Chapter 1 - 1

Monday morning- the sun that lights my room as I wake up tells me that I am running behind. I've set my 6:30 alarm to PM instead of AM again. I'm not that late though; my later schedule for my senior year of high school allows me more leniency in the morning. I dread the dash between my warm blankets and the hot shower, but I do it anyway. As the shower warms up, I piss in the toilet, and make sure not to flush, as not to spoil my warm water.

My urethra is still sore from last night's masturbation session. Every night I follow the same jaded path from Youtube to Fantasy Feeder to the hentai galleries to Deviantart to Dailymotion to Reddit to BBWchan to who cares where else just to find some content that will satisfy my fetish.

I need to give up hope already that I'll ever find something that will sate me like the good, classic content did when I first found it.

The Backfired story.

Missfatbelly

AmateurArt

Those shitty Writing.com stories

Heavier than Heather

I was always scouring, looking for the next perfect weight gain story that would do it for me. It was the girls like AmateurArt that really did me in: the ones who (at least appeared to) genuinely enjoy and be turned on by gaining weight. I was hopeless for that. Now my masturbating is half-hearted; performed out of habit.

My exciting, personal fetish no longer excited me like I used to. Every night, I know that no good new content will arrive. These days I sift through the weak shit hoping that maybe one of the Fantasy Feeder gals will have posted a weight gain update, or AmateurArt updated again, or maybe even Kip Tei Tei was finally paid so she can crank out another page of her comic.

I am aware that when I am browsing the web on incognito, I am treating every woman who posts pictures of themselves as meaningless masturbatory material. In the moment, I do not care. I do not have to interact with them, and it will never come around to bite me. They don't want to know about me, so I won't make myself known. I can only imagine the numbers for who this is also true in the community of fat fetishists.


My shower is hot and holy. As I scrub my armpits and cock with body wash, I consider, then decide against rubbing one off in the shower. Not worth it.

As I towel off, I see that I have omitted pants from the handful of clothing that I have brought down from my room. To stay as warm as possible, I slip on my boxer-briefs, polo, and sock before looking around the bathroom for a pair of pants.

Luckily, there's a laundry bin filled with assorted clothes. I pull out a pair of skinny jeans that I haven't worn in a while. Blue, stiff, same size as they ever were. I remember picking them up before I went away to camp as a counselor this past summer.

I step into them and yank them past my calves. They stick slightly, as always. I then grab a hold of the waist band and hop, hop, pull the paints to my hips.
My first thought is: These pants feel very tight.

Huh.

They always have been tight, but not this tight. I try to pull the legs of the skinnies down a little, as they are pinching my legs tightly, all around my thighs and butt.

The button isn't even clasped yet. I follow through and button it, and I am met by the regular fold of skin that is always there.

After long contemplating and comparing my own midriff to countless others online, I have long since come to the conclusion that any folds caused by clothing of mine are caused by more skin than fat.

Then why was these pants so damn tight? I didn't have time to ponder it any more. If I didn't pick up the pace I was going to be late- something that I had determined NOT to do.

Pack my lunch, eat a quick breakfast of fried egg and bagel, grab my water bottle, keys, and I'm out the door while my parents are still asleep. Thank goodness for my old second-hand soccer-mom car, my 2007 Honda Odyssey. Even though I live closely to my school, I would have hard time walking in these tight pants.

After I arrive, I really feel the pinch around my thighs. It feels like these pants are squeezing the blood out of my legs. I hurry on to English. True to my goal to myself, I am not late. I sit down and immediately start chatting with my classmates about the usual nothing as we usually do.

As I take a swig from my water bottle, the bell rings, and Mr. Kings announces what page we are on in our literature books.

I try to focus on the lesson as much as I am able to at 8 in the morning, but I am hopelessly distracted by the effect of the jeans I am wearing on my body.

Now that I am sitting, the pinching of my thighs has only increased. It feels like I am losing circulation to my feet and hands, but I could be just overreacting. The pressure on my stomach from the waistband has also increased. I can feel it jab into my abdomen much more than I am used to.

The thought that has since consumed me then crept into my head: have I gained weight? I immediately did a self-inventory.

No. I do not think that I have. I just weighed myself last week, my short self has and always will weight 125 lbs, give or take 3-5. A worrying thought though: last weeks measurement was closer to 130 than to 125.

I sit in the back for my first class, so I proceeded to do a "self-assessment" of sorts as Kings highlighted the gottaknows for Sir Gawain.

My hands are the ones that check. I rub my palms and fingers around my midsection and around my sides.

Huh.


The front of my stomach seems the same, but there appears to be more overhang of flesh on my sides.

I really don't know what to make of this. It's never happened before.

The classes drift by with me hardly paying attention because my mind is hanging around my midsection. Before I know it, it's lunch. This morning I quickly threw some leftover turkey pot pie from two nights ago into a tubberware container to heat up at school. If I had cut the pie, I would have left a very measly piece behind, so I went ahead and took the remainder of the pie. Better than the cereal bar and banana I usually pack!

At my lunch table, I am one of three guys, and there are four girls. We've known each other since the second grade, at least. Some of us are low-key like myself, and others are going all out with the usual recreational drugs, alcohol, and unsatisfying sex.

I am the most outspoken guy at our table, and I usually enjoy myself. I laugh and carry on, and don't focus on anything else but the moment. My pie is delicious and I eat all of it.

After lunch, it is to chemistry, where my my jeans-situation, I realize, has now been exacerbated.

After eating that large slice of pot-pie, I am slightly bloated, and the jeans are even tighter.

In addition to the normal feeling of bloatation one might experience, I am also feeling discomfort that I am not used to, and I feel big. Blown up. Stuffed.

I am very aware of my breathing and how I would look if I weren't wearing a shirt right now. My sides would be bulging over my apparently-too-tight skinny jeans, and my stomach would be puffing out from the pie. I would look overweight. But I am not overweight.

I can't stop resting a hand on my sides though, to feel that strange overflow. It shouldn't be there. As I digest last night's dinner (the same pie) and this new addition, the by-products of digestion start to fill me, leaving me even more bloated.

Myself at this point: bloated, wearing too-tight pants, contemplating new-found flesh, and uncomfortable in the most distracting way.

I can't stop feeling myself. I am trying to be discreet, I don't think anyone is noticing me, why would they be?

Jesus Christ, I'm really full. Out of nowhere, I feel my cock. Not with my hands, or with anything else, I mean I am aware of my cock's position in my pants. It is getting hard.

From what? From this? Great. Some strange by-product of my uncomfortable situation. God Damn it. The boner feels good, minus the prevailing soreness. But Damn it, don't you know there's not enough room in my pants?

I want to leave immediately, and thankfully, the class ends not soon enough, and I am allowed outside to fade into the background of the halls.

School ends sooner than it seems, which means it's time for Quiz Bowl practice. Looks great on college applications, and I've grown to enjoy it as well. The big meet with several different schools is tomorrow evening, so we are all staying late to practice. Time passes, and the pressure from my waistband alleviates. Mostly.

Long practice with little breaks. Bad day to wear tight pants. At least I get to do this with my fellow seniors, Katie and David.

David and I have been buds since fifth grade, when we started being "adventure buddies." We would go out in the woods of some neighborhood, get lost and try to find our way out. Our hobbies have evolved to video games and other things, but I consider him my only good friend.

Katie and I have been friends all throughout all school. This has been achieved by being nice to each other throughout the entirety of high school: a rare feat! I count myself lucky the blondie doesn't know that I used to masturbate to the fantasy of seeing her cute butt swell with lazy fat and rip her jeans; her small belly expand grow heavy with flesh to pop the buttons on her blouse; and see her triangular and nosey face be overtaken by a plump chin and cheeks.

But we are good friends. My fat fetish is mine alone. I do not share.

Mr. Kings heads English Quiz Bowl, our territory. The practice goes late,and I am hungry again. It's getting dark so Mr. Kings heads out to get food for us all. Cheap pizza is expected, but when he comes back, it's a several party-sized boxes from our local fried-chicken joint.

It smells delicious.