Chapter 1

It all started before the accident, when I still thought of myself as this strong, fit guy, very much in control of my body. For most of my life, I had hovered around 85 to 90 kilograms, with a build that I was proud of—muscular, lean, and fit. It helped that I had always been pretty active, whether working out or simply moving around a lot in my daily life. I had this sense of dominance when it came to my attraction towards weight gain; for years, I saw myself as the feeder, the one in control, guiding someone else to grow while I stayed strong and powerful. My wife and I had always shared this dynamic in some form—she's short, Latina, bubbly, and with a body that yo-yoed quite a bit over the years. Sometimes she'd be fit, other times chubby, and once she even reached 100 kilograms, which I found incredibly attractive. I enjoyed every phase of her body, but there was always a part of me, hidden deep down, that was curious about what it would feel like to be on the other side of things.

That curiosity first surfaced during the Covid pandemic. Like so many others, I became more sedentary. Gyms were closed, I wasn’t walking as much, and with all the stress of the situation, I found myself eating more out of comfort. At first, I didn’t think much of it, but the numbers on the scale crept up, and before I knew it, I had gone from 80 kilograms to 115. That extra weight felt different. It changed how I moved, how I felt in my clothes, and honestly, it turned me on. There was something intoxicating about the softness, the heaviness, the way my body took up more space. But at the time, I suppressed those feelings. After all, I was the feeder, not the gainer, right? I pushed the weight off, got back into shape, and returned to my previous routine, pretending like that chapter hadn’t happened.

Fast forward a few years, and life took a different turn. I had a motorbike accident that left me seriously injured. My shoulder, back, hips, and leg were all in bad shape, making it nearly impossible for me to get up and walk. Suddenly, I was forced into a lifestyle of complete sedentarism. The meds I was on only made me hungrier, and since my wife had just started a demanding new job, she wasn’t around as much to help with meals. So, I began ordering food—lots of food—every single day. I told myself it was out of necessity. I couldn’t cook or move much, so what choice did I have? But deep down, I knew something had shifted inside me. That old spark from my Covid gain days reignited, but this time it was stronger, more irresistible. The idea of gaining weight no longer scared me; it excited me.

Weeks passed, and my eating habits spiraled. It became a game, a challenge to see how much I could eat in one sitting, how many extra sides I could finish, how quickly I could demolish entire pizzas. The first few pounds came quickly—my once muscular physique softened, and my belly started to push out over my pants. I could feel it every time I sat down, the way my gut would rest on my thighs, heavier and rounder with each passing day. My shirts clung a little tighter, my face filled out, and I noticed the start of a double chin in the mirror.

What surprised me the most, though, was how turned on I was by the whole thing. I loved how my body felt—so soft, so indulgent. And even though I feared what my wife would say, especially since she was getting fit from all the walking and lifting she did at work, her reaction was the exact opposite of what I expected. She loved it. She found my growing chub irresistible. She started coming home and teasing me, rubbing my belly, pinching the new fat on my sides, telling me how cute and soft I was getting. It was like a switch flipped in her, too.

One night, after I had eaten an obscene amount of takeout, we finally had the conversation that would change everything. We were lying in bed, my belly full and heavy, and she was tracing circles on my stomach with her fingers. I felt vulnerable, unsure if I should bring up the elephant in the room—my growing body—but she beat me to it. She confessed that she had noticed how much weight I’d put on, how different I looked and felt, and how she was surprisingly into it. She’d always known about my fetish, about how much I loved bigger bodies, but she never thought she’d like having a fat husband. Yet here we were, and she was loving every minute of it.

That night, we made a decision. We were going to do this on purpose. I wasn’t just going to let myself go—I was going to actively gain weight. We set an initial goal: 120 kilograms. That felt achievable, but still far enough away that it gave me something to work toward. She wanted to feed me, to spoil me, to push me to eat more than I ever thought possible. And the thought of it—of her being the fit, dominant one while I became softer and lazier—was intoxicating.

The next few weeks were a blur of food, belly rubs, and teasing. My wife started bringing me second dinners, always a full doner kebab menu. She’d watch as I devoured it, her eyes gleaming with excitement as she saw my belly swell with food. It wasn’t just the act of eating, though; it was everything that came with it. The way my body was changing, the way my clothes were getting tighter, the way my wife’s hands seemed to be drawn to my growing gut every time we were close. I demolished that 120-kilogram goal faster than either of us expected, and when we hit that milestone, we knew there was no going back.

This was just the beginning.