Chapter 1: Confession (360 lbs)

It started with a confession.
A stupid, clumsy, hopeful little moment of honesty that should’ve stayed buried under the rolls of my belly. But I said it anyway. I told him.

Riley...
He’d always been kind to me. Too kind. Not the way others were — awkward, embarrassed, nervously trying not to stare when I bent over or struggled to squeeze into booths. No, Riley looked at me like he wanted to see. Like my size wasn’t something to ignore.

Maybe that’s why I did it. Why I pulled him aside after class, sweating through my shirt, cheeks red and stomach rumbling from skipping lunch.

“I like you,” I said, breathless. “More than a friend.”

Riley didn’t say anything at first.

He just smirked.

His eyes dropped, lingering low. My shirt didn’t quite cover my belly when I raised my arms — it never did. And I saw it, right then: he wasn’t surprised. He’d known. Maybe even waited for me to say it.

“Of course you do,” he said, stepping closer. “Look at you.”

I swallowed hard, unsure if he was mocking me. But his voice stayed calm. Measuring.

“You’re already half mine.”

I didn’t know what that meant.

Not then.

But Riley... he didn’t forget. I saw it in the weeks that followed. The way he started watching me during lunch, eyes on every bite I took. He’d lean back and smirk while I shoveled down cheeseburgers two at a time. Every day he’d offer me “just one bite” of something decadent — something he knew I’d finish the whole portion of. His leftover milkshake. A butter-soaked croissant. A greasy breakfast burrito he “wasn’t hungry for.”

I was 360 pounds and already coasting on indulgence. I liked food. A lot. I was good at pretending I didn’t want it. Riley made it impossible.

He was patient. Calculating.

Feeding me in public. Watching. Studying. Waiting for the right moment.

I remember the night he struck. The last night I thought of myself as free.

I was sitting at home, half-dressed and sweaty, finishing off a second pizza I didn’t need. I hadn’t even realized I’d unbuttoned my shorts until my belly surged forward with relief. I let out a little moan, flushed with heat and shame. I was rock hard and aching… again. I always got like that when I was full.

That’s when the lights cut out.

Then something sweet hit my tongue.

Then darkness.

I woke up strapped to a chair.

Padded cuffs, ankles locked, hands splayed open. My belly pooled out beneath me, bare and soft and heavy. Something cold wrapped around my cock. It was metal and it was tight.

A chastity cage?

Panic surged — but it was already dulled. My mind was hazy. My limbs... heavy. I couldn’t tell if I was drugged or just scared.

Then Riley stepped into the light.

“Finally,” he said, voice low. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

He walked behind me. His fingers grazed the top of my belly, slid along the soft crease beneath my moobs. I shivered.

“You were always going to end up like this, Mac. All I had to do was watch you feed yourself into submission.”

I whimpered something — I don’t even remember what. A protest. A plea.

He ignored it.

“You’ve been eating like a pig for years. All I’m doing is giving you what you really want.”

That’s when the feeding began.

He brought out a shake — massive, thick, caramel-colored and steaming. He set the funnel into my mouth. I tried to turn my head, but the collar held me still.

“Shhh,” he whispered, brushing my cheek with the back of his hand. “You’re lucky. Most pigs have to beg for this kind of attention.”

The liquid hit my tongue.

It was sweet, fatty and warm.

I couldn’t help it — I swallowed. Then another gulp. And another. It slid down my throat and pooled in my gut like lava. My belly started to tighten again, already overfed from earlier.

“That’s it,” he purred. “Stretch it out. Feel it grow.”

I moaned. My cock pressed painfully against the cage, twitching uselessly.

“Aww,” he mocked. “Already pent up? You poor thing. That’s going to be a problem... or a solution.”

He fed me until I was groaning. Breathless. Rocking gently, as if the movement would help me process the sheer volume of cream and calories sloshing inside me.

And then he turned the screen on.

The spiral was slow. Hypnotic. Familiar — I’d seen videos like this before, on forums and websites I’d promised myself I’d never visit again.

But this one spoke to me.

“You are meant to be big.”
“Let go. Let Riley feed you. Let him own you.”
“You don’t need control. You need food.”

I shook my head.

He clicked his tongue.

“Don’t fight it, Mac. You’re already 360 pounds. You started as a fat little glutton. This is just the next step.”

That night, he left me there.

Tied. Swollen. Caged. Hypnotized.

Hungry for more even as I lay too full to move, moaning softly, my mind swimming with pleasure, guilt, and thick, churning cream.

“Sleep tight, pig,” he said as the door clicked shut. “Next week we aim for 400.”