Chapter 1 - Prologue
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Or maybe he found me.
Honestly, by the time everything became real, I couldn't tell anymore.
HeavyHouse wasn't subtle about what it was. The entire site revolved around appetite, weight gain, feeding, bellies, softness, growth. Men posting progress pictures beside old gym photos. Feeders openly talking about how badly they wanted to watch someone lose control and get fat for them.
The first time I found the site, I closed the tab almost immediately.
The second time, I stayed longer.
By the third visit, I had an account.
No face picture.
No personal details.
Just gym selfies and carefully cropped photos that hid what I actually liked.
Or thought I liked.
At the time, I still told myself it was curiosity.
I was still lean then. Hard stomach. Sharp jaw. Thick arms from years of lifting. The kind of body that looked disciplined even in relaxed pictures.
And that body got attention immediately on HeavyHouse.
Messages flooded in constantly.
Most of them were terrible.
Bet you'd look amazing with 100 pounds on you.
Would love to see that flat stomach disappear.
Feed you until your abs vanished.
Some part of me liked reading those messages.
Another part panicked every time I did.
Because they weren't wrong.
The idea of getting fatter had lived in the back of my head for years already.
Not publicly.
Not consciously.
But every bulk phase went too far. Every cheat meal turned into a binge. Every time my stomach pushed heavily against my shirt after eating, I'd stare at it in the mirror longer than I should have.
I liked fullness too much.
Liked the weight of food in my stomach.
Liked feeling stuffed and swollen and heavy after eating.
And I especially liked the moments where I stopped caring.
That was the dangerous part.
Not the food.
The relief.
Then his message appeared.
Not vulgar.
Not desperate.
Just:
You have the exact body feeders fantasize about ruining.
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Because unlike the others, he sounded calm.
Confident.
Certain.
I clicked his profile.
And immediately understood why.
His page was filled with pictures.
Not of himself.
Of other men.
Dozens of them.
Before-and-after collages.
Lean college-looking guys with visible abs slowly turning thick through the waist. Athletic men developing heavy bellies that stretched tight against shirts. Former gym rats grinning with round guts hanging over sweatpants. Some merely chubby.
Others enormous.
Absolutely massive.
Men with huge hanging stomachs resting in their laps. Thick chests spilling against tight shirts. Faces completely softened with weight.
And every single set of photos carried the same tone.
Pride.
Possession.
Admi ration.
Not humiliation.
Not mockery.
Creation.
One caption beneath a particularly dramatic transformation read:
Started at 185. Thought he wanted to stay lean forever. Last weigh-in: 472.
Another:
Couldn't stop staring at his stomach once it started rounding out.
Another:
Nothing hotter than watching a man realize he was built to be huge.
My pulse hammered harder with every picture.
Because these men looked...
Happy.
Fed.
Desired .
The comments beneath the posts were worse.
Look at that gut now.
His waist got absolutely destroyed.
Went from athlete to absolute pig.
That belly belongs in someone's lap now.
I should've closed the page.
Instead, I kept scrolling.
One particular series held me hostage.
A broad-shouldered guy about my age. Lean in the first photo. Thick chest. Defined abs. Cocky smile.
The next image showed him maybe forty pounds heavier. Belly rounded beneath a stretched hoodie.
Then eighty pounds.
Then over a hundred.
By the final picture, he was enormous.
Massive belly hanging over his jeans. Thick face. Huge chest. Shirt visibly strained across layers of softness.
And somehow-
he looked calmer.
More comfortable.
Like he'd stopped fighting himself.
A comment from the feeder sat beneath the final image.
Finally big enough to match his appetite.
Jesus Christ.
My cock was hard instantly.
That terrified me.
I clicked away from the pictures and finally answered his message.
Ruining?
His response came immediately.
Softening.
Another message followed.
You've spent years building a body designed to hold size. I can tell.
I leaned back in my chair staring at that sentence.
Because he was right.
Broad shoulders.
Thick chest.
Dense frame.
Even lean, I looked like someone who could get huge if they stopped controlling themselves.
And God, I was tired of controlling myself.
That first conversation lasted nearly four hours.
He asked questions nobody had ever asked me before.
Not sexual questions.
Not exactly.
Questions about appetite.
"Do you eat differently alone?"
"What happens after cheat meals?"
"Do you ever intentionally overeat because you like the feeling?"
"Do you weigh yourself after binges?"
"What's the fullest you've ever been?"
I answered more honestly than I meant to.
Especially after he admitted something himself.
"I don't gain," he said casually during one late-night call. "Never wanted to."
That surprised me.
"So you're not into getting fat?"
"No." A slight chuckle. "I'm into feeding."
Something about the way he said it made heat spread through me instantly.
Simple.
Matter-of-fact.
No shame.
"I like watching a body change," he continued. "Especially bodies like yours."
"Bodies like mine?"
"Fit men. Controlled men. Men who pretend they don't want more."
I swallowed hard.
Because every conversation with him felt like being slowly stripped open psychologically.
He understood feederism in a way I hadn't realized was possible.
Not just food.
Not just fat.
Control.
Permission.
Ind ulgence.
Watching restraint slowly collapse.
A few nights later, I finally asked him about the men in the photos.
The word slipped out before I could stop it.
"Your creations."
A pause.
Then a low chuckle through the phone.
"Yeah," he admitted calmly. "I guess they are."
I stared at the ceiling above my bed, phone pressed tightly to my ear.
"How many?"
"Seriously?"
& quot;Yeah."
Another quiet laugh.
"Six long-term gainers. A handful of casuals."
Jesus Christ.
"And all of them..." I hesitated. "Started skinny?"
"Most feeders prefer already fat guys," he said. "I don't."
"Why?"
H is answer came instantly.
"Because watching the body change is the hottest part."
Heat crawled up my neck immediately.
"I like seeing the stomach first start pushing against shirts," he continued casually. "Watching abs blur. Watching a guy stop sucking his gut in all the time." His voice lowered slightly. "Watching him realize he likes being heavy."
My breathing had already changed.
He noticed immediately.
"You've thought about that before, haven't you?"
I didn't answer.
"That's okay," he murmured. "Most fit guys on HeavyHouse have."
God.
"You know what I think?" he asked.
"What?"
"I think you'd get addicted to seeing your body soften."
I squeezed my thigh hard beneath the blanket.
"That obvious?"
"Yes."
The silence stretched.
Then he said the sentence that stayed lodged in my head for weeks afterward.
"You have the frame for serious weight."
I actually shivered.
Because he didn't say it like a warning.
He said it admiringly.
Like the idea of me huge genuinely excited him.
"I can already picture it," he continued quietly. "Big heavy gut. Thick chest. Your waist blowing out of all those fitted shirts you wear." Another pause. "You'd look incredible fat."
No one had ever spoken to me that way before.
Not about fat.
Not about appetite.
Not like getting bigger could make me more attractive instead of ruined.
"You know what the hottest part is?" he asked me one night.
I was already sitting on my couch halfway through takeout when he called. Shirt tight across my chest. Stomach slightly rounded from the food already sitting inside me.
"What?"
"The moment a guy stops fighting his appetite."
I didn't answer.
"You can hear it in their voice," he continued softly. "The second they realize they like being full. The second they stop caring if their stomach sticks out after meals."
I looked down automatically at my stomach beneath my shirt.
Not fat.
Not even close.
But visibly bloated.
Fed.
"You think about it constantly, don't you?" he asked quietly.
My silence answered for me.
After that, our conversations became obsessive.
We talked every night.
Sometimes for hours.
He'd ask what I ate that day.
How full I was.
Whether my stomach felt tight.
Whether my clothes fit differently after big meals.
And the more openly we talked, the more direct he became about what he wanted.
"I'd love to watch your waist thicken."
"You'd carry fat unbelievably well."
"I can already picture your stomach hanging heavy in your lap."
"You'd look incredible once your body softened."
Every message made my pulse race.
Because he never sounded mocking.
He sounded admiring.
Hungry.
Not for food.
For me.
One night I finally asked the question that had been sitting between us for weeks.
"Why me?"
He answered instantly.
"Because you're already halfway there."
I laughed nervously.
"I'm literally lean."
"For now."
That should've scared me.
Instead, I got hard immediately.
God.
The honesty between us became addicting after that.
I admitted things I'd never admitted to anyone.
How I sometimes ate until my stomach physically hurt because I loved the pressure.
How I secretly pushed my gut out in mirrors after huge meals just to see what I'd look like bigger.
How much I fantasized about someone encouraging me instead of stopping me.
He loved hearing all of it.
"You know what I think?" he murmured one night.
"What?"
"I think you want someone else responsible."
I frowned slightly.
"What do you mean?"
"I think you want someone to take control of the feeding so you can stop pretending this wasn't your choice."
The silence afterward felt crushing.
Because he was right.
Again.
Weeks passed like that.
Every conversation pushing things slightly further.
More openness.
More honesty.
More hunger.
Until eventually he brought it up directly.
"Come over."
I stared at the message for almost a full minute.
Then:
For what?
His response:
To make this real.
Heat flooded through me instantly.
I typed carefully.
You mean feeding?
I mean all of it.
Another message appeared.
The structure. The agreement. The commitment.
I swallowed hard.
"What kind of agreement?"
That was the first time he mentioned the contract.
Not legally binding.
Symbolic.
Psychological.
A formal acknowledgment of roles.
Feeder.
Feedee.
Permis sion.
Intent.
Goals.
Limits.< br>
"It changes things mentally," he explained during our call afterward. "Once it's written down, you stop pretending this is hypothetical."
I sat there breathing hard while he talked.
"Most guys back out before that point," he continued calmly. "Fantasy is easy. Reality isn't."
"And if I came over?"
His voice lowered slightly.
"I'd feed you."
Simple.
Direct.
Ma tter-of-fact.
"And if I liked it too much?" I asked quietly.
A long silence followed.
Then:
"I think we both know you will."
That sentence stayed in my head for days afterward.
By the time I finally agreed to visit him, my stomach was in knots constantly.
Part fear.
Part excitement.
Part hunger.
The entire drive there felt surreal.
Like I was driving toward the collapse of some version of myself I'd spent years building.
And maybe I was.
When he opened the door, he looked exactly like I imagined he would.
Big.
Broad.
Solid.
Tight black shirt stretched across thick arms and chest.
Not fat.
Not soft.
Controlled.
The opposite of what he wanted for me.
And his eyes-
Jesus Christ.
They moved slowly over my body like he was already imagining the changes.
The thicker waist.
The softer stomach.
The weight.
"You came," he said softly.
I nodded.
Suddenly nervous again.
He stepped aside to let me in.
Then his eyes dropped briefly to my stomach beneath my fitted white shirt.
A tiny smile pulled at his mouth.
"Still holding it in," he murmured.
My face flushed instantly.
And somehow that made his smile widen even more.
"Good," he said quietly. "We'll fix that."
Contemporary Fiction
Feeding/Stuffing
Addictive
Dominant
Enthusiastic
Indulgent
Male
Gay
Weight gain
Other/None
First person
14 chapters, created 1 week
, updated 6 days
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