling beneath the curve where his overgrown gut met his thighs.

He couldn’t walk more than a few steps without gasping. His knees ached. His back throbbed. He took to sitting, always sitting—on the couch, on the edge of the bed, on the toilet for half an hour just to rest. Breathing made him sweat. Chewing wore him out. But the worst was dressing himself. He just… couldn’t.

And Aimi knew it.

That’s how the bra started.

It wasn’t lace or mesh. Nothing sexy. It was a full-support sports bra in beige, wide-strapped, utilitarian. Something she must’ve ordered online while he dozed in the heat, mouth open, his belly rising and falling like a sunburnt tide. She brought it to him one afternoon, dangling it between two fingers.

“For support,” she said.

He blinked at her from the bed, naked except for boxers damp with sweat, thighs spread wide, gut resting heavy over his lap. “What the hell is that?”

“You need it,” she said, flat.

He glanced down.

His chest had changed. It wasn’t just soft anymore—it was heavy, the fat pooling into actual breasts, not muscular at all, nipples pointing slightly downward. He could feel them jiggle when he shifted. Feel the weight of them pulling when he leaned.

“I don’t wear bras,” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.

“You didn’t used to weigh three hundred and sixty pounds,” she replied, sliding the straps over his arms before he could protest.

It was tight. Compressive. Hugged him around the chest like an accusation. His tits lifted, shaped by the cups, suddenly rounder, pushed forward. He looked down at himself and flinched.

She didn’t say anything. Just adjusted the band under his rolls, tugged the fabric down until it settled, and nodded like checking off a chore.

But he saw the flicker behind her eyes.

She liked it.

That night she laid him back on the bed, unstrapped his boxers, and rode him again—but slower this time. Her hands gripped the cups of his bra, squeezing his chest through the fabric, moaning softly as her hips ground into his lap. When he came, trembling beneath her, breath hitching like a dying animal, she leaned down and whispered:

“You look pathetic in this.”

His cock twitched again.

The muumuu came next.

A week later, she laid it out on the bed—a massive floral tent in soft cotton, printed with lilies and blossoms in colors that matched absolutely none of his skin tone. It looked like something a grandmother in Okinawa might wear while gardening. No waistband. No buttons. Just one enormous sack with sleeves.

“I can’t keep pulling your pants up every time you move,” she said simply.

He didn’t argue.

She slid it over his head herself. Arms through the holes. Fabric falling around his belly like curtains, hiding nothing. It billowed outward, caught on his hips. She tugged it down over his ass, smoothed the wrinkles, stepped back.

And smiled.

Not a real smile. A look.

She turned the mirror toward him. Tilted it so he could see his own reflection—bulbous, blanketed in floral print, with tits rounded in the bra like overstuffed dumplings. His face had gotten so wide. His cheeks were full enough to obscure his jaw. His lips looked smaller somehow, like everything else had grown faster.

His cock was hard under the muumuu.

And she saw it.

“You like being dressed like this?” she asked, soft, almost clinical.

He didn’t answer.

She walked over and pressed her knee between his legs, parting them. The muumuu rode up, exposing his swelling groin, the folds of his inner thighs glistening with sweat.

“Hey.”

He gulped. “Yes..?”

She palmed his gut, shoved it down, forcing him to look at himself. “You’re not even a man anymore.”

He whimpered.

“You’re just a pile of fat in a house dress.”

He came in seconds. Moaned loud, head thrown back, the dress damp where it tented over his belly. And she stayed there, crouched beside him, hands massaging the stretchmarks, watching his whole body shudder.

From then on, she dressed him daily.

She picked the fabrics—silks, linens, bright cottons with garish prints. Each muumuu bigger than the last. She bought new bras. Padded ones. Gave him a drawer just for them. She clipped his toenails, since he couldn’t reach. Shaved his armpits. Wiped sweat from under his tits with wet cloths while humming a lullaby her mother used to sing.

And slowly, without fanfare, she took everything else too.

Control of the fridge. Control of the thermostat. Control of his medication schedule. She fed him with a fork some days. On others, she just held up the bowl and let him lap like a dog. She took the doors off the kitchen and put a baby gate in instead—“So you don’t hurt yourself trying to get snacks,” she said sweetly.

He was too slow now to protest.

When she sat him on the couch, he stayed. When she fed him a bowl of rice and pork belly and told him he had to finish it before watching TV, he obeyed. When she measured his waistline with a tape measure and clucked her tongue, he didn’t dare ask for the number.

He was too heavy. Too soft. Too addicted to the shame.

And she knew.

One night, he tried to crawl upstairs on his own. Hands gripping each step. His weak, soft arms shook. Gut dragged. Sweat poured down his face, pooling under the bra’s band. Halfway up, he collapsed, gasping.

Aimi stood at the top, arms crossed.

“You done?”

He nodded, panting.

She walked down, slowly, and crouched beside him.

“Can’t even make it up the stairs.”

He closed his eyes.

“Good.”

She kissed his forehead. “You stay here. I’ll get your blanket.”

She brought it a minute later, tucking him in like a child. Brought a straw and held it to his lips. It tasted like melted mochi, sweet and thick. His stomach gurgled.

She ran her fingers through his hair.

“I’m going to take such good care of you,” she murmured.

He knew he’d never go up those stairs again.