Camera Guy

Chapter 1

I got out of the car and looked for house number 32 on the street. I managed to park almost 300 meters from the right entrance, and my digital camera and lights were nicely hidden. It was getting dark, and after a long day of filming at work, I was ready for bed. But every penny counts, so I gladly took this side job. I'm a photographer and cameraman. During the day I work for television or advertising agencies, and in the evenings I earn extra money with erotica. Yes, I shoot porn. I'm discreet, reliable, and not expensive, so girls pass my phone number around when they want to shoot something better than a selfie on their cell phone.

Christine was a little nervous on the phone, but nice. I told her that I only shoot videos and am not interested in acting in them, that I want the money up front, and that I only have two hours for her. "We'll make it," she chuckled without hinting at what we were going to shoot, and hung up.

I took the elevator to the fourth floor and rang the doorbell marked with a sticker that said "Peppapig."

The door opened, and I saw the person we were supposed to film today for the first time. My jaw literally dropped. I was expecting another artificial model with a cocaine nose and plastic breasts. Christine was wearing a bathrobe that was obviously too small for her and was open at the front. Her breasts were large, but definitely not silicone. And underneath them, rolls of fat peeked out from the open robe. She was simply one of the fattest girls I had ever seen.

She smiled: "You must be Tom, come in."

I entered the apartment and looked around. The studio was nicely furnished, but the kitchen was literally overflowing with empty food containers. They were lying everywhere.

My gaze wandered around the room and stopped on a large photograph of a pretty, slightly chubby girl in a swimsuit hanging on the wall. Christine sat down heavily on the couch and watched me curiously.

"That's me," she chuckled. "Four years ago."

I looked at her in disbelief. The girl in the photo looked half the size of the Christine standing in front of me.

"How on earth can someone gain so much weight in such a short time?" I blurted out.

"It's my ex-boyfriend's fault," she replied. Why did it sound like she was proud of it?

"He was a feeder."

"What's that?" I asked, confused.

"It's a person who gets turned on when their partner gains weight," she replied calmly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. But when she saw the confused look on my face, she added.

"Well, he started feeding me, and I started to like it, and I became a feedee. Pour yourself a drink and make me a whiskey and Coke, and I'll explain."

I poured two shots and, at her request, topped hers with almost half a pint of Coke.

While we were drinking, I learned that being a feedee means that she gets turned on by getting fat. And that she overeats and gains weight on purpose. And that she gained almost 90 pounds during the relationship.

"And at least another forty-five in the last year as a professional," she added with visible pride, finished her Coke, and burped lightly.

I went to refill our drinks. I pressed the drink into her plump hand and looked at her. I didn't understand anything. Sitting sprawled on the couch was a girl who was pretty in the face but morbidly obese, who insisted that she had gained 130 pounds in four years and was clearly not bothered by it at all. And she could easily drink almost a liter of Coca-Cola in 20 minutes. Her thighs were so thick that she had to spread them apart, and even then they almost touched her knees. Her huge belly hung like a fat sack on her thighs, spilling out from under her bathrobe in two folds. I knew that some people like chubby girls, but Christine had crossed the line decades ago. No wonder her boyfriend is now ex. And what does she mean by "professional," for God's sake? What does she actually want to film? Does she seriously think anyone would pay to watch a video of an obese model?

Christine must have read most of my unspoken questions from my expression, and between sips of her drink, she began to explain.

"My boyfriend didn't break up with me, I broke up with him. At first, he had to force me to eat, but after a few months, I realized I liked it. And after another year, his feeding and care were no longer enough for me. He couldn't afford to give me the life of a princess. He even let me go to work," she chuckled. "And I much prefer doing nothing, eating, lying on the couch, and getting fat. And there are quite a lot of feeders on the internet. So I dumped him and quit my job. Now I earn much more as a paid feedee. And guys pay me to be lazy, fat, and stuff myself like a pig," she said, patting her fat belly with a smile. The folds of soft fat rippled for a few seconds.

I didn't understand. I couldn't imagine that this could excite anyone. What was this girl lying about?

"How many paying followers do you have?" I asked.

"About 5,000 now, and 4 VIPs who contribute to my food and send me gifts," she replied with an innocent smile.

I choked. The most successful online model I had filmed had less than 3,000 followers in three years of porn. And she had invested tens of thousands in plastic surgery and worked out at the gym every day. And Christine has twice as many? Just for getting fat? No wonder she strokes and shakes her fat so proudly.

"And today I want to treat them to an anniversary video. So I want to do something a little better than just a selfie stick video."

A message pinged on her phone. Christine finished her whiskey and Coke and struggled to get up from the couch.

"The food's here and I'm hungry, end of conversation, let's shoot. Can you take it from the delivery guy, please? And put it on the table in the bedroom. I'll get ready in the meantime."

I thanked the delivery guy for wishing us a great party, took the large paper bags, and carried them to the bedroom. There was only a double bed, a TV, a PlayStation, and a small table next to the bed. I placed two large pizzas, 20 cream and chocolate doughnuts, and two large strawberry milkshakes on top of a two-liter bottle of Coca-Cola. Almost 5,000 calories. Does she really want to eat all of that? Is she crazy?

There was a creaking sound from the floor. I turned around and my eyes widened. Christine's preparation for filming consisted of taking off her bathrobe. She stood in the doorway in a T-shirt that was so tight it barely covered her huge breasts. The sleeves dug into her fat arms and left her belly exposed to my gaze. It rose impressively forward and spilled over her lap in a massive fold of fat. The only way I could tell she was wearing panties was because the red strings dug deep into her fleshy, cellulite-covered buttocks. Her thick thighs rubbed against each other as she rolled toward the bed with a slow, swaying gait.

"You're looking at a real woman, aren't you?" she laughed and shook her fat butt in a bizarre imitation of twerking. The flab on her entire body rippled again.

I should have felt disgust, revulsion, and repulsion at the sight of her, but against my will, I was fascinated. I tore my gaze away from her and set up the camera.

"What's the script?" I asked.

"First, I weigh myself, and then I stuff myself until I'm ready to burst," she said, pointing to the food laid out on the table. "Just film me from all angles so my fans can enjoy it. Don't stop filming for anything, some scenes would be difficult to redo," she added.

I turned on the camera.

Christine puckered her lips at the camera:

"Hi, sweethearts, I have something special for you today. As you probably know, it's been exactly one year since you've been able to feed me and send me gifts. There are more and more of you, and thanks to that, I can spend all day just lying around, eating, and getting fat. That's why I invited a professional cameraman today, so you can see how much I weigh. And since all that effort makes me hungry, he'll also film my little snack."

I shifted the camera from Christine to the pile of food next to the bed and then back to the obese girl. In the meantime, she bent down under the bed with a loud grunt to get the scale. I zoomed in on her butt and realized that both of her huge, cellulite-covered buttocks wouldn't fit in the lens.

I panned out to get a wider shot so that Christine could be seen standing in front of the scale. Her tight T-shirt clung to her and dug into her fat arms. It was so small that the folds of fat on her stomach had no chance of fitting into it. In front, it rolled up to her breasts and looked more like a tight top than an XXL T-shirt. Her belly button was hidden between two fat tires. The bottom of it reached halfway down her thighs, the top spilling over in folds of fat.

Even through the camera lens, it was clear that Christine was incredibly fat. Someone actually pays her for this? I thought to myself.

Christine lifted her belly and when she let it fall, it slapped loudly against her thighs. She looked directly at me, or rather at the camera.

"I wore this shirt when I was weighed a year ago, and it fit me quite well. As you can see, it's a little tighter now. It must have shrunk in the washing machine, I haven't gained that much weight in a year," she smiled.

"Maybe a little. A year ago, I weighed 348 pounds, and I didn't really stick to my diet," she added playfully and stepped on the scale.

Her thighs were so covered with fat that they touched her knees along their entire length, so she couldn't put her feet together properly. The scale creaked under her weight.

She leaned forward curiously to see the display over her belly.

I zoomed in on the glowing number between her legs.

"414 pounds"

I gasped. So this pig had let herself get fat by 66 pounds in a year? And apparently there were enough morons who supported her in it. What now? Was she going to lose weight again? Or did she want to stay this fat? Christine's voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

"Fuck," she blurted out. I looked back at her face and saw that 414 pounds had thrown her off balance. No wonder, she probably realizes that she's gone too far with her weight. She quickly corrected me.

"Yes," she shouted enthusiastically and raised her arms in a victory gesture. At that moment, the sleeves of her T-shirt couldn't hold all those fat pounds and the seams on the sides and underarms burst with a loud crack.
Christine took a few steps toward the bed and rolled onto it with a loud grunt.
In front of the camera, I watched as dozens of pounds of fat rolled, shook, and trembled for a few seconds after she landed. Slightly out of breath in her torn T-shirt and with a red face, she looked excitedly at the camera.

"So, almost 70 pounds in one year, I didn't expect that. But you can see that the decision to become a full-time feedee has paid off," she babbled breathlessly.

"Thirty kilos, that's..." she calculated in her head, „... almost 6 pounds a month."

Suddenly, she stopped. Thoughtfully, she said, "6 pounds a month, that's not actually that much. I think I can do better. I just have to try harder."

Her face lit up with a sudden inspiration. "I just need to eat more and exercise less."

She reached out her chubby hand for the first slice of pizza and began to eat hungrily.

"After that strenuous weight training, I need to replenish my calories," she said with her mouth full.

The first pizza disappeared in a matter of minutes. She eagerly grabbed the second one and continued eating.

I felt like I had been hired to film a hippo feeding. Christine was panting as she ate, grease dripping down her chin and cheese falling onto her enormous breasts, which were pushing up her belly.

I circled the camera around her, capturing her folds and rolls in detail. She ran her hand over her belly, stroking and shaking it, then let it fall back into her lap with a slap. Her fat-covered thighs were spread apart, and the lower folds of her belly bulged out onto the sheet, so there was no chance of seeing her panties.

When she noticed where the camera was pointing, she stopped eating for a moment and lifted the lower balloon of her belly as high as she could with both hands. The darker areas of her inner thighs were visible, bruised from her legs rubbing against each other as she walked. Where I was about to film her genitals, there was only a large mound of fat that completely covered her pussy and literally overflowed from her tight red pants. Christine let her belly slide down and spread out on her thighs and in the flood of fat between them.

She handed herself the doughnuts, burped loudly, and looked straight into the camera.

"So, my darlings," she began, licking the chocolate from the first doughnut off her upper lip with her tongue. "I've been thinking a little while I was eating. And I've decided that if you continue to support me, I won't leave this apartment until I weigh 500 pounds. I'll just stuff myself, lie around, and sleep. The only movement I'll make will be to the bathroom and to the door when I go to open it for the food delivery guy."

She stuffed another doughnut into her mouth.

"And I definitely don't want to be locked up here for six months, so try your best. I promise I'll eat everything you send me," she said, getting into her stride.

"I'll be like a sow, I'll just eat and eat and get fat."

All but the last two doughnuts disappeared, which she managed to swallow with obvious effort. But Christine was clearly getting excited.

"I've been stuffing myself since this morning, and after lunch I was so full I couldn't even get up from the couch. And look at me now. After a few hours, I'm stuffing myself again until I'm about to burst."

I watched her breathlessly. I must be dreaming. This is unbeliavable.

Christine continued, "When I finish this, I'll be so stuffed that I won't even be able to do it. I'll just lie there and pant until I get hungry again in an hour and stuff myself again."

She massaged her lower abdomen and was clearly unable to get past the bloated balloon under her panties.

Her belly was bloated from eating, looking hard, tense, and literally pregnant. There were even red marks where the skin was stretched from overeating.

Christine was beginning to fascinate me. It was obvious that she was aroused. Was it really sexually exciting for her to get fat and overeat? And that she flaunted her fat rolls because she knew it turned some people on? Apparently so.

Christine confirmed it: "It's so delicious to be overeaten and know that you like it. I promise I'll just stuff myself and stuff myself. More and more," she panted, her mouth full of the last doughnut, into the camera.

"Every day I'll stuff myself until I burst, I'll just keep getting fatter and fatter. It makes me so wet."

With some effort, she lifted the first cocktail to her mouth and began to swallow it with excited breathing.

Her hand wandered more and more frequently from the folds of her belly to her thick thighs. I realized that this wasn't acting, that she was actually on the verge of orgasm. And all because she had stuffed thousands of calories into herself in front of the camera.

Strawberry cocktail dripped down her chin onto her fatty cleavage.

"I want more," she whimpered laboriously between swallows. "I want to be overeaten nonstop... mhmmm... to be fed... ufff... fattened up... mmhm... ufff... to get fat... mhmmmm..."

She drank the second liter of smoothie with visible difficulty.

"I want more... more food... ufff... more fat... ufff... more... ufff... more..."

Something inside me began to break. Instead of disgust and revulsion, I had to admire her. She was totally immersed in her own world, completely devoted to her fetish. I began to understand why someone would be willing to pay to watch her in her hedonistic, enthusiastic sexual feeding.

She shook with an obvious orgasm, her eyes rolled back, and she let out a long moan. She turned the cocktail upside down to get the last drops into her mouth and collapsed onto her back on the bed.

She was breathing as if she had just run a marathon. After a few endless seconds, she came to her senses and whispered, "Turn it off."

I turned off the camera and looked at her. Her eyes were half closed, and I didn't know if it was from the excitement or because she was falling into a food coma.
"You'll send it to me via Dropbox, right? And I'm sorry I can't walk you to the door, just lock up, okay?" she mumbled.

I quietly packed up the camera and headed for the door. I looked back at her. She was lying on her back, half asleep, stroking her swollen belly, which rose up like a beach ball.
I closed the door behind me and realized in the elevator that I had an erection.

to be continued....