Chapter 1 - And So It Starts

As a businesswoman, I find comfort in the routine and familiar. But as a creative? There's something to be said about spontaneity.

I like to find the happy middle between the two.

I own and run a successful bakery that's been in my family for generations - Duchess's Goodies. My great-grandparents built this business with their blood, sweat, and tears to build this business from nothing to provide for their family. We've made it bigger and better every generation since.

Now, it's my turn to shine. That's why every evening, after hard work, I search for inspiration to fuel my muse.

My parents hate it when I go on my evening explorations - that "there's nothing good out there for a young black woman when the sun goes down." I beg to differ. I've gotten some of my best ideas from my jaunts, and no one has bothered me in all my 35 years. And if worse comes to worst, I took those self-defense classes and bought a golf club.

Today's stroll takes me along the boardwalk. It's a peaceful summer evening. The wind is calm, the waves are gentle, and the setting sun makes the ocean sparkle. There's a smattering of people - not enough to feel crowded but not so few that it feels lonely. Soon, the fair will be in town, and the boardwalk will hum with activity.

I could do something to capitalize on it. I can feel the beginnings of ideas flit across my mind. I whip out my phone and start snapping pictures.

"Always nice to run into a fellow hobbyist."

I startle and turn towards the sudden voice. Behind me, there's an unremarkable, chubby man with a camera around his neck.

"I'm not a hobbyist," I deadpan, returning to what I was doing.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he blathers on, not seeing or caring that I do not wish to be disturbed, "I hadn't thought you were a professional. I mean, most of the professionals have cameras far fancier than mine. Still, I suppose cellphone cameras these days are getting better and better. Oh well. You know what they say about assuming things, ha ha!"

His voice becomes meaningless background noise as I focus on the waves below. Suddenly, I'm yanked back - my face is squashed into his soft chest.

"Watch where you're going!" he shouts.

I turn my head to see a group of teens rolling by on skates.

"Sorry, sir! Sorry, ma'am!"

The strange man released me just as fast as he grabbed me.

"Sorry about that, miss! I figured it better to fall onto something soft than the hard ground."

I flash a pained smile. He seems ... nice. And yet, I feel unsettled.

"I'm Martin," he continues, "Wanna get some dinner? My treat. Think of it as an apology."

"Um ... sure. Only if it's somewhere decent."

Martin laughs. "You don't get soft and squishy like me if you don't know where all the good food is."

I look at the man a bit closer. He seems inoffensive - a bit bland, even. He's above average height and chubby, with short, brown curly hair, fair skin, a full beard, glasses, and Roman features. He's dressed like a substitute teacher.

I relax a bit. I'm no athlete, but I have some decent muscle under my curves. I'm shorter and smaller, but with my athleisure, speed, and defense classes, I'm confident I can take him.

My grip flexes around the golf club just in case.

I follow him to a greasy spoon a short distance away. I've been here before once or twice. The food's good, but between the portion sizes and the calories, eating here regularly would kill any hope of a flat stomach.

My eyes flit towards his pudgy middle. I'm curious if he's a regular.

"Here we are! Al's Diner. I love swinging by here after an evening taking pictures."

"Come here often?"

"Well, I usually take pictures every night, weather and life permitting. So I'd say yes."

It's mostly empty tonight. Martin makes a beeline to a booth, which I assume is his usual spot. A tired waiter ambles over to us.

"The usual, Martin?"

"You know it!"

"And for you, miss?"

I scan the menu. My stomach feels like lead just looking through the fattening options.

"I'm not sure. I'm not very hungry."

"We've got some key lime mini-tarts if you like."

"Is the shell phyllo or grahm?"

Both men look at me strangely.

"I'll just get an iced tea."

"Okie dokie," the waiter says and heads to the kitchen.

Martin looks mildly offended at the exchange.

"Do you have a problem, Martin?" I ask once the other man is out of earshot.

"I didn't realize you were such a food snob."

"I was polite to the waiter, and you're not spending much money on my order. What's the issue?"

"What was that? Phyllo or grahm?"

"I have no preference one way or another. But if the waiter doesn't know the answer, I'm not keen to take the risk on quality."

Martin rolls his eyes. "It's not that deep. You can't make a better tart than the professionals."

My lips purse. Even though Martin doesn't know I run a bakery, there's no excuse to be so dismissive.

"You, Mr. Martin, invited me here. Insisted I come despite my not requesting you to do so. I will thank you not to belittle me."

Martin holds his hands up in apology, and we drop the matter. The waiter comes back with our drinks. We sip in silence until my tea is gone. I leave before his food comes out, eager to be done with the matter.

"Wait!" As I reach the door, Martin stops me, "I didn't catch your name."

"I didn't throw it." I step through the door, and that is that.

-----

I storm back home in a huff. The absolute audacity and rudeness of that man are astounding.

I take a deep breath and center myself. I refuse to let that man ruin the rest of my evening.

I take a few more deep breaths, but the anger and humiliation still sting. This simply won't do. What I need more than anything is to lose myself to pleasure. Nothing else matters, then.

Most people don't know this, but I greatly enjoy watching people eat. I don't mean in the way most bakers enjoy watching people eat their creations. Nor do I mean the way people enjoy mukbang videos. My greatest pleasure is watching fat men gorge themselves into a stupor.

I've never met anyone who's been able to understand it. Every fat man that I have dated has either hated his size or has been indifferent towards it. And I'll admit I've been too terrified to say anything about it. Eventually, I gave up entirely.

I hope to find the fat man of my dreams, but until then, I scroll through the Internet, watching videos of gainers and fades showing off their girth for all to see.

I log into my favorite fetish site. I never interact with anyone - I'm too scared someone will figure out who I am. However, it's still lovely to scroll through the pictures and videos. I even have a few favorite creators.

Happily, my favorite creator, a user named bigboy83, has just posted a new video. He never shows his face, but that's OK - I prefer it that way. I want to get lost in how his fat belly stretches and grows. The way his middle softens and the stretch marks dust over his growing skin drive me to distraction. Sometimes, I fantasize how good it would feel to have him under me as I shove handful after handful of food. It will never happen, but I can dream.

I take off my pants and let my fingers slip between my thighs. I can't get enough of how bigboy83 looks. His plump tits resting on his growing pot belly like a shelf never ceases to turn me on. And don't get me started on how well his ass stretches out his pants.

Today, he's doing a heavy cream chug on top of a stuffed belly. Sadly, he did not post a video of the stuffing, but that's OK. I love nothing more than to watch him abuse his stomach, all in the name of gluttony. I tease myself as I watch him chug pint after pint of heavy cream. His belly already looked stuffed, to begin with, but the way he was drinking those pints as if he was starving never ceases to get me going.

"Ohh, I'm going to pass out," I hear him whisper. The video ends shortly after a part of me is sad that the video didn't keep going. Still, I am eager to see how those calories will turn into new fat. Who knows how big he'll be in a few months.

I close the lid to my laptop and stroke myself some more. My fingers grow wetter by the moment as I think about how much bigger he could be if he had someone to help him. I'm a baker. I know how to make tons of fattening treats that will make him grow quickly. In fact, I would love nothing more until he is a giant balloon of fat constantly stuffed to the brim at all times. I could shape him into the ultimate piece of art - a growing ball of fat with a bottomless appetite. If I had my own feeding, I could pour all my stress into lavish treats to spoil and stuff him with.

My eyes roll back, and I scream in pleasure. I feel boneless and all of the best ways. Perhaps too boneless to figure out my latest menu edition. I sigh and get ready for bed. Maybe one day I will have the feeling of my dreams, but in the meantime, at least I have bigboy83.