Chapter 1 - "i'm not fat yet, right?"

My stomach felt pretty full, but I managed to shove down another cider donut. The cinnamon sugar made my taste buds tingle with delight, and I found myself licking the remnants off my fingers. I watched TV and it distracted me enough to eat another two donuts. I laid out on my couch, gently rubbing my full belly mindlessly.

This had become something of a routine lately. Stuck in the house and socially isolated due to quarantine, and cursed with a vivid imagination, I retreated into my private fantasy world. I've always loved feedism and the effects fat had on a person. Although I was only a bit chubby at 170 lbs, in my imagination I quadrupled that, becoming nothing more than an obese food addict. It was the ultimate form of bondage and humiliation I craved, to be made a prisoner of your own gluttonous flesh, a helpless blob who could barely stagger to the kitchen.

As the weeks went on, I spiraled further into the community and my desires became ever more pressing. I'd look at pictures of enormous ssbbws and dream of someday dwarfing them. I admired the way they eventually barely looked human as the fat piled up around them. I wanted that, badly.

Yet still, I could never convince myself to give in, to try to intentionally gain hundreds of pounds. Usually after I masturbated to the thought I was under control again, no longer desperately searching the internet for 5,000 calorie gain shakes. As the weeks wore on, I allowed myself the occasional indulgence. I wasn't consciously stuffing myself; I just ignored the feeling of being full and let myself eat whatever sounded good right then. I'd usually touch myself, tugging at my nipples as I ate, imagining I was strapped down and being fed through a funnel by a sadistic feeder.

I've never naturally had a big appetite, and since I wasn't forcing myself to stuff I figured no harm would be done. I could fantasize all day and eat out of boredom just for fun. If I gained 5 lbs or something, it's not like it would be that hard to lose it again. That's probably why my clothes felt a little tight. I probably gained some water weight, and I'm not very active anymore. Nothing to worry about.

During all this I was also enjoying taking pictures of myself and being teased online. Initially I wasn't terribly popular and a lot of the guys thought I was too small, but I guess my personality won them over because I developed a decent following commenting on my pictures. I loved the attention, and best of all, I loved the food people would send me. I didn't want to waste it so I always made sure to finish the whole order. It was while scrolling through the most recent comments that I realized I might have made a slight miscalculation.

"You're plumping up nicely. Keep eating."

"She literally looks like a different person now.

"This is why I send her food. I like knowing I'm contributing to that flabby gut."

"I see a big 300 in her near future."

I mean sure, I looked a little different and I had to buy new clothes, but the situation couldn't possibly be as dire as those comments made it sound. I'll just change my eating habits and get rid of whatever I've gained. I'd miss the attention, but I didn't want to become some sort of internet freakshow, ruining my body for strangers to watch and laugh.

The walk to my bathroom scale felt like an eternity. I pictured an "abandon all hope, ye who enter here" sign above the doorway as I felt my hips brush the sides of it. Thankfully I had become an expert in avoiding mirrors lately, so I made it to the scale before I could chicken out. My heart pounded in anticipation and fear as I stepped on. I don't remember having to hold my belly out of the way to see the numbers before all this. It feels heavy and foreign in my hands and I imagine it's not attached to me, not a doughy pile of lard instead of a cute tummy.

"287.7 lbs," the scale chirped happily, like it was in on the giant cosmic joke that had become my life.

I collapsed onto the side of the tub as the room started spinning around me. I sobbed until my tears ran dry, convinced this was a bad dream I'd wake up from at any moment. But deep down, I knew. I tried to study my body with clinical detachment, and I finally noticed all those changes. My belly touched the cold tile between my legs, hanging down to cover my privates. My tits were saggy and deflated, drooping perilously close to my waist. My legs looked like tree trunks as they strained the seams of my yoga pants. Even my face was fat, bone structure hidden under layers of chins.

I was simultaneously horrified and fascinated by what I had become. I had always been so curious, and now here I was, living out my dream of being obese. On impulse I grabbed my phone and quickly navigated to a BMI calculator to input my stats. I felt a jolt of arousal as I read the result. 56. As my hand slipped down to touch myself I wondered what 300 lbs would feel like. I could still lose weight, and I'm so close anyway.

Two weeks later and I joined the 300 club. I celebrated with orgasm after orgasm, secretly half-wishing the scale had said 500 instead.