Happiness Is a Full Belly

chapter 1

I lay in the comforting heat of my bed, swaddled in the confines of thick sheets that wrap around my heavy, blubbery body. I feel pudgier; small still, but newly added fat now noticeably pads my body in thick layers.

I'd been binge eating for days, maybe some weeks- mostly only to the point of a comforting stuffing. I'd recently moved to the city and as an avid fan of FF, thought I could embark on something new and daring without much harm. I'm masochistic, but decided I would take it slow for a start; mostly by gaining a preference for greasy fast foods, making sure I'd had dessert after meals, and making brief trips to the pantry to fetch a pack of sweets here and there- all while reading labels for caloric value and catching myself thinking about how it would convert into fat.

Those binges were systematically punctuated with beer or various types of milks and sweet cream drinks. It was a nasty system of reward developed from a lifestyle with inefficient methods of coping with stress and being good at finding excuses. Once I drank a bottle of beer and felt good, I found it reasonable to find relaxing as important as my daily responsibilities, and at the end of the night drink 3 or 4 more bottles and pass out with a taught tummy rising inches above my abdomen and a shit ton of calories way over my recommended daily intake. Whatever I'd failed to do best at as a consequence the following day would also turn to stress, thus more beer and more overrating.

It is here that I lay in contemplation realize that my head space regarding the entire ordeal has started to become conditioned by how much I've enjoyed being a glutton. My stomach still feels bloated. It sticks out far and when I roll to my side makes me even more aware of how piggish I've been; earlier today I woke to have some slices of pizza and a buttery banana loaf, then drank some amounts water to wash away the hangover of last night's beer and chips, while in the back of my mind also thought that the intake of liquid, given that I couldn't push myself to eat more solids, would help my stomach stretch too anyway. The orb of tender gut that is connected to my middle feels more massive than ever. What once was close to a flat stomach is now soft and round, the slab of adipose covering the top of my belly evenly covers the expanse of my abdomen all the way down, then creates a little special pocket of soft flab at the bottom where gravity tugs, as if nature knows of my humiliating ordeal. The pressure inside the swell of stomach is comforting, however, and even makes me somewhat wet. I blush at all these simultaneous thoughts and sensations.

Gaining and helping my stomach's capacity increase each time I ate has always been shadowing the edges of my thoughts on daily activities these days; whether it's to go out and enjoy some company, or serving myself some food, or things even vaguely having to do with food have become accompanied by something like a concern to overeat, as if it was primary to my survival. Simply running an errand has been planned alongside taking a trip to that favorite burger shop with especially greasy fries and meats have become a thing, given that it was located along the path that I would have to take to be able to finish my errand. Taking 3 packs of cookies with 400 calories in each as a 'snack' has become a habit, all under the excuse that having such a narrow busy schedule might not allow me lunch for the day- although I always manage to make a quick run for some take out and then pig out so quickly in under 20 minutes. I think that worst of all however was how I began to knowingly take steps towards my system of turning food and a full gut into the go-to solution for comfort; I would eat a meal at some place before coming home and once arrived, pretend I'd been hungry and eat more, convince house mates to order more take out and hopefully beer, then binge and lay flat on the floor of my room.. fapping, cumming, seeking the words of an encouraging feeder off of a story on beloved FF.

I made sure it was never menial to ever procure the food- but rather that I pushed myself to make it menial to finish all of it. When I thought it was doable, I would gorge until I struggled to breath some and that my sides ached, but never allowed myself too much pain- because I knew that if at one point it was truly overdone, I could scare myself and turn back. I wanted to prolong this bliss, this sort of liberation, for as long as I could remember I'd always had a fasciation for the prospect of overindulgence in the form of gluttony.

I became my own enabler, and now I think I may be a little stuck.

I reckon paunch will turn into a real gut if I keep going. Slightly rubbing thighs will then require me a change of wardrobe. My face will turn rounder, I'll struggle to physically get around, and my psych will further become conditioned to become dependent on a cycle of rewarding gluttony for contentment.

The thing is though is that although I've resolved that I want to keep gaining, there seems to be an inconvenience to actually planning a goal; I don't want to just continue the way I already am, I want to take it a few steps, higher, harder on myself: more food, more binging, more stomach capacity, more being fat- including more associating sexual release to being very stuffed.

I reckon it's one thing to have a goal and expectations, but also another to have an ideal of at what rate this should have to be achieved.

On some days I want just give up and binge eat until I've no money left and just leave it to my fatter, humongous self months from now with what next path to take, while on other days I want to put the fantasy aside and progressively, very slowly gain through the years while at the same time earn savings where in due time I can binge eat comfortably and independently. Mayhaps get a feeder sugar daddy? I don't know.

Simply thinking about all this gets me warm and moist. It's been a struggle to keep writing, evidence of how far I've come. Do I ride out the high? If I do, by how much? Or do I crawl back into the likes of the conventional, until another time when the pig inside me begs that I let it live out some reality. I don't know.

I don't know.

I'll stress on these questions again and then overeat. But for the time being, I don't know.