Chapter One: Hunger

I was already fat. Not just soft, not just thick—fat. The kind of fat that made bar stools dig into the flesh of my thighs, that made my stomach hang in a heavy, apron-like fold over the waistband of my skirt. The kind of fat that meant when I shifted, I felt my own weight settle and resettle, a constant reminder that I took up space. Three hundred pounds at twenty-one, and yet, somehow, it still wasn’t enough.
I sat alone at the bar, nursing a drink, feeling the way my body spread against the seat. A part of me had always loved it. The weight, the bulk, the undeniable presence of myself. I was an avalanche of flesh, a soft monument to my own indulgence. And yet, I wanted more. I wanted someone to see me, to want this—me—not despite it, but because of it.
That was when I saw him.
He leaned against the bar like he owned the place. Dark, confident, with the kind of presence that made people glance and then quickly look away. His eyes flicked over the room, skimming past everyone until they landed on me. He didn’t look away. He stared, and I felt it, felt the weight of his gaze just as surely as I felt my own body pressing into the barstool.
I didn’t blush. I didn’t shrink. That wasn’t who I was.
Instead, I met his gaze and lifted my glass to my lips, sipping slow. His mouth quirked—not quite a smile, something sharper, something amused. Then he pushed off from the bar and walked toward me.
“Didn’t think they made bar stools that sturdy,” he said, stopping just close enough that I could smell him—dark spice, leather, whiskey.
I exhaled through my nose, slow and steady. “They don’t. I had to check for structural integrity before I sat down.”
His mouth twitched again, but he didn’t laugh. Instead, he let his gaze drop, tracing over me like he was assessing something. My stomach, thick and heavy, pooled into my lap. My arms were round, soft, the kind of soft that dimpled at the elbows. My thighs spread wide, pressed tight against one another, the inner flesh warm and plush.
And still, it wasn’t enough.
He lifted his eyes back to mine. “What’s a girl like you doing alone at a bar?”
I tilted my head, feigning disinterest, but my pulse was a heavy, drumming thing in my throat. “Drinking.”
“Drinking alone.” His voice had an edge now, something knowing. “Funny, I’d have thought a girl like you would have a whole flock of men circling. You’re a rare breed.”
My stomach clenched. It wasn’t a compliment. Not really. There was something in the way he said it, like he was laughing at me and hungry for me at the same time. It sent a sharp thrill up my spine.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I said, taking another sip.
His smile widened, slow and razor-edged. “Don’t I?”
He shifted closer, just slightly, just enough that I felt the heat of his body. I should have been nervous. Maybe I was. But I had spent too long wanting this, dreaming of this—someone who didn’t just tolerate my body, but wanted it. Someone who saw my weight and didn’t pity me for it, didn’t fetishize it in some soft, sugary way. No, he looked at me like he saw something raw, something hungry.
And I was hungry.
He nodded to my drink. “What are you having?”
“Whiskey.”
His eyebrow lifted, like he hadn’t expected that. “Good choice.” He signaled to the bartender and ordered the same. When his glass was in his hand, he turned back to me. “So, what is it?”
I frowned. “What’s what?”
“That’s got you drinking alone.”
I exhaled through my nose. “Maybe I just like drinking alone.”
He smirked. “Or maybe you’re waiting for someone to see you.”
My stomach twisted. He knows. He fucking knows.
I held his gaze, my breath steady. “And what do you see?”
He let his eyes wander over me again, slow, deliberate. “Potential.”
My skin prickled. “For what?”
He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted over my cheek. “For more.”
I swallowed hard, my pulse hammering against my ribs. This wasn’t sweet. This wasn’t kind. He wasn’t here to make me feel beautiful in some flowery, patronizing way. He was here because he wanted this—me—but also because he saw what I wanted, and he was daring me to admit it.
I licked my lips, feeling the weight of my stomach pressing against my thighs, the ache of desire curling hot in my gut. “And what if I do?”
His smirk deepened. “Then we should talk.”
His eyes flicked to my drink, then back to me. “You like whiskey, but I bet you like something sweeter. Something that coats your tongue, that lingers.” He lifted his glass. “You don’t strike me as the type to sip slowly. I imagine you take big, eager mouthfuls, don’t you?”
I inhaled sharply, my stomach tightening. His words weren’t just about whiskey. He was studying me, seeing something beyond just my weight—seeing the hunger, the way indulgence had shaped my body, and the way I loved it.
He tilted his head slightly, as if considering something. “I bet you know every bakery within a five-mile radius. I bet you can taste the difference between brands of butter with your eyes closed.” He leaned in, his voice dropping lower. “I bet you crave it. The feel of something rich melting on your tongue, filling you up.”
Heat crawled up my neck. He was picking me apart, unraveling me. And worse, I wanted him to.
He smirked, watching my reaction. “That’s the thing about girls like you. There’s never enough, is there?” His eyes dragged over my body again, taking in the sheer volume of me, the way my stomach curved, the way my thighs pressed together. “And look at you. Three hundred pounds, and you still want more.”
I gripped my glass tighter. I should have been offended. I should have slapped him, walked away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Because he was right.
I wanted more. More weight. More indulgence. More of this—this electric, intoxicating feeling of being seen, of being wanted for what I was.
His lips curved, satisfied. He had me. He knew he had me.
“Shall we?” he asked, tilting his glass towards mine.
I swallowed hard, then clinked my glass against his. “We shall.”
And with that, I knew—this wasn’t just a drink. This was an invitation. A challenge. A promise.
And I was ready to take it.
I shifted slightly on the stool, feeling the unforgiving press of the wood against my thighs, the way my stomach pooled heavy in my lap. His gaze never wavered. If anything, it sharpened, like he was cataloging every fold, every inch of me, stripping me bare without ever touching me.
"You must go through chairs like cheap shoes," he murmured, tipping his glass toward me before taking a sip.
The heat in my face was immediate, spreading down my neck, across my chest. I refused to let it show. "I have a preferred brand."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "I bet." His eyes dropped to my stomach again, like he was admiring something grotesquely fascinating. "How much do you weigh?"
I arched a brow, matching his steady stare. "Three hundred and..."
His lips curled, amused. "Impressive." He let the word stretch, tasting it. Then, after a pause, "But not quite enough, is it?"
The breath caught in my throat.
There it was. The thing that lived in the back of my mind, the whisper that had always been there. That three hundred wasn’t enough. That I wanted to feel heavier, softer, more undeniable. And somehow, this stranger—this dark-eyed, sharp-mouthed man—had plucked it out of me like a secret I didn’t even know I was confessing.
I swallowed. "Depends who you ask."
His smirk deepened. "Not really. See, the way you sit, the way you press against that stool like it's a test of endurance... You like it." His voice dipped lower, intimate, dangerous. "You want to be too much. Too wide. Too soft. You want someone to look at you and think, Jesus, she can barely move."
My fingers tightened around my glass.
"You've thought about it, haven’t you?" he continued, voice smooth, relentless. "Being helped into booths at restaurants. Watching people scramble to make space when you walk by. Having to catch your breath after the simplest things."
My mouth was dry.
His eyes burned into mine, unreadable. "And you don’t just want it, do you? You want someone else to want it for you. To push you. To make you into something truly obscene."
I let out a shaky breath, my skin burning.
"Tell me I'm wrong," he murmured.
I couldn’t.
His smirk widened, slow and victorious. "That’s what I thought."
He reached out then, fingers brushing the side of my drink, barely touching my hand. Just that—a whisper of contact, but it sent a shiver through me.
"You could stop," he said. "You could roll your eyes, walk away, pretend this conversation never happened."
I stayed still.
"Or," he continued, "you could finish that drink, let me buy you another, and admit that we both know exactly what you are."
The words hit me like a fist to the stomach.
Exactly what I was.
I licked my lips. My pulse was a drumbeat in my throat, my thighs pressing together instinctively. I could walk away. I could leave now, pretend this never happened, let the moment dissolve into nothing.
Or I could stay.
And fall.
I picked up my glass, drained it in one slow gulp, and met his gaze.
"Buy me another."
His smile was sharp enough to cut.
"Good girl."

He raised a hand to the bartender without looking away from me. “And bring us a menu.”
I frowned slightly. “I’m not hungry.”
His smirk was immediate, knowing. “A lie, but I’ll allow it.”
The bartender slid a laminated menu in front of him, and he flipped it open with slow, deliberate fingers. I watched the way his eyes scanned the selections, his expression unreadable, calculating. Then, with no hesitation, he looked up and said, “She’ll have the triple cheeseburger with bacon. Extra sauce. Large fries. Onion rings. And a side of mac and cheese.”
The bartender nodded, scribbling it down. “And for you?”
He didn’t blink. “Nothing.”
The answer sent a prickle of heat across my skin.
I shifted slightly in my seat, my thighs pressing together. “I said I wasn’t hungry.”
He leaned in, just enough that his breath ghosted over my cheek. “And I said I don’t believe you.”
I swallowed hard.
He pulled back, studying me. “Besides, it’s not about hunger. It’s about want.” He let his eyes trail lazily over my body. “And you? You want.”
I pressed my lips together as the bartender walked away, my stomach twisting in a strange, dizzy mix of anticipation and shame.
Silence stretched between us for a moment, thick and heavy. His gaze never left me, dark and assessing, as if he was already seeing me bigger, imagining the extra weight pressing into my body, how the softness would deepen, how my stomach would hang heavier between my thighs.
“You know what I like about this?” he said finally, his voice almost thoughtful.
I shook my head.
“The way it happens so easily. So quietly.” He took another slow sip of his drink, watching me over the rim. “A few extra bites here. A bigger portion there. You don’t notice it, not at first. The softness settling in. The little shifts. The way stairs seem steeper, distances longer. Until one day, you’re struggling—to move, to fit, to breathe.”
A tremor ran down my spine.
The bartender returned, setting the plate down in front of me. The food was excessive, a heavy spread of greasy indulgence. My stomach clenched in something like hunger, but it wasn’t just for the food.
He gestured lazily toward the plate. “Go on.”
I hesitated for only a second before reaching for a fry. I lifted it to my lips, feeling the weight of his gaze as I took it into my mouth, chewing slowly.
His eyes darkened. “That’s it.”
I swallowed, then reached for another. His smirk widened.
“You know what fascinates me?” he mused, his voice low.
I shook my head.
“The transformation.” He tilted his head slightly. “Right now, you’re fat, yes. But still mobile. Still functional.” He said the word like it was almost a disappointment. “But that changes, doesn’t it?”
I picked up a bite of mac and cheese, my fingers trembling slightly.
“Every bite,” he murmured. “Every meal. Every indulgence. It adds up. You don’t feel it at first. But it’s happening.”
I swallowed hard.
His voice was silk and steel. “Right now, your stomach presses into your lap when you sit. Soon, it’ll pool further, heavier. Your thighs already rub when you walk, but soon they’ll press so tight together that even a few steps will leave you breathless.”
I shifted in my seat, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He exhaled slowly, his gaze burning into mine. “And the best part?”
I licked my lips. “What?”
He leaned in. “You won’t stop.”
My breath caught.
“Because this isn’t just something that happens to you.” His voice was dark, knowing. “It’s something you crave.”
I shuddered, the words sinking deep into me, burrowing under my skin.
His smirk was lazy, satisfied. He gestured toward the plate again. “Keep eating.”
I obeyed.
And the whole time, his eyes never left me.

Halfway through the meal, my stomach was already heavy with fullness, warmth spreading through my limbs like a slow, honey-thick intoxication. The fries were gone, the mac and cheese reduced to a few stray curls in a smear of cheese sauce, and the burger sat in front of me, half-eaten, waiting.
I should have been satisfied. But his eyes were still on me, still expectant, still hungry.
The bartender appeared again, and before I could say a word, his voice cut through the air—smooth, confident, inevitable.
“She’ll have the chocolate lava cake. The deep-fried cheesecake. And the caramel sundae.”
The bartender barely blinked. “All three?”
His smirk widened. “Yes.”
A part of me wanted to resist, to say I’m full, to put up some pretense of reluctance. But the words never left my lips.
Because deep down, I wanted this.
I wanted to hear him order for me, to feel the weight of his will pressing against mine, reshaping my desires into something even bigger, even more obscene.
Still, my fingers curled against the edge of the table, a weak attempt at control. “I don’t think I can eat all that.”
His eyes flashed with something sharp, something almost amused. “You will.”
I swallowed hard.
The words weren’t a question. They weren’t even a challenge. They were a statement, a certainty, a promise.
I shifted slightly, feeling the weight of my stomach pressing down into my lap, the way my thighs were already spread wide to accommodate my size. I imagined what I must look like to him—soft, stuffed, ripe with indulgence. And still, he wanted more.
He wanted me to be more.
The desserts arrived, decadent and rich, their sugary scent filling the space between us. He nodded toward them.
“Go on.”
My fingers trembled as I picked up a spoon. I dipped it into the lava cake first, warm chocolate spilling over the edges, thick and molten. I lifted it to my lips, my breath shuddering slightly as the taste melted on my tongue.
His smirk deepened. “Good girl.”
The words sent a sharp thrill through me.
I took another bite. Then another. The cheesecake was next—crispy on the outside, creamy on the inside, thick with richness. I felt my stomach stretch, the pressure building, and still, I didn’t stop.
Because he was watching me.
Because I wanted him to watch me.
He leaned back slightly, his expression thoughtful. “You know what I like most about this?”
I licked caramel from my lips. “What?”
“The way your body obeys.”
A shiver ran through me.
“The way every calorie is molding you, shaping you.” He exhaled slowly, his eyes dark and heated. “The way you think you have a choice. That you could stop if you wanted to.”
I swallowed, the words curling inside me like smoke.
“But you won’t,” he continued. “Because you like this. You want this.”
I opened my mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to deny—but nothing came out.
Because he was right.
His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. “And one day, you’ll realize—you can’t stop.”
My breath hitched.
“One day, you’ll wake up and find that your body is no longer just soft, no longer just heavy.” He leaned in, his eyes locked onto mine. “One day, you’ll be trapped inside it.”
I exhaled shakily, the words sinking into me, hot and undeniable.
His smirk widened. “And by then, it’ll be too late.”
I took another bite.
And another.
And I knew, deep down, that he was right.
It was already too late.