Chapter 1 - 1

"What did we agree?" your boyfriend demands.
You look down at your soft bulging belly and at the impossible gap between button and loop.
"What did we agree?" he demands again.
Tears well. You rub your hand along the flabby curve of your waist, " That you would tease and humiliate me as much as you wanted if I didn't lose weight by March."
"That's right, fatty, and what day is it today?"
"March first."
"And how's your diet going?"
"I've gained ten more pounds,"
"That's right Krispy Kreme, you've gained TEN more pounds − on top of the 60 you've put on since we moved in together a year ago."
You blush. Shame burns your ears, dries your throat. All you want to do is stuff your greedy belly and get yourself off. You love it when he humiliates you: God, if he only knew.
"I'm in charge now," he continues, "you do as I say or we're through, do you understand?"
"Yes," you reply shakily. He walks to the dresser and rummages in the bottom drawer, "Here, put this on."
"I c-can't fit into that, that's from when we first met." He holds out the halter top to you, "I KNOW it's from when we first met, tubby, and you CAN fit into it − it just won't cover the extra 70 pounds of blubber you've put on." You get wetter and wetter.
"Please, I'll start exercising, I promise."
"Nope. Too late, porky, those days are gone. From now on you'll be humiliated and tempted with your favorite foods nonstop. It's totally up to you whether you lose weight or not. If you don't develop some will power, you'll be absolutely huge by this time next year. I'm tired of hearing about diet, diet, diet. I'm not going to offer you a bit of help − other than to remind you how ***ing fat you're getting. You need to learn restraint."
"But...but, you know what a sweet tooth I have,"
"Of course I do," he says grabbing a roll of fat and giving it a shake, "some weaknesses get harder and harder to hide. But I don't care, I'm going to load the house with all your favorites. The cupboards and fridge will be groaning with food. The size of your ass is now totally dependent on you . Any new bulge I see, any jiggle, will be grabbed, pinched , poked, slapped and commented on. Any roll that sticks out further than it should will get the same teatment. Now wedge yourself into that top, fatty, we're going to In and Out."
You stare out the car window trying to ignore how turned on you are. 207 pounds. Wow. I have gained a lot. Excitement creeps into your solar plexus.
"Good thing this truck has bench seats , eh fat girl? I don't think we'll be able to get that wide back porch of yours into anything else." You blush. He whips the truck into the lot and continues to tease,
"Ok piggy, get out and jiggle your *** around to my side."
You do as your told. Your fat wobbles, wobbles wobbles as you walk around to his side. Each step jiggles your inner thighs, ripples your soft tummy. You're getting so turned on it's hard to think. The too-small halter rides up, the fabric of your shorts strains, your thighs rub.
"Turn around with your back to me," he says. He takes a wide-tipped black marker and spells out loud what he writes on the small of your back, "2−0−7−L−B−S. There," he laughs, accentuating the period after "lbs." with a sharp tap. "Now everyone will know. Waddle in there, you fat chubby hog, and order four double burgers."
Tiny sweat beads tickle your skin. Your panties are soaked. Trembling lightly, you turn and jiggle-walk your way to the entrance. You give a short sigh of relief: There's no one in line and only a few customers seated. As you approach the counter, the cashier's eyes widen slightly. He stifles a laugh. "Uh, may I help you?" Your soft, jutting belly pushes against the counter.

"Yes,uh, uhm, four double-doubles please."

You hear a woman on a cell phone get in line behind you.

"I know, so then he, he, he... - oh. my. god. Can I call you back?"

Your throat tightens. Then comes the weighted silence. She stares at the writing across your chunky love handles then clicks her camera phone and gleefully taps out a text − to god-knows-who − with a photo of the fat pig at In and Out attached. You redden with embarassment. You finally get your order. Sweating, horny, flushed, you waddle back to the truck trying desperately to suck in your flabby belly.
Your boyfriend smiles as you settle into your seat, "Wow, you look really fat in that outfit, you should have seen the looks you were getting." The food warms your lap, the cardboard box tickles the edge of your belly. And your boyfriend slides closer.
"Let's go home," you beg.
He begins kissing your neck and playing with your soft pig rolls, "not until you have a couple bites, come on, just a few bites," he nips lightly at your ear, "you can always start losing weight tomorrow. Why not celebrate a little?"
For a split second you actually believe to you can resist the smell of seared meat, melted cheese, grilled onions. Your desire gives way. The first burger vanishes in two bites, another follows. Your boyfriend laughs and fondles a bloated love handle as you cram your face full: Burger, grunt; burger, moan; burger, BELCH. Grease drips onto your swelling gut. He gives your bloating pot a firm slap, "That's it you greedy pig," he whispers, " stuff those burgers in there."
"Oh god, this is so good," you gasp, "I'm such a ***ing pig, I can't help it."
Ten minutes later you lay back and belch again loudly. Wadded wrappers lay at your feet, the empty, greasy box still on your lap. Your greedy hog belly swells before you in a straining arc. Your boyfriend kisses your mayo-smeared cheek and smiles, "I really admire your discipline, I can't wait to watch those pounds just melt away."
He laughs, pulls the truck out of the lot and noses into traffic. Each road bump reminds you of what a greedy cow you are. You spread your thighs to make room for your packed gut; the truck hits a pot-hole; the seat of your shorts gives way. You're too stuffed to care. Another loud belch.
After a quick stop at the store, you're home. You struggle out of the truck and waddle toward the house like a woman 11 months pregnant. Your boyfriend tickles your dimpled ass through the split in your shorts.
"Goodness, piggy, look at the size of that ass you're growing."
All you can do is moan. You want him to leave; you need to come so badly and his teasing is only making it worse. You plump your wide bottom down on the couch and roll lazily to your side. He hums as he puts away the groceries - just like he said, it's all your favorite junk. You hear the crinkle of cellophane tearing and plastic sliding on the counter. You moan and rub your tight belly.
"Here, have one, it'll settle your tummy," he says, handing you a white-chocolate covered Oreo.
"Oh god," you say with labored breath, "You're evil."
He laughs again, " I'm going to Rick's to have a few beers, the rest of that package is open on the counter, make sure to put it away if you don't want any."
You roll your eyes at him; he kisses the tip of your nose and leaves. As soon as you hear the sound of his truck fade, you're on your feet, then at the counter. You yank your shorts down, shove your hand between your fattened thighs: Two fingers slide in easily, you stuff oreos three at a time.Your cheeks bulge, your gut tightens: sugar, mmmm; humiliation, ohhhh; the heavy tug of your bloating belly − you come and come and come.