Ms.muffrin: Weight Gain Star

Chapter 1

The four o'clock bell had just rung through the building. A hum of chairs scraping the floor and bags being zipped filled classroom 204. The low sun filtered through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the old wooden desks, and settled on a sensuous feminine silhouette.

Mrs. Muffrin stood behind the teacher's desk, as always straight and orderly, wearing her modest gray cardigan buttoned all the way up, which seemed to compress a chest that was clearly generous. She was the kind of teacher students respected: kind, smiling, strict but fair. But even in this discreet outfit, her body told another story. Four pregnancies—one less than six months ago—had left their mark:wide hips, still a narrow waist, full buttocks with cellulite that sometimes overflowed her clothes, and a heavy, abundant bosom that her clothes never quite managed to conceal. She had wrinkles, she wasn't a flawless beauty, but the mere fact she was a teacher put her on a pedestal in the students' eyes.

She knew it, and often, with a casual gesture, adjusted her cardigan or crossed her arms. But she felt the stares, the whispers, and the final-year boys who talked about her like an almost unattainable trophy.
The worst was the contrast with what happened at home, since Paul, her husband, had lost his job, and all the household expenses now fell on her. Their relationship, which had started in high school and lasted fifteen years, had been faltering for a while. No attention, no looks, no surprises—she was apparently "acquired" and felt neglected. The occasional unsettling moments with her students were a reminder that she was still a woman.

It was her last hour with the seniors; the math class was going well, but as usual, some weren't listening—the same ones in the back, especially Jason. He was already 21 and had repeated his sophomore and junior years several times due to absenteeism and bad grades, yet he was apparently well-off financially, parking his Porsche in front of the school.

Mrs. Muffrin: "Jason, I suppose you're not listening! Exponentials and square roots—can you tell me more?"

Jason: "Uh... maybe I need an example."

Mrs. Muffrin: "I don't know, give me a theme. Look at the exercise, read the definition, and you—give me an example."

The young man sighed, complied, and within 30 seconds looked up smiling:

Jason: "Oh, I get it! If we say you, Mrs. Muffrin, start a diet where your calories increase exponentially—the first week you're at your current weight, I'd guess 77 kg, then week 1, 82 kg, week 2, 92 kg, week 3, 112 kg, week 4, 142 kg, and..."

She raised her hand and cut him off abruptly, embarrassed by the situation. He had guessed her exact weight on sight! Jason laughed and took out his phone as if to note something down.

She gave them group work. She couldn't help wandering between the rows, listening to the students' conversations—always more interesting than her life—but one phrase caught her ear:

Student 1: "No, I swear she told me, and I quote: 'You see my forearm? Same.'"

Student 2: "No way, that's massive! Why'd he dump her then?"

Student 3: "You don't know? He said: not his type of girl?!?"

Mrs. Muffrin widened her eyes and sat down on her desk. It wasn't appropriate, but it had stirred a certain excitement in her—she felt heat rising, and not just heat. She glanced down—her nipples were pressing so hard against her shirt they looked molded into it. But she was lactating heavily, her breasts swollen and pushing out of her shirt like two fully loaded cannonballs. She tried to calm down and quickly went to the bathroom.

When she returned to class, the bell rang—end of the day. Everyone stood up and left.
As she was about to leave, she noticed something on her desk: a thick white envelope placed right in the center. Her name was written in black ink, neat and firm handwriting. She frowned, opened it, and her eyes scanned the lines:

"I've been watching you for several months. You're perfect for the role. Send a video to 'FattiesMaestro@hotmail.com' of you eating a chocolate cake, in your underwear, and we'll wire you €5,000."

Her heart pounded in her temples. Her fingers tightened on the paper. Who could write this? A student? A colleague? A stranger hanging around the school? She glanced quickly at the open door, as if the person might be standing there watching her. What did this mean?

She folded the letter, slipped it quickly into her bag, and left the classroom with a faster pace than usual. She was shaken.

⸻

She parked the car, thought of the letter, then exhaled. She finally pushed open the door of her house and found her husband slouched on the couch, eyes on his phone.
— "Alex, we need to talk..." he sighed.

"Hello to you too, darling..." she thought.
He explained that their daughter had broken her arm during recess. X-rays, cast, physiotherapy—the bill would be steep.

She felt hollow. The savings, already thin, wouldn't be enough. Her husband shrugged, fatalistic. No solution, no idea—just that look that said: figure it out. She nodded, too tired to answer. She cooked dinner, washed the dishes, put the kids to bed, then headed for her own. He was already snoring deeply.
She was desperate and locked herself in the office with a bottle of wine. One glass, then two, then three—she ended up emptying the bottle alone, the letter lying in front of her. Five thousand euros. Enough to cover the care. Enough to breathe a little. But at what cost? She shook her head. Ridiculous.

Fatties Maestro. That wasn't random—maybe it was someone? She typed it in, and the results appeared. Her stomach tightened. From fit to Immobile – episode 457. She couldn't resist clicking. On screen: a fixed shot of a gigantic bed on the floor. No sound at first, then a heavy breath and the first words:

"Hey guys, welcome to the 457th consecutive day of my daily life with the Fatties Family—sorry you can't see me, just adjusting the camera."

Then the voice appeared embodied in a body she couldn't have imagined. A young blonde woman, blue eyes, in her twenties, came before the camera—and her proportions were massive. She must have weighed 350 kg, wearing only a one-piece swimsuit, which did nothing to hide her gargantuan belly, a cascade of fat and rolls hanging to her thighs—thighs so huge no gap remained. Her buttocks seemed to wrap completely around her body, and her chest overflowed from the top, sides, and even the bottom of the suit. She took four steps and dropped onto the bed like a boulder. Her entire body wobbled in every direction, her ass flattening and covering much of the bed, her breasts almost spilling free.

"As you know, it's Friday, so Master is back for the weekend—and he's prepared a surprise, apparently!!"

At that moment, a masked man appeared, pushing a cart covered with a white cloth. His body was ordinary, partly toned, but he looked huge next to the girl. He was shirtless but wore very wide pants, making him look like Aladdin, which made Mrs. Muffrin briefly smile despite her shock. He lifted the cloth, revealing a four-tier cake, each layer a different color—and probably flavor.

"Thank you, Master! What can I do for you?"

He said nothing. With his left hand, he grabbed her hair, tilting her head back, forcing her mouth open. With his right, he took a handful from the first layer and shoved it in.

Mrs. Muffrin couldn't believe her eyes. She checked the video length: 1h25. Views: 674,057! Out of curiosity, she skipped to 25 minutes in—nothing had changed except the cake was half gone. She jumped to 45 minutes—last bite! The girl and bed were smeared with chocolate, cream, toppings, crumbs. Her belly skin was tight, and she was panting as if she'd just run a race.

"Master, I've been good—can I have my reward?"

The masked man left the frame for a few minutes. The girl licked her lips, staring his way. Suddenly, she ripped off her swimsuit, letting her enormous breasts drop and slap against her belly. She began caressing, grabbing, playing with them, even licking them.

After several minutes, Mrs. Muffrin had seen enough—she was about to close the page and never return, but the man came back—this time naked. At first she only saw his back, then he turned around: she had never seen anything like it. Before her was the longest penis she had ever seen—he had managed to stack 15 donuts on it! The girl obeyed and began eating them one by one. That was too much—Mrs. Muffrin snapped her laptop shut!

She was in a daze. But something about those images fascinated her. That woman was getting total attention—she was happy, complete. She couldn't remember the last time she'd looked at her husband like that.
Still, she joined him in bed. The next day was strange—she couldn't shake the images from her mind. The following night, she searched again: "FATTIES MAESTRO." On the website and across adult platforms, there were women—either enormous or in full transformation—eating alone, with friends, or with assistants. Mrs. Muffrin was discovering a whole new world.

The following days brought more bad news: the medical bill arrived, a letter from the bank announcing an overdraft, the car starting to fail. In the teachers' lounge, a colleague spoke of her trip to Bali—paid in full. Mrs. Muffrin smiled but felt a pang deep in her gut.

⸻

A week after the letter, the idea had become obsessive. That evening, the house was silent. Her husband was already asleep. She got up, bare feet on the cold tile, and opened the fridge. A large family-sized chocolate cake was waiting, still in its box. She took it out, set it on the table.

She grabbed her phone, propped it on a stack of books facing her, the small lamp casting a warm, intimate light. She sat still for a long moment, breathing slow but heavy.

She pressed the red button—recording. She sat at the table in her gray cardigan, glasses, hair in a ponytail. With a spoon, she scooped the first bite—was this the start of something? She looked at the spoon, then began devouring the cake. By halfway, she was exhausted, her mind racing, her face and cardigan stained. She needed air—without thinking, she opened the cardigan, revealing two enormous, round, heavy breasts, looking almost like implants thanks to the lace push-up bra she wore. From then on, each bite was like a marathon. She squirmed, her breasts bouncing in all directions, covered in crumbs and cream.

Finally, the last spoonful came. She took it, suddenly smiling. Quickly, she stopped the video—a wave of embarrassment washed over her. Was this necessary? Five thousand euros would change her life... Suddenly, she didn't think anymore—she sent the video without hesitation. She walked into the dark living room, sitting on the couch... silence. Then two notifications broke it, lighting the room.

"+€5,000 credited to your account — note: cake stuffing"
"+€5,000 credited to your account — note: underwear, moaning & performance"

A shiver ran down her spine. A faint smile curled her lips.

And now what?