Chapter 1

I used to think people who let themselves go just didn’t care enough. You know, the ones at the gym, huffing and puffing, trying to shed pounds that never seemed to budge. I figured they lacked discipline, or maybe they just gave up. That’s what I thought from the time I started lifting weights at 16, all the way until I was 27. I was the guy who always had it together—lean, strong, never missing a workout. But then life got in the way, and my whole perspective flipped upside down in just a few months.

It started with a new job. I landed a gig at a tech startup, and let me tell you, it was intense. Long hours, endless projects, and a break room always stocked with pizza, cookies, and soda to “keep the team going.” I didn’t have time to hit the gym like I used to, and grabbing a slice or two during late-night coding sessions became routine. I didn’t think much of it at first. I mean, I’d always been able to eat whatever and stay in shape. But by the time my 28th birthday rolled around, I’d packed on 35 pounds. My jeans were tight, my shirts clung to my stomach, and I could feel the extra weight when I climbed stairs. I wasn’t huge, but I wasn’t the ripped guy I used to be either.

I told myself I’d get back to the gym soon. Work was calming down, and I had more free time. But the truth? I was embarrassed. I’d been the guy who could deadlift twice his body weight, and now I was avoiding mirrors. The few times I did go to the gym, I noticed people didn’t talk to me as much. No one said anything about my new gut, but I could tell they noticed. It stung, especially when I realized my social life was taking a hit. I used to have no trouble getting dates, but now? Crickets.

One evening, I was at the grocery store, pushing a cart down the snack aisle, when I heard a voice behind me. “Hey, you gonna eat all those chips by yourself?” I turned around, ready to brush it off, but there she was—Sarah. She was stunning. Long brown hair, hazel eyes, and a curvy figure that filled out her jeans perfectly. She was holding a basket with some fruit and a bottle of wine, smirking at me.

“Uh, maybe,” I said, chuckling awkwardly, tossing the bag of chips into my cart. “Bad day, you know?”

She laughed, stepping closer. “I get it. I’m Sarah, by the way. And you are…?”

“Matt,” I said, shaking her hand. Her grip was firm, and her smile didn’t fade. We ended up chatting right there in the aisle, about nothing really—work, favorite snacks, the fact that she was a baker who loved experimenting with desserts. Before I knew it, she was handing me her number. “Call me sometime, Matt. I make a mean chocolate cake.”

I walked out of that store feeling lighter than I had in months, even with the extra pounds. Sarah was different. She didn’t seem to care about my softer middle or the fact that I wasn’t in peak shape. We started texting, then talking on the phone, and within a week, she invited me over to her place for dinner. I was nervous, but I couldn’t say no to her.

That first dinner was unreal. Sarah had cooked a spread—lasagna, garlic bread, a creamy salad, and a towering chocolate cake for dessert. I tried to pace myself, but everything was so good, and she kept piling more onto my plate. “Come on, Matt, you’ve got to try this,” she’d say, sliding another slice of bread my way. By the end of the night, I was stuffed, my stomach tight against my belt. I leaned back in my chair, groaning, and she just grinned. “You look happy,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

We started seeing each other regularly after that. Sarah loved to cook, and every date was a feast. She’d make these huge meals—roast chicken, mashed potatoes swimming in gravy, pies with whipped cream—and she always insisted I eat more. “I worked hard on this, Matt. Don’t let it go to waste,” she’d say, spooning another helping onto my plate. I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I kept eating. And yeah, I loved her food. It was comfort in every bite.

But I was growing. Fast. By the time we’d been dating for three months, I’d gained another 30 pounds, hitting 235. My old clothes didn’t fit anymore. Shirts strained across my belly, and I had to buy new jeans with a bigger waist. I’d catch my reflection and barely recognize myself—my face was rounder, my stomach stuck out, and I had a double chin when I looked down. I told Sarah I was worried about my weight, but she just shrugged. “You look good to me, Matt. I like a guy who enjoys himself.”

One night, things got… intense. We were at her place, and she’d made this massive pasta dinner with a thick cream sauce, garlic bread, and a cheesecake for dessert. I was already full after the pasta, but Sarah wasn’t having it. “You’re not done yet,” she said, her voice firm but playful. She scooped a huge slice of cheesecake onto my plate and sat next to me, closer than usual. “Open up.”

I laughed, thinking she was joking, but her eyes were serious. She picked up a fork, cut a big piece of the cake, and held it to my mouth. “Come on, Matt. For me.” My heart was racing, but I opened my mouth, and she fed me the bite. Then another. And another. She didn’t stop, even when I tried to protest, my stomach aching from how full I was. “You can handle it,” she whispered, her hand resting on my belly, rubbing it gently. By the time the plate was empty, I was breathless, my shirt tight across my swollen stomach. Sarah looked thrilled. “That’s my guy,” she said, kissing me softly.

After that, force-feeding became part of our routine. Not every night, but often enough that I started to expect it. Sarah would cook these huge meals, and when I’d slow down, she’d take over, feeding me bite after bite, her hands guiding the food to my mouth. Sometimes she’d straddle my lap, her curves pressed against me, making it impossible to say no. “You’re getting so big,” she’d murmur, her fingers tracing the stretch marks on my sides. “I love it.”

I was hooked—on her, on the food, on the way she made me feel. But I was also ballooning. Six months into our relationship, I stepped on the scale and saw 280 pounds. I couldn’t believe it. I’d been a lean 175 when we met, and now I was waddling when I walked, my belly jiggling with every step. My coworkers noticed, too. I’d catch them staring when I grabbed a third donut from the break room or when my chair creaked under me. Some of them made comments, joking about how I’d “let myself go.” I brushed it off, but deep down, it hurt.

Sarah didn’t care what anyone thought. She kept cooking, kept feeding me, kept pushing me to eat more. One weekend, we were at her place, and she’d made a huge brunch—pancakes, bacon, eggs, and a tray of cinnamon rolls. I was stuffed after the pancakes, but she wasn’t done. She sat me down on the couch, a plate of rolls in her hand, and started feeding me again. “You’re not stopping until these are gone,” she said, her voice low and commanding. My stomach was screaming, but I kept eating, her hands firm on my shoulders, her body close to mine. When the last roll was gone, I was panting, my belly so tight I could barely move. Sarah climbed onto my lap, kissing me deeply. “You’re perfect,” she said, her hands roaming over my soft frame.

A few weeks later, Sarah decided to up the ante. She’d planned a “special night” at her place, and I could tell she was excited. When I arrived, the dining table was covered with food—fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, cornbread, and a massive tray of brownies. “Tonight’s all about you,” she said, her eyes gleaming. I tried to eat slowly, but Sarah was relentless. After I finished a plate, she loaded it up again, her hands moving quickly. When I groaned, saying I couldn’t eat another bite, she grabbed a funnel from the kitchen. “Oh, you’re not done,” she said, pouring a thick, creamy milkshake into the funnel. She held it to my mouth, tilting it slowly, and I had no choice but to swallow. The shake was rich, heavy, and endless. My stomach gurgled, stretching painfully, but Sarah’s voice was soothing, urging me on. “You’re doing so good, Matt. Keep going.” When the funnel was empty, I was dazed, my belly so distended I couldn’t sit up straight. Sarah straddled me, her hands massaging my swollen gut, whispering, “You’re getting there, my big boy.”

By my 29th birthday, I was 340 pounds. I’d quit the gym completely—partly because I was too embarrassed to show up, partly because I was too out of shape to do much. My life revolved around Sarah and food. She’d moved into my apartment by then, and every day was a cycle of eating. Breakfast was stacks of waffles with syrup and butter. Lunch was takeout or leftovers she’d pack for me. Dinner was a feast, and then she’d feed me dessert, sometimes with a funnel if she was feeling extra intense. She’d mix up these thick shakes—chocolate, peanut butter, cream—and pour them down my throat while rubbing my belly. “Bigger,” she’d whisper. “I want you bigger.”

One evening, Sarah decided to push things even further. She’d spent all day preparing what she called a “feast for my king.” The table was groaning under the weight of food—roast beef, creamy mashed potatoes, buttered rolls, and a triple-layer chocolate cake. I was already full after the main course, but Sarah had other plans. She tied my hands to the chair, her smile playful but determined. “No stopping tonight,” she said, cutting a massive slice of cake. She fed me forkful after forkful, her movements slow and deliberate. When I tried to protest, she shushed me, her fingers brushing my lips. “You’re mine, Matt. You eat what I give you.” After the cake, she brought out another shake, this one thicker than ever, and used the funnel again. My stomach ached, my breathing was shallow, but Sarah’s hands were all over me, praising me, encouraging me. “Look at you,” she said, her voice husky. “So big, so perfect.” I was too full to move, my body heavy and sluggish, but her touch made it all feel… right.

One night, after a particularly heavy session, I was lying in bed, my stomach aching from the shake she’d made me finish. I looked at her, sprawled out next to me, her curves glowing in the dim light. “Sarah,” I said, my voice quiet. “How big do you want me to get?”

She turned to me, her eyes gleaming. “As big as you can handle, Matt. I love watching you grow. It’s… hot.” She reached over, her hand resting on my belly, squeezing the soft flesh. “Don’t you like it?”

I didn’t know how to answer. Part of me loved it—the food, her attention, the way she worshipped my body. But another part was scared. I was huge, and I was only getting bigger. My clothes barely fit, my car felt cramped, and I was out of breath just walking to the mailbox. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m… kinda freaking out.”

Sarah’s face softened, but only for a moment. “You’re mine, Matt. And I’m not stopping until you’re exactly how I want you.” She leaned in, kissing me hard, her hands gripping my sides. “Trust me, you’ll love it.”

I didn’t argue. I couldn’t. The next day, she brought home a new scale, one that went up to 600 pounds. “Let’s see where you’re at,” she said, her voice teasing. I stepped on, my heart pounding. The number flashed: 387. Sarah clapped her hands, grinning. “Oh, we’re just getting started.”

From then on, it was like she doubled down. She quit her job at the bakery to focus on me full-time. She’d spend all day cooking, baking, blending shakes. She’d wake me up with a tray of pastries, feed me until I couldn’t move, then start again a few hours later. She’d tie my hands sometimes, saying it was “more fun” that way, and pour shake after shake down my throat. My body was changing so fast I couldn’t keep up. Stretch marks covered my belly, my thighs rubbed together, and my chest was starting to look like a pair of soft breasts.

By the time I hit 400 pounds, I’d lost my job. The company said it was “restructuring,” but I knew my size didn’t help. I could barely fit at my desk, and I was always tired, too full to focus. I didn’t care as much as I thought I would. Sarah was there, taking care of everything. She’d feed me, clean me, love me. Our apartment was a shrine to food—fridges stocked with cream, butter, and leftovers, counters covered with cakes and pies.

One morning, I woke up and realized I couldn’t get out of bed on my own. My belly was too heavy, my legs too weak. I called for Sarah, and she came in, her face lighting up. “Oh, Matt,” she said, climbing onto the bed. “You’re perfect.” She fed me breakfast right there, a funnel in my mouth, her hands rubbing my swollen gut. I was over 675 pounds by then, and she showed no signs of stopping.

Sarah’s obsession only grew. She’d spend hours online, researching high-calorie recipes, buying ingredients to make thicker shakes. She’d wake me up with trays of donuts, feed me until I was groaning, then start again.

My body was unrecognizable—my belly spilled over my lap, my thighs were wider than my old waist, and my arms were heavy with fat. At +700 pounds, I couldn’t walk more than a few steps without gasping. Sarah had to help me shower, dress, everything. But she loved it. “You’re mine,” she’d say, her hands sinking into my soft flesh. “All mine.”

“Drink,” she commanded. I obeyed, my stomach protesting, my body trembling. She didn’t stop until it was gone, her hands roaming my massive frame, her voice soft but firm. “You’re going to be my masterpiece.”

Months later, I hit +920 pounds. I was completely dependent on Sarah. My butt was huge and heavy. My belly always full and I burped often.

Checking a mirror on the ceiling, my body took up most of the reinforced bed she’d bought, my belly a mountain of soft flesh, my limbs useless.

Every day was a blur of food—funnels of shake, trays of pastries, endless plates of rich, heavy meals.

“Sarah,” I gasped one night, after she’d stuffed me with a whole pizza and a gallon of shake. “How far are we going?”

She looked at me, her eyes intense. “Until you’re mine completely. Until you’re so big you can’t move without me. I want you to be my big, soft boy, Matt. Forever.”

I should’ve been scared, but I wasn’t. I was hers. And I wanted more.