Chapter 1 - The Smallest I’ll Ever Be

The jeans button was lying to me.

It went through the hole. Technically. Then it sat under a little ridge of soft belly and every time I breathed it dug in, basically saying you know what you did this week.

I left it done up anyway. I sat on the edge of my bed with my phone in both hands and my gut resting on my thighs in that heavy, warm way that still made me stupid. One hundred and ten kilos, last I checked, which was three days ago when I was high enough to step on the scale naked and take a photo of the number like it was a trophy.

It was a trophy. That was the problem.

My room smelled like last night's Uber Eats: grease, sweet sauce, fries that had gone cold and still got eaten. Half a soft drink on the floor within arm's reach because I'd stopped pretending I needed a table. The vibe was on the charger on the pillow, pink, sticky at the base if you looked close. I looked close. I always did.

From the kitchen, my housemate clattered a pan. I waited until the noise covered me, then opened my blog the way a stranger would, thumb slow, already that thick low throb that meant I was going to waste an hour minimum. My own photos loaded. Crop top yanked up. Stretch marks pink and purple from my navel like someone had drawn them on purpose. Belly round and pale and there. A comment under one of them said fuck I need to ruin you and my mouth went dry.

I read it twice.

I scrolled my own archive like porn because it was porn. Me, stuffed. Me, high, face cut off, gut glossy. Me in jeans that had fit last month. Note counts ticking under posts I'd taken half-drunk, half-naked, captioned like I was already someone else's pig. Two hundred and something under the KFC wobble video. Reblogs. Some guy saying he came to it. I pressed my palm to the soft lower curve of my stomach and felt it give, warm, marked, mine. I wasn't stopping.

The gym membership card was still in my wallet, under my work ID. I hadn't been to the gym in months. At work I told people I was busy. I was busy ordering. I used to play sport too, proper running around, half an hour without thinking about breath. Stairs to the front door winded me now if I took them too fast. Thirty seconds and I was laughing at myself with a hand on the rail, wet about it in a way I didn't say out loud between emails.

I used to meal-prep on Sundays. Chicken, rice, containers lined up like I was a person with a plan. The containers were still in the cupboard. I put takeaway bags in them sometimes so I wouldn't have to look at the recycling pile.

I switched tabs and landed on a reblog I must have hit last week: a second-person long caption, talking like it already owned you. You're going to keep eating. You're going to get heavier. You're going to need help with things you used to do alone. My hand slipped under the waistband without me deciding. Pressure through cotton, lazy, mean to myself. I wasn't allowed to finish if I was being good for the fantasy. That was a private rule. Sometimes I broke it. Tonight I didn't know yet.

My phone buzzed with a Feabie notification and I almost ignored it because the caption was better than most real men.

Then I saw the name.

In_The_Thick_Of_It.

It was him. The tall one with the glasses and the goatee. We'd only ever been a Feabie name and a face photo until tonight. We'd talked months ago. He'd gotten me to admit I loved being stoned and greedy. He'd called me a mindless piggy like it was a compliment. I'd told him about the occasional feeder I saw every couple of months for long weekends of stuffed and stoned and nothing else. No sex. No relief from him. Just me edging myself raw while full and high until I drove home softer, quieter, and so pent up I could've screamed. Hottest thing I'd ever done and the meanest kind of unfinished. He'd gone quiet for a while after. Then, fourteen hours ago, he'd come back hard.

I opened the thread.

His new message sat under the old filth like a door someone had left open on purpose.

I can put over 10kg on you in under a month if you're down for the kinkiest time of your life

That was it. No vague hey fatty spam, just a number and a month and a dare. I stared until the words stopped looking like letters.

I was still tipsy from the XXXX after work. Three beers. One never stayed one when I was like this. Not stoned yet. That was coming. I could feel the evening leaning toward the joint in the drawer the way my gut leaned toward every meal.

I typed, deleted, typed.

In a perfect world I would say yes but I don't think I'm at a place in life where that would be a good idea.

Send.

I hated how true it looked. Work leave forms. Rent with the housemate. The way Mum still thought I was "looking after myself." Even on those feeder weekends there were bits where the high thinned out and I was just thinking about emails, ashamed in a non-sexy way. I wanted that gone. I was scared of how much I wanted that, which got me wet, which was also the only thing stopping me from typing yes.

I want to say yes but I cant

I sent that too, because I was already sliding.

Three dots. Then a proper paragraph, the kind of filth that sounded like he'd been waiting to type it.

He said taking the leap would make me worse in every way: dumber, hornier, more addicted, any control gone. He bet my belly would finally start to properly sag. He said he wanted me so big I couldn't get myself off and had to beg him to fuck me, completely dependent. Then the offer, concrete: a room on the canals, big bed, huge TV, Uber Eats, buffets nearby, me not having to leave except to get fatter in public. You could tell others you're at a weight loss camp and surprise them when you come back even worse.

I laughed once, ugly, hand over my mouth so the housemate wouldn't hear.

It is so tempting

I'll definitely consider it in the next few weeks

His next message landed while my pulse was still in my cunt.

Good. I'll nudge you with filth every so often until you realise that this is inevitable.

I told him the truth under that, thumbs clumsy. I didn't want the high thinning out with him. I didn't want email thoughts mid-binge, or shame that wasn't hot. I also told him about the funnel. When we'd first talked I hadn't used one. In March I did. The photos were still on my phone. I never put them on my blog.

He asked if I'd posted them. I said no. I dug through my camera roll while he kept typing.

Then he described how he'd keep me under. Not a joint in my hand when I felt like it. A Volcano by the bed: herb in the chamber, a clear bag filling with vapour while you just lie there, tube in your mouth, no rolling, no lighter, no effort, just breathing it in until your brain goes soft. Continuous and lazy on purpose. Gummies with every meal. Night feeds of ice cream with THC extract so I'd wake up already stoned and only get more stoned through the day. A drooling horny gooned-out mess, too full and high to move.

I had to read that twice. The Volcano part stuck. I'd only ever smoked whatever my mate got his hands on. This was a machine for staying ruined.

I sent the March shots without a caption. Pale gut tight, stretch marks angry, ice cream and coke, me beached on the floor after. Only belly rubs afterward. Nothing else. Same unfinished mean heat as those feeder weekends. I'd never been tied for any of it either. Just held still by fullness and the high.

He lost his mind in the good way. Asked how many litres. Asked if I'd been properly rewarded. When I said belly rubs he said he'd make me cum my brain out after a funnel, vibe while I took it, fuck me as a reward, belly rubs only once I was spent. Asked if I'd ever been tied properly. Then the line that made my jeans button dig harder:

I know exactly what gets you going... I know all your weaknesses... Does it scare you, knowing that if you do take me up on my offer, that I know how to ruin you completely?

I almost came just from that and the photos on my screen and the memory of how full I'd been and how little I'd gotten after.

I didn't. I stopped, breathing ugly, jeans button cutting, phone still bright on the soft shelf of fat on my stomach.

He'd sent a face photo too. Glasses, goatee, that mouth. He looked real in a way the filth alone never managed.

I put the phone face down and laughed once, quiet, because I already knew what "consider" meant when I was this kind of girl.

I was going to smoke, eat something I didn't need, open my blog again and edge to strangers calling me a pig until I hated myself in the good way. Somewhere on the canals there was a bed big enough for all of me and a volcano waiting to keep me stupid. I was already late for it.

I reached for the drawer. The jeans button finally gave up and popped open on its own, soft flesh spilling into the gap. I left it open.

I used to post that this was the smallest I'd ever be again. As a joke. Tonight it didn't feel like a joke.