Becoming Hers

Chapter 1

A slow, soft descent into fullness, dependency, and devotion. You don’t remember exactly when it started.

Maybe it was the first time she messaged you with that deceptively simple question: “What did you eat today?”

It wasn’t just curiosity. It was care laced with intent, sweet, slow-burning intent. You could feel it. From that moment on, something shifted. You didn’t know it then, but she had already started feeding you, not with food, but with words. With attention. With presence. And before long, with instructions.

She gave you suggestions, small ones at first: “Try adding butter.”
“Why don’t you get seconds?”
“Order dessert… for me.”

And you did. Not because you were hungry, but because she wanted you to. When you met in person, she didn’t ask – she ordered for you.
Two entrees. One with extra sauce. A starter “just in case.” And a slice of cake for the table – but really, just for you.

She watched you eat. Watched the way you slowly relaxed into her gaze. Watched the button on your jeans strain ever so slightly, your hand resting on your softening belly between bites. Watched how willingly you opened your appetite for her. “That’s it,” she said softly. “You’re learning how to let go.”

The weight didn’t come all at once.
It arrived like she did – gradually, deliberately, beautifully.

Your shirts started clinging a bit more.
Your belly stopped lying flat.
Your thighs began to brush.
You caught yourself breathing heavier after stairs.
You shifted more in chairs.
You noticed yourself.

So did she. Except she didn’t flinch. She praised you. Every time she saw you, her eyes flickered down – not with judgment, but with hunger.
She touched your belly with reverence. Let her fingers trace your softness like a sculptor proud of their evolving creation. She pressed a warm kiss into the base of your neck and whispered:
“I want you bigger.”
“I want you slower.”
“I want you full.”

And so you ate.
Not just because you were hungry – but because it became a ritual.
You ate for her pleasure. For her attention. For her approval.
You ate because being full meant being seen. Because gaining meant belonging.

She didn’t just feed your body – she rewired your rhythms.
She brought food to your bed.
She put snacks beside your desk.
She teased you for skipping a meal like you’d skipped a date.

“You need consistency,” she’d say, rubbing your belly. “You’re growing now. You need structure. You need to keep it up… for me.”

Before long, your body began to adapt: Hunger came faster. Satisfaction came slower. Sitting still felt natural. Moving felt unnecessary. Lying down after eating wasn’t indulgent – it was automatic.

You softened everywhere: Your belly grew rounder, heavier, permanently resting in your lap. Your chest took on weight, beginning to jiggle subtly under your shirt. Your thighs widened, brushing together more insistently with every step. Your face filled out, every angle smoothed into warmth. You outgrew clothes and didn’t replace them – because she liked the tightness. And you started to feel it in your breathing – a little shallower, especially after a big meal. Your legs felt heavier, slower. Even getting up made you pause.

And she noticed. Of course she did. “You’re slowing down,” she purred.
“That’s what I want. You weren’t made to rush. You were made to be soft, to stay close, to let me take care of everything.”

And she did. She cooked. She carried. She planned your meals.
She measured your belly with her hands. She whispered to it. She kissed it like a promise. She touched your thighs and moaned at the way they spread wider under her palms each week. She called you her project, her piggy, her sweet, growing boy.

She didn’t just want to feed you.
She wanted to keep you.
Stationary. Dependent. Hers.

Soon, even walking became a challenge. You needed help standing, and she was there. She told you not to worry about moving so much. “Why burn calories you worked so hard to gain?”

So you stayed in bed more.
You watched your own body take up more space – in the mirror, on the scale, in her arms. You grew wide. Thick. Soft. Beautifully useless.

She brought you everything – meals, snacks, drinks. Sometimes, she’d climb onto your lap – or belly – and ride you slowly, savoring every jiggle, every tremble. She loved how you struggled beneath her. She loved your helplessness. She loved that you still asked: “Is it enough yet?”, “Do I look bigger for you?”, “Are you proud of me?”

And she’d smile, brushing your hair back, resting her hand on the slope of your stretched gut, and say: “Not yet, baby. But soon. And when you’re really ready… you won’t even want to get up again.”

And she meant it. Your body became her artwork. You couldn’t hide it anymore – the shelf of your belly, the soft jiggle of your arms, the double chin that padded your face. You breathed louder. You moved less. You needed her more.

You were no longer eating to maintain – you were eating to grow.
And she made sure of it – feeding you even when you said you were full. “One more bite. For me. You’re almost there.”

Each passing day, you slipped deeper: Into softness. Into submission. Into the pleasure of surrender.

And then came the moment you didn’t even notice at first –
You stopped wondering when it would end. You didn’t dream of going back to how you were. You didn’t fantasize about being fit. You didn’t crave mobility. All you wanted… was her voice, her hands, and another plate.
You were hers – completely.
Too heavy to rise without her.
Too slow to dress yourself.
Too addicted to fullness to go more than a few hours without feeding.

And the most intoxicating part? You loved it. You loved knowing she had built this version of you. You loved watching her take pride in your bigness. You loved hearing her say: “You’re not fat enough yet…
but you will be.”

And you believed her. Because at this point, you didn’t want to be anything else.