A Feedees Story Ch 02 One More

One more bite.

I stare at the cake on the table in front of me. I'm so full — I'd already passed the 20,000-calorie mark for the day before I started dessert, and now I'm wondering if a three-layer chocolate cake with a quart of cream to wash it down was such a good idea. My stomach is so heavy and bloated; it's pressing against the table so much that I can't even see my thighs underneath it. I wonder if maybe I've reached my limit today.

One more bite. One more sip.

Ali is going to weigh me tomorrow, and I don't want to disappoint her. I want her jaw to drop when she sees all the excess blubber I've put on since our last weigh-in. I take a bite of cake and wash it down with a big sip of cream, feeling both settling in my stomach as my gut seems to push out even further. I want — I need — to eat every last bite. For her and for me.

I slide the last bit of cake between my chocolate-smeared lips and sit back, full beyond comprehension and exhausted. I never knew I had such a capacity for gluttony — that is, until I met her.

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When we first met, I was quite a bit smaller than I am now. When I got into feedism, I was 180 pounds; a few months later, having been with a few female feeders and gained on my own, I'd gained 30 pounds and crossed the 200-pound threshold. I was proud of my 210-pound body, and I'd grown accustomed to being praised for my gluttony, to feeders marveling over all my fat.

And then I met Ali.

We'd chatted on a feedism site; she was in my area, and though I'd expressed a desire to meet up, she always seemed to have a conflicting schedule. Part of me wondered if she really wasn't that into me, but based on everything else she said and did, it didn't seem likely that she was just stringing me along. From the beginning, I could tell Ali was different from the female feeders I'd been with before. Sure, they'd praise me for my belly or ooh and aah when I outgrew a shirt or something, but it often felt like I was just a prop: my gains were proof of the control they had over me, and that sense of control excited them far more than extra fat on my frame. Not so with Ali.

Ali had a confidence about her body and her beauty that came from a lifetime of knowing that she was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman in any room she entered. Usually this kind of unwavering self-assuredness is reserved for the handful of genetic lottery winners who meet our rigid and outdated societal standards of beauty: blond-haired, blue-eyed, perpetually tanned women; 5'9", 130 pounds, 36-24-36, and so on. Yet there was Ali: 5'4, at least 250 pounds, and not a molecule of self-doubt. She was unique: she never struggled with her weight, didn't have to "learn to love" her size. There was nothing more beautiful to her than pounds and pounds of soft, heavy flesh, filled with layer upon layer of adipose tissue, swelling and jiggling and rippling. That was the human body at its finest. She'd always felt that way.

Ali wanted me to experience the same hedonistic pleasures she had enjoyed her whole life. She wanted me to be able to feel the unbridled joy of discovering new layers of soft fat, signposts on the journey to the perfect body. Ali didn't want me to gain weight to fulfill her desire for control; gaining was its own wonderful reward. But she was more than willing to exert control over me if that's what it took. Each time we talked, she asked for pictures of my progress, and I'd happily comply, expecting nothing but praise. But she expected more from me. I'd send her a picture of my swollen belly after stuffing myself, and she almost always seemed unimpressed; disappointed, even. Spurred by her encouragement, I'd find a way to pack in more food. I wanted to please her. She had an uncanny knack for nudging me to my limits without pushing me past them.

One day, she sent me a message asking what I weighed and how much I'd gained. I dutifully hopped on the scale and was shocked to see the result: I'd put on 15 pounds since we'd started chatting. I let her know I was at 225, expecting her to finally offer me the praise I wanted, but she was silent. I sent a few more messages, but got no response. And then, a few days later, she texted again.

"What are you doing this weekend?"

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I still remember the first time we met in person. She was even bigger than I'd originally thought, and her diminutive height only served to make her size even more striking in person. She was stunning: long black hair, deep brown eyes, pouty lips. Her body reminded me of those 1950's pin-up girls, except there was a lot more of her to pin up; I wondered how her dainty ankles could support such chubby (okay, fat) legs that curved all the way up in one direction to her wide, round butt and to a soft belly in the other. Her hands were petite, but the sleeves of her blouse were wrapped tightly around her upper arm fat, as if someone had attached a bicycle pump at her wrists and inflated her arms. I tried to mentally calculate her weight as I casually looked her up and down, but while I was doing it, she interrupted.

"I can tell you're wondering how much I weigh. I'm 275. Is that going to be an issue?"

"No, no," I assured her, "absolutely not. I don't just love my own fat; I love it on other people too." Mentally, I cringed for making such an oddly-phrased compliment, but she seemed amused. She smiled, her beautiful white teeth even more vibrant against her deep red lipstick.

"Good."

We sat at the bar, had a few bourbons and talked. After a while, the conversation turned to feedism. I had enough liquid courage in me to ask a question that had been weighing on me since the beginning of the night.

"So, I have to ask...what took you so long to take me up on my offer to meet?"

She didn't say anything at first, just aimlessly swirled her finger around the rim of her glass. Without looking up, she finally replied "Honestly? I wanted to make sure you were serious." She turned to me, a pleading look in her eyes. "I can't tell you how many guys I talk to who tell me they're all about being fed and getting fat, but when push comes to shove, they eat half of a large pizza and admit that they don't stuff themselves that much."

I nodded wordlessly, sensing there was more to her reply.

"Even when I'd meet guys bigger than me, they'd suddenly confess that they weren't gaining," she continued. "One guy even told me he was trying to lose weight. I started to feel like guys were pretending to be into feedism just so they could get into my pants or feel better about themselves. I wanted to make sure you weren't one of those guys."

I took a sip of bourbon. Further emboldened as the drink warmed my body, I put my hand on hers. "Well I assure you, I'm serious about this." The pleading in her eyes turned to mischief, and I could feel her dainty hands grabbing my belly underneath the bar. "Oh, I know you are," she purred. "That's why I said yes to the date."

That was Saturday night. I didn't go home until Sunday evening.

After the bar, we went back to her place. It was a whirlwind of feedings, belly rubs, and incredible sex. I'd never given in to hedonism so fully: everything I could want, she provided. I laid in bed with my head in her lap as the sun started to sink lower in the sky on Sunday, a freshly-finished plate of food tilting dangerously as it rested on my swollen belly. She gently ran her hands through my hair.

"I have something for you."

I couldn't sit up — my belly was much too full for that. As casually as I could, I replied "Oh yeah? What's that?" She continued running one hand through my hair as the other reached for something next to the bed. She took the plate off my gut; in its place, she gently rested a box of donuts on my full stomach.

"I don't know if I can eat all those," I protested. "I've been eating nonstop for the past day."

She leaned down and kissed my forehead, and then she said the words that would change my life forever: "Oh, I think you can, and I'm your feeder now. So it's not about how much you think you can eat — it's about how much I think you can eat."

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Weigh-in day.

I stood in the bathroom at Ali's place, my stomach knotting with anticipation. She laid the scale down at my feet and I started to step towards it, but she held up a hand to stop me. "Not yet. I don't want those clothes to artificially boost your numbers. Down to your underpants, please."

I sighed inwardly. I was nervous. What if I didn't weigh enough? What if she thought I wasn't serious about gaining? About us? Sensing my nervousness, Ali turned to me and gave me a deep, passionate kiss. Her hands reached down and grabbed the bottom of my shirt, along with a handful of my hanging belly. "Oops," she giggled. "Looks like your gut is starting to get in the way."

She gave my belly a little squeeze, then lifted the shirt over my head. My belly and moobs bounced as they settled, and she giggled again. I slid off my pants and made another move to step on the scale. I hesitated; before she saw the number, I wanted her to know how committed I was. "I hope I weigh enough — I've really been trying," I said, my voice betraying my anxiety. "I ate a whole cake with a quart of cream last night."

Ali looked at me, those beautiful brown eyes exuding warmth and compassion. She took my hand and turned me towards the full-length mirror. "I know you've been trying, sweetie. Look at yourself — you've gotten so big and round." As I looked at my reflection, Ali disappeared behind me, then her hands suddenly reappeared, wrapping around my body and gripping my hanging gut. I felt her soft lips kiss the back of my neck, and I heard her sultry voice whispering into my ear:

"I'm proud of you."

I looked down at our arms, hers tucked inside mine at my side. Her fat arms didn't seem so fat anymore; actually, mine seemed to be slightly bigger. In fact, all of her didn't seem so fat anymore compared to me. I stepped on the scale, holding my breath as it calculated. It beeped and I looked down: 277 pounds. I had finally outgrown my feeder. I breathed a sigh of relief as I felt her hands encircle my gut again.

"Now the real fun begins," she whispered. "I hope you're ready for 300, fatty."

I turned to her, our bellies pressing together as I pulled her close. "Nope," I shook my head.

"I'm ready for 400."