Chapter 1

I am not a native English speaker. I tried my best to make the story understandable. Please forgive its flaws—and please, please give me your thoughts. I want to continue writing it, and I confess that I need your attention.



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In the bathroom of her bedroom, a bra was hanging. She said, “Please hand me that.” As I reached out, I asked: “Does Tara also use this bathroom?” Tara, her housemate, had always been bigger and heavier in our minds. She laughed: “No. That bra used to be Tara’s. How do you know?” I pointed at the cup size and said: “From its size.” With calmness she replied: “She gave it to me. We’re the same size.”
Another night, out of nowhere, Zoe whispered in my ear: “Do you know how much I weigh?”
I said: “About 141 or 142 pounds.”
She shook her head: “Oh no. 154. When we first met, I was 119.”
The numbers rolled off her tongue like a history of days and changes; without shame, without disguise. Just simple, just raw. She threw her full weight onto me. That number she had spoken—154—was now a living truth, pressing onto my skin with all its heat and heaviness. The towel slipped from her shoulder and fell. Steam still clung to her hair, the scent of soap mixed with the scent of her body.
Her flesh pressed against me—heavy, real, lustful. The number wasn’t just a number anymore; it was mass, warmth, and flesh, sliding across me and burning into my mind. Her lips trailed down my neck—slow, but hungry. Each kiss like a hot drop of condensation sliding down onto skin.
My hand rested on her hip; fuller, softer than ever. She pulled back slightly, her eyes lit with lust, and said: “Feel it? I’m not that 119-pound girl anymore.” Then, without pause, she pressed back down—like a wave that never retreats.
Her thighs locked tighter around my sides. Her breath grew hotter, spilling down my neck, while her lips moved endlessly up and down. My hands no longer had will; they gripped her breasts, fuller than any memory I had. She sensed exactly how much this change drove me wild. She smirked briefly, half-wicked, and in a husky voice asked: “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
My answer was a moan torn from my throat. She bent lower, spreading her weight fully across me—hips, breasts, stomach—pinning me down. Even when my breath caught, I didn’t want to escape. My fingers slid along her waist, where the marks of her underwear still faintly pressed into her skin. I squeezed.
She threw her head back, eyes half-closed, glowing with desire, and let out a long moan. “Say you want more…” Her whisper was like a command that shook me to the core.
My mouth was dry, but I forced out through ragged breath: “More… I want you more… just like this, with all your weight.”
Her smile deepened. And then she sank lower, until no space remained between us.
Later, I sent photos to my old friend, Roxy—a girl I’d always confided in about my relationships. It felt like I was crossing a major red line, as if I were exposing part of my obsession. I waited. Soon her reply came:
“Wow… look at her. What a body she’s got now!”
My heart pounded faster. Just one sentence, but as I stared at the screen, I could hear her voice—bold, unfiltered, raw. I dared to type: “Yeah… she’s really changed. Remember how slim she used to be?”
Roxy replied: “She wasn’t that slim. But she didn’t have that ass… Look how much flesh there is now.”
My palm sweated against the phone. Someone else was describing her body with the same bluntness that filled my head. It was both thrilling and forbidden. For a moment I felt like a voyeur: the two of us describing Zoe, her image glowing on the screen, her body’s changes now the subject of desire and praise.
My breath caught. I only typed: “Exactly…”
But Roxy kept going, unstoppable: “Her waist too… no longer that slim line. Everything’s rounder, more womanly. It’s like her body has just woken up.”
Every word screamed aloud the secret lust I carried inside. I replied: “So it’s not just me noticing the changes, right?”
She wrote back: “No, honey. Nobody could miss it.”
The phone trembled in my hand. It felt like I was confessing, without ever saying it directly. Another message came:
“Okay, let me be blunt… That body has something now that a lot of people crave. Power, lust, softness—all at once. You’re lucky you get to touch it. No wonder her boss takes her everywhere.”
I thought she was trying to spark jealousy. But what I craved was something else. I typed, stupidly: “What do you mean? Do you know something?”
She answered: “Look, she’s got this vibe. Polite people call it innocence. But I think it’s sly. Her face—it’s like she lives in some childlike or foolish world. When she looks up innocently at her boss, from his perspective, it’s her big tits he sees in frame.”
Minutes passed. Then another message arrived: “But honestly, something puzzles me… why has she let herself go like that?”
She kept going: “Look at her lower body… it’s gotten huge. Her tits too. It’s like she doesn’t have any limits anymore.”
My hands went cold. Reading it was like a knife—painful and arousing at once. Roxy didn’t stop: “And you… you’re just a slave to that. Pathetic.”
My lips went dry, caught between shame and arousal. She pressed harder: “I see you. You’re always staring at her. It’s obvious your brain is stuck on that body. Even if I tried, I couldn’t ignore it. It’s hilarious.”
She mocked me, but her tone cut both ways: humiliation and heat. I felt more naked than ever—not to her, but to myself. Because she was right: I was enslaved by those changes.
Then came the blows, one after another: “It’s disgusting, really. A woman who let herself go, got fatter, bigger… And you? You fell in love with that. Obsessed with her extra flesh and fat. Who else dies for that shit but you?”
She wanted to dry up my desire at its root.
“Face it—the truth is, that body’s more fit for mockery than worship. But you… you sniff after her like a dog. A slave begging to be crushed under her weight.”
My heart hammered. Each word cut, but I couldn’t look away.
“You know what you are? A pathetic spectator. The whole world passes her by, and you’re standing there, mouth open, like you found treasure. Can’t get more pitiful than that.”
My hand shook. I wanted to reply, but all I saw in my mind was the very image she was mocking: Zoe’s heavy, full body, and me, craving it.
The final strike came: “You’re her fat slave. Admit it. No matter how you hide, at the core you’re a freak who gets off on her weight and size. And that’ll never change.”
I closed the screen, but her words stayed like a brand on my skin. Her humiliation had stripped me bare—and lit my hidden lust brighter.
Her tone shifted from description to command:
“Listen. From now on, every time you see her, you’re going to count. Your eyes on her thighs, her tits. Then you’ll report back to me. I want to know exactly how you worship her body like a slave.”
It felt like the phone was burning in my hand. I typed: “You’re forcing me to confess.”
Her reply came: “Exactly. Because you’d never dare say it alone. I know every time she’s in a room, you’re staring at her body. Now you’ll tell me. Details, like a report.”
My lips were dry. Just imagining it made me shiver.
But she pushed again: “Picture her again, in that tight dress. I want to know how your eyes stick to the curve of her ass, how your breath stumbles. You’ll tell me. Because that’s what seals your slavery.”
I wanted to resist. But the truth was—every word pulled me deeper into the forbidden.
Now Roxy had entered my fantasies too. Her slim, sharp beauty. The cruelty and coldness that always came with her.