@piggycamila

Chapter 1

I’m not even sure what I look like anymore.
My hands tremble as I wipe taco grease off my belly—my actual belly, which now spills over my shorts like rising dough. I just inhaled seven of those fat, overstuffed tortillas. Carnitas, sour cream, extra cheese, guac—every bite heavier than the last. Five beers down like water. And there’s still more food. Tortillas stacked like they’re challenging me. Gravy-slick potatoes cooling on a chipped plate. Pasta drowning in Alfredo. And all I can do is sit here and swell.
I’m stupidly full. Ridiculously bloated. I can’t even shift without feeling like I’ll burst.
But god… this pressure. It’s like my skin’s turning into something else. Softer. Thicker. Stretching, reshaping. I imagine the food settling, transforming into fat, oozing into every curve, every pocket. My ass, my thighs, my stomach—blown up like I’m under some kind of spell. My shirt’s clinging on for dear life, the seams whining every time I so much as breathe. My waistband cuts deep into new flesh.
And here’s the sick part. I’m turned on.
I touch the mound of my belly and feel heat rise under my fingers. The shame, the heaviness, the greed—it’s intoxicating. I’ve started masturbating to the mirror, to the obscene shape I’ve become. My body isn’t toned, or tight, or pretty anymore—it’s a monument to hunger. And that makes me hungrier.
I was so hot. Everyone said so.
Now they stare like I’ve grown another head. Girls sneer. Guys flinch. Some just blink, stunned, like they can’t believe I’m the same girl. I used to make jaws drop from curves. Now it’s from sheer volume. I know I’ve gained. A lot. But I can’t stop. I won’t.
It’s not just food. It’s something deeper. Like I’m being fed by something else—this dark satisfaction that lives behind my eyes and smiles every time I outgrow another outfit. My reflection has become a stranger. A bigger one, every day. And still I eat.
Pizza’s on the way. Two large ones. Pepperoni, extra cheese. I added weight gain shakes this time. Heavy cream. Full fat. I want to feel them sit in my belly like concrete. I want to watch myself grow.
Because the truth?
I don’t want to be saved.
—-------
My name is Camila Torres.
I’m twenty-seven. Born and raised in Miami, but both my parents are from Medellín. People used to tell me I looked like a telenovela star — tan skin, hourglass hips, perfect teeth, and a butt that could make a priest sin. I didn’t even need to try. I was effortlessly hot. That kind of girl. The one who knows how jeans cling in all the right places, the one who walks into a room and feels the temperature change. I’d get stares, compliments, free drinks, DMs from verified accounts.
And now I barely recognize the face in the mirror.
But this didn’t start with some tragic fall. No trauma. No heartbreak. It wasn’t that poetic.
It was so much simpler than that.
It started with small indulgences. I’d skip workouts because I was tired after long days. I’m a makeup artist — I work weddings, music videos, red carpets. Glam, deadlines, standing on my feet for twelve hours. I told myself I deserved the Uber Eats. Late-night mozzarella sticks. Extra sauces. Fast food runs on the way home. I told myself it didn’t matter. That I still looked great. I did.
At first.
But my body is sensitive. Maybe too sensitive. Five pounds became ten. Ten became twenty. My face got a little rounder. My arms softened. My thighs started touching, sticking when I walked. My bras didn’t fit the same.
But what changed everything was my ass.
That’s what grew first. Visibly. Obscenely. Like my body had chosen one place to pour the extra calories and let the rest catch up later. Suddenly every panty, every thong, every pair of leggings felt like it was made for someone else. Strangers would stare even more — not out of desire, but shock. Curiosity. Confusion. Like they couldn’t quite compute what had happened to me.
And honestly, neither could I.
But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Because by then it wasn’t just food. It was sensation. Heat. Heaviness. Stuffing myself until I couldn’t move was like foreplay. The shame turned me on. The tightness. The push of my belly against the table. The way my thighs spread wider every week.
And the erotic power of it all? It was addictive.
I began ordering food in secret. Telling friends I was busy while I stayed in, eating for hours, then lying back with a distended belly, rubbing it like it was sacred. I started filming myself. Just to watch. Just to see the way I changed.
I watched the pounds pack on in slow motion. The line between hot and heavy blurred. I outgrew everything. Then I outgrew the next size up. Then the next. My skin started to develop new creases. Red stretch marks bloomed like flowers across my hips. My face got softer, puffier. But it was that ass — that enormous, swollen ass — that led the way. That dragged my whole identity with it. It used to be tight, high, cheeky. Now it’s wide. Heavy. Obscene. Like it doesn’t belong on a human body anymore.
And I can’t stop feeding it.
It’s so easy. That’s the scariest part. So easy to let go. Just another pizza. Just another dessert. Just one more cheat day. You blink and you’re someone else. You tell yourself: “How bad could it be?” And then you wake up out of breath after a flight of stairs, your thighs chafed, your gut pressed against the steering wheel.
And you’re horny anyway. Because it’s all so wrong it feels right.
Now, I live in oversized shirts and stretchy dresses. I avoid mirrors unless I’m turned on. And even then, I look only at certain angles. I haven’t seen my collarbones in months. I jiggle when I walk. My bras are like harnesses. And still — I want more.
I’m not eating to survive. I’m eating to transform.
To push the limits.
To ask myself: How far am I willing to go?
And the truth?
I don’t think I’ve even started yet.