chapter 1

You were never really intending to get fat. It was always the draw of indulgence that drew you. From slim to swollen and heavy. But that draw. That need to eat. To push your limits; to feel on your middle that straining ache of heaviness that draws you forward as you walk. Heavy. Round. Wide.  An indulgence here. A bloat there. A stuffing occasionally.

Each time bigger. Bigger in your desires and wants bigger. In your capacity. Bigger in the size of the belly that stays the next day. You've growing. In greed and gluttony.


Your kisses pressed to my cold cheeks leave a tingling sensation. The scratching stubble of your beard to smooth skin as you lift my shirt to kiss my stomach. My hands finding the back of your head, to press you into my softness.

When I raise my hip, I can feel the little roll of fat that forms above the waistband of my trousers. The little wave of softness that folds at my waist. The perfect place for you to pinch as your hinds slide down the hour glass of my figure. It’s a full hour glass… the type that would hold a lot of sand. Although in this case its sweetness that is inside of me.

When I sit, I can feel the way that the material of my jeans has to stretch to keep my thighs in check as they spread. The glimpse of the little jiggle beneath that you love so – the thickness that has squeezed so tightly either side of your face as your tongue has explored. That sweet, excitement that having you explore my body brings.

My breasts are heavy – the sort of large curve that strains the buttons of a shirt. The straight line bending a little; waving so that you can see the lace of my bra hidden beneath as I stretch up… the pale sheen of my skin shining through.  Strong. But soft, and sensual against your hard muscle. Hold me close; contrast draws and holds me… but there is something deviously naughty about the softness of fat to fat.  I can’t get it out of my mind

The pleasure that my voluptuous curves gives me, is matched only by your revelry in them… is outdone only by love of your body. Right now, its me. Its me who is a little heavier. Its me…  who you can pinch and adore… But we both know that in a few hours it will be you… It will be you who is laid back, back arched with the straining mound of an overindulged belly on your figure.  From stuffer to stuffed.  From strong… to my feedee.

For now undress me. Enjoy me. Tease me. Please me… while you can,  Please me in a way that you will be too full for soon. Let me feel how you want my body. How you enjoy my weight in your lap; the feeling of the tension in your arms as you lift me, the contraction of your muscles there… arms that will struggle to push the weight of your distended middle later.

I understand just what it takes for you to grow so. I understand in a way that's only possible having done so myself. Because I too was fat. Perhaps much fatter than you will ever be. 

I know what its like to feel the little bounce of a tummy as I walk. I know what its like to feel the swing of a heavy, sagging belly brush my thighs as I sit. To undo the strain of too tight trousers, refusing to go up to the next size just yet.  The buttons might have been straining but they still managed to hold on. They still fastened - as evidenced by the red indents into my fat which will be around for some hours after dinner.  I know that empty ache that comes even after thousands of calories. That need to be full, hidden deeply beneath the wobble of fat. I was never a feedee. But, I was a glutton. I was unapologetically and happily fat… Huge, really. 


I can remember what it was like to have my own weight pin me down. That heaviness that spreads from my middle. The weight of my thighs; the strain of bending forward. I couldn’t see over the roundness of my own girth. I couldn’t reach over the mound of soft fat. It had to be lifted. Jiggled. Carried in my arms as I wobbled to bed.  If I sat up, I would feel my belly bunch into a dense little roll, watching as my lap disappears from view, thicker thighs hidden permanently from my view – fat pressed into voluptuous, soft fat.

Certainly, there is no need for me to lift my belly out of the way in order to explore my body now.  I don’t have to perform that balancing act of plump pleasure. In a way, I have in these past years felt more of myself as I have shrunk smaller. But there are times when I miss my fat. There are times when I miss the softness.

My feedee. I was huge. I would have tipped the balance of gluttony and need to the extreme. Do you know how big you would have to grow to outdo me? To have a waist that would measure wider than mine has been?  The times where you pin me down with your swollen little belly are nothing in comparison to the weight you would have felt pressed to you with me sat in your lap a few years ago. Certainly, it wouldn’t be the ass now that draws your eye in my gym wear. You wouldn’t have the gentle sweat from exercise that I pull you into the shower to wash off. But there was so much more of me to grab.

The contrast of thin to fat is intense. An impulse that I am drawn to. That I find makes my thighs tremble just a little.  And I understand it more than most.  Because I have been at both ends of it. I understand the changes to your body.

I lay back, knees up a gentle arch from my raised hips to the curl of my toes. Fingers tracing along thighs; pressing the little layer of softness there over, I can pinch a soft layer of fat in between them before I feel the resistance of my muscles. The squeeze of the strength I’ve built there from hours in the gym. Soft and strong.   Perfect to cushion you between them; better for wrapping around your waist and locking you close.   Continuing on, beyond the pull I feel towards the warmth that grows between them.

I know you're greedy but could you be greedy for me?

I can pinch my hips. The little roll of fat that swells over onto my thigh as I sit forward.  Its barely a handful compared to the immense belly that I used to have. But I still squeeze the little fold that holds the lace of my underwear in place; that draws my fingers upwards. Following the sumptuous curve. The bump of a hip bone as my fingers press, pinching, squeezing; raising little tingling bumps across the pale skin as I trace the smooth angular tilt of my pelvis giving way to the lace of my waistband. I press my fingers to each bump. Letting my fingers follow the curves of my body.   I'm toned. Fit. But definitely curvaceous. Wide hips; with a lingering softness, a little waist perfect for wrapping your hands around beneath the voluptuous shadow of heavy breasts. But, there is somewhere else my hands would rather be. On the impressive roundness of your gut.


What happens when you are the fat one?   When people look to me and comment on the weight that I've lost... and look to you with their eyes falling on your swollen middle. The unspoken acknowledgment  awkwardly that it seems you have gained the pounds I lost. 

You were never really intending to get fat. It was always the draw of indulgence that drew you. From slim to swollen and heavy. But that draw. That need to eat. To push your limits; to feel on your middle that straining ache of heaviness that draws you forward as you walk. Heavy. Round. Wide.  An indulgence here. A bloat there. A stuffing occasionally.

Each time bigger. Bigger in your desires and wants bigger. In your capacity. Bigger in the size of the belly that stays the next day. You've growing. In greed and gluttony.


Just how big would you get? Pound for pound. Will I feel that weight on me again? But this time, from you and your body. I am your inspiration to grow, in more way than one, as we tip the scales the other way.  From Fit to Fat, in more way than one.

Please your feeder. Map every inch of my curves... and then pin me down with yours. Fill me up with your body. Let me feel that weight... again.