by Admirer

1

I'm at dinner. It's always so quiet here at dinner. My parents think the table is a quiet time. Everyone just quietly eats. Then we depart. I don't know if it is a conscious decision or not but I decide to shake things up. Make them notice. Speak. Moderation is a thing in my house. A mandate. Mom's moderate prescription drug abuse and Dad's moderate drinking problem. I deserve my own "moderation" don't I?

I have finished my small plate of mom's ravioli and I am full. My size 8 jeans are slightly tight. Those two pieces of bread, lightly buttered are the deciding factor. Mom and Dad and my little brother are sitting, quietly munching and sipping. I reach forward and I can feel my full belly groaning under the strain. Moderation. . . moderation my ass! I somewhat lunge forward with the serving spoon and place spoonful after spoonful of raviolis in my plate. It looks ridiculous really. No one really says anything. I mildly fantasize over the mound of fattening pasta before me. I pour another large glass of whole milk, and slather three pieces of bread with butter. The first mouthful of ravioli is delicious and sinful. I stuff myself with bite after bite with chomps of bread in between. The butter is so smooth and creamy. Oh my god, there's a most peculiar tickling in my groin. More pasta. More pasta. Eat eat eat. Eyebrows begin to raise and yet - not a word. I have to laugh inside at the amount of food I am eating. More bread. Chew chew. Swallow. Is there room left? The sweet satisfaction as I fear I am near bursting. More milk seductively slides down my throat. Oh God it feels so good. So new. So different. More cheese. . . butter. . . milk. . . bread.

And then it ends. I simply cannot fit any more. I lean back in my chair and sigh, finishing off the last bit of milk. Still not a word.

Mom brings out the pie.

My god! Will I eat that too? It seems as though I have lost all control. The pie is so sweet to my tongue. So rich and filling. Oh dear I may pop right here. . . just one more tiny piece. . . oh so sweet. The dark blueberry filling rings my mouth and I don't have the energy to wipe it away. I must look like a stuffed pig. My belly is round and hard and I feel as though I have just had a raging orgasm. Perhaps I have. . .

Mother leaves to do the dishes. Brother goes upstairs. Father to the TV.

What have I exactly done? Challenged the rules? Begun something dangerous?

While Mom is in the kitchen I scrape the remainder of the pie off the tin with my hands and greedily stuff it into my mouth. Walking is a challenge. I go upstairs and put on a pajama top. No position is comfortable but lying down. It feels so good.

*

Next morning. I wake up late and everyone is gone. My empty belly cries out. Pancakes. I savor the process of making a family size batch, eggs, butter, just so. I'll never eat twenty pancakes. At the table like a queen. Alone. Hungry. Smell of fresh, hot pancakes. Sweet chocolate breakfast shake. Tuck the napkin under my chin. Lick my lips. Get ready. Holy Christ they are so good and so hot. The syrup is sweet and sticky as it runs down my chin. Bite after bite. Thank god for loose clothes. My legs swing back and forth in childlike pleasure. Bite after bite after bite. Triple stack bites. Swallow. Too full. Carry on. I can feel my belly on my upper thighs. Why am I so aroused? Oh more-more-more. . . insatiable. More syrup. More butter. Sweet sweet surrender to my busy pallate. Eat and eat and eat and eat and eat. The pancakes and shake are gone and I fear I may explode.

*

I guess I knew it would happen. Ridiculous to think it wouldn't. I'm getting fat. This little rebellion has been going on for a week now. But it's so ridiculous. I scold myself. My thighs brush together. . . stretch fabric only till the new wardrobe. The family is silent. Will someone help me? I fear I may pop. The craving doesn't end. The smooth pride of my rounding belly. Oh more - more. I think I want to be round. It feels so good to grow.

*

I drive home after dinner at McDonalds. I am so stuffed I can hardly drive. So good. Two shakes. Strawberry. Two pies. Two Big Macs. Two large fries. It hurts so goddamn good. My headlights cross the front of the house. In the front door. The smell of home-cooked lasagna. Mom calls. I just made it in time for dinner. But I am so full. Dare I sit down and force more savory deliciousness in? Eat more? Tempt my straining stitchery? None of my clothes fit right anymore. Not a word from family. I can feel my new weight. I am getting fat. And round. And curvy. And soft. My second chin has arrived. . . Dinner is calling my senses. . . but oh so full. Tuck the napkin and dig in. . . it smells so good. So filling. Should I. . .

2

Mom's voice calls politely. I run my hands around my hips. Rounding, soft. The cotton is soft. My thighs are growing. My head swoons at the prospect of more food. Garlic bread and lasagna aromas fill the house. I rub my overstuffed belly. My god, when did it get this big? I like it though. But I am scared. What am I capable of?

I sit down. Tuck the napkin in. Mom, almost out of defiance, places a huge - huge - piece of lasagna on my plate. As if she knows I am near bursting. Two pieces of buttery garlic bread. Bite. Chew. Swallow. Oh it hurts so much but it tastes so good. Automatic now. The taste is so good. Delicious cheese, sauce. The bread expands in my belly with the milk. I feel as if I can feel myself fattening, growing, expanding, plumping up.

--Easy there, Porky. (My brother.)

Oh my god. It must be so obvious. Nobody responds. Then mother scolds him.

--Another piece, Sarah?

She asks so seductively. Like she is trying to teach me a lesson. But I am the teacher here. She must be sick, that piece is twice the size of the other. My father leaves the table saying something about wanting no part of this. It's a standoff of sorts. I unconsciously begin to rub and soothe my belly as I pack more and more delicious lasagna in my oh-so-stuffed body. It's the taste - and the defiance. I will not back down.

--Some more, Honey?

--More please. . . (Muffled)

Eat eat eat. My god my god my god.

--Some dessert, Sweetie? Cheesecake? Chocolate chocolate chip?

--Mmmm. . . Sounds great. Just a small piece, kay?

As I chew the cheesecake I wonder, if I swallow, will I actually explode. I imagine myself eating right here, right now, until I am round. Mother keeps feeding me. And feeding me. Two pieces of cheesecake. Three pieces. More. Really big pieces. My belly extends ten inches forward on my lap. Stretch pants, thank god. Last swallow.

--Some ice cream, Honey?

You win mom. I leave the table and go to my room. I lay on my back, my stomach blocks the view of my feet. The mirror shows a rounding girl. I am sososososososo stuffed. I feel so good. What was she trying to do? I fall asleep with fantasies of eating blueberry pies and massive sundaes. What am I doing? I can't stop. I see myself getting fatter and fatter with each passing day and the hunger never stops. I will win the war.

(Then I met Charles. Oh did he treat me like a queen. He fed me so well. Non-stop. Like a prize pig. Stuffed me like a queen. Oh I never thought I would go so far. Grow so big...)

3

Tuesday morning, before school. Into the bathroom. Drop the nightgown and look in the mirror for the first time in a while. Plump little cheeks. Swelling, ample breasts. Majorly hourglass figure. I reach down to touch my pale stomach . Oh it has grown so big. My head lightens. Cookies, cream, steak, pizza, pie, ice cream, mom's bizarre help. And I grow and grow and grow and eat and stuff and munch munch munch my way each day to a stuffed pig. Like a water balloon, or a turkey, or Violet Beauregard. Nice, sweet, soft pillows of fat on my hips. Belly, oh so pretty, sticks out, pouting, big, round, constantly full - stuffed full of delicious food - FOOD. Skin has no blemishes. Hips are wider and wider. Thighs meet seductively. Double chin is so cute. Side view. Oh it makes me want to masturbate right now. Right now. Breasts lay gently on my ever-growing stomach. My belly calls to me. Rub please. And I do. My rear end is so beautiful, round and plump. Two delicious globes of flesh. Everything is firm, blemishless, white, fat, round, full, full FULL.

There's the scale. Oh I don't dare. I have absolutely ballooned lately. What was I? A size 8? Loose too. Sevens didn't fit right though. Rub my hungry, hungry belly for encouragement. Let's see, I'm 5' 11". What did I weigh before? Yes, 108 pounds. I was not too skinny. Now I am a blimp. An inflating blimp. And I am filling myself. (Why does mom help me so? Every day. More and more. Five meals a day is showing. I just keep on plumping and plumping and plumping.) I have never been more aroused in my 19 years.

Onto the scale. The numbers spin, way up past reason, back and forth, back and forth. I look at the ceiling. How far has it gone. Please help me, I don't want to explode.

208.

A mistake. It hasn't been that long. Mommy help me, it feels so good but I can't stop growing. BIGGER BIGGER BIGGER BIGGER

I look again. It's actually 210. My vision fades with ecstasy. I am so aroused. So big. So hungry. I begin to touch all of my growing body, especially the beautiful belly. Rub, caress. Admire. I collapse to the floor and masturbate to a deep-moaning and glorious climax.

Suddenly I have an idea. I can be late for school. Just community college anyway. And my but didn't they stare at me there.

I am feverishly driving to the store and buying ten delicious pies: raspberry, Boston cream, lemon chiffon, pumpkin, blueberry - whatever caught my fancy. Nobody would be home until afternoon. I place the pies on the floor of the bathroom. Run down - ha ha - I waddle slowly, out of breath, downstairs for a gallon of milk. I step onto the scale. And begin to stuff the pig. Mmmm. . . So good. Piece after piece. I'll see if the scale moves. Let's see how far I can go. I am blowing up so well. I can eat so much now. Full goes ever farther away. Good-bye reason. Fatty wants more and more and more food. Bite after bite, piece after piece. I giggle and squeal in my private ecstasy.

Today I will go to the mall and find out what size I need for my new wardrobe. 100 lbs. already. Oh I am a naughty girl. Such a pig. Such a blimp. Inflate. Plump. Fatten.

The pies are slowly disappearing. I am growing. Eat eat piggy. Oh you are such a mess. Bite bite. Swallow - stuff and stuff. I imagine I can see the numbers moving ever so slowly, like the minute hand on a clock. Ooompa loompa loompatie doo!! Oh what fun it is to get fat. I am fat. I have grown fat. Each minute makes me fatter. Good god, where will it end. I can't wait to try on my new clothes!

4

I am immobile now. I am so ashamed with myself. Ouch. My bursting belly aches so...so good.

216.

Sweet lord I am a piggy pig pig. Oh it was all so good. Each new pie was a reset button. New flavor, new passion. One more bite and I simply know I will pop. There is filling on my stomach, my breasts. I just came. Ecstasy. My arms are spread. My legs are spread. My ohso stuffed belly rises like a mountain before my eyes. I have stuffed the pig. Poke me. Any more room in there fat girl? Huh Porky? Gonna eat ever again? Can you even move? Immobile.

Six pounds. All food. My god what a greedy little pig. What a fat little hog. So stuffed. So full full full. Hiccups. Hic hic hic. Fattened up for the kill eh? Like a prize heifer.

After about an hour of reflection, I roll away and head out for new wardrobe...

*

Hey! Who moved the steering wheel closer? It pokes into my distended belly. What a pig. I grow more every moment. Hic. So stuffed. I know I should stop. Right now. Call a time out. Stop eating. Stop growing, plumping up up up up.

*

"Women's sizes."

That's where I belong now. I grab a size 12 off the rack. Jeans. Can't get them over my thighs? Ridiculous.

Size 14. Can't pass the thighs. Oh well fatty. Serves you right. Size 18. A little snug. Inhale and pull the button across. I simply won't buy a size 20. Ten sizes up is enough. I am through. Got to get into these and stay there. No more madness. The skinny little sales girl looks at me with pity. Bitch.

*

A guy stares at me at the food court as I munch my salad. He has an obvious erection. I am not so sure that he is looking at me or at a conception. I know some guys dig porkers like me. Is he one? Kind of cute, I guess.

--Hi. What the hell are you staring at?

--Oh. Sorry.

He looks away.

--Come here, Champ. You like 'em fat, huh?

--Wha-? No!

--Come on, I see that boner. Are you a nice guy? Like to read? You smart? I hate idiots.

--I'm a high school teacher. English. So, yeah, I like to read.

He comes over. Stunned at my anger spurned forwardness.

--Teacher, huh? Sensitive type?

--Yes. Very. Cry at the drop of a hat. See? There I go.

I stifle my laughter.

--What's your name?

--Charles. Charles Ribley. And you?

--Sarah. Sarah White. Porker extraordinaire

I see him shift position to hide that revitalized boner.

--All you gonna eat is that salad, huh?

--I don't know. . . why?

--Just wondering. I'd go just about crazy to see a girl as pretty as you are just chow down. Pig out, you know?

--Yeah, I guess.

(If he coulda seen me!)

--Can I go get you something at Burger King?

--Oh. I don't know. I'm scared you see. I am afraid I may explode in the very near future. Ha ha.

--Jesus. Bleak outlook. You gotta be hungry though. How about I promise to love you till I die, then you swoon, run into my arms and we live happily ever after?

--How bout you give me your number and I'll call you?

--Okay.

He's got to wait till I'm ready for him. Anticipation is a girl's greatest weapon. I stand up awkwardly and my ballooning stomach bumps the table. Soda spills.

--Can't get used to being so rotund! ( I say as I rub my belly.)

Oh god is he staring at me. I can't explain the exhilaration I am feeling right now. I want to grow for this sweet young guy. I seductively-accidentally rub my belly against his arm as we exchange numbers. As I walk away I look over my shoulder. Madness. He wants my stuffed little body. Oh well. Diet's over. Back to stuffing. Only now I'll have help...

*

A realization at dinner. Mom feeds me. Stuffs me. And says a word: expecting. She thinks I'm pregnant. Could she be so dull? Guess I'm eating for two in her eyes. We never talk though. I guess this is her way of showing me kindness. Bizarre. Under the table, my size 18 pants pop. The button ricochets off the table leg. No one notices. The fly relaxes downward and--Hey can I have some more? Got my second wind! My face gets rounder all the time. I rub my belly with one hand and eat eat eat. Hiccups again. Have I reached a new stage? I eat more than the rest of the family combined. I am afraid I can't get up from the table. Oh well.

--Another dish of ice cream, Sweetie?

--Mm hm. (I mumble through the last bite of the first.)

If I can't leave the table, might as well use it.

--Extra fudge mom. Don't be cheap. Yeah. Four scoops.

Rub the belly. Make room for growing. Eat. Stuff. Stuff. Eat.

Hic. Stuff. Hic. Belch. (Ever so lady-like.) Stuff. Hic. Hic.

I can't move and I don't care. Charles is coming at eight for a late dinner. Meal number 5. 300, here I come.

5

Things are going well with Charles. If I stay with him I will end up as big as a house. He really means business. The first time I went to his house (after several dates) he showed me to his sun porch where the hot tub is. It was freezing in there. About 40 degrees. Why? The hot tub had been lined with saran wrap. Why? Charles had filled the entire tub with cheese cake. I had to make a decision right there for the rest of my life. Become super-sized and then perhaps immobile or thank him politely and go home.

I stood there. Rubbing my huge, gothic belly. My hunger crying out. My sin leading me toward oblivion. I had grown ever so fat.

So round. My giant, beautiful, globular breasts rested on my rounded, protruding belly. My knees bent inward as if saying, "Enough already. We give up. No more Porky. You're gonna explode."

The weeks had blurred by. Buffets. All you can eat. Burgers. Pies. Ice cream. Pizza. Pastries. Pasta. Steak. Potatoes. So much food in so little time. Every night there was a difference in my fat fat body. Appetite. Never. Ends. Cake. Cake. Fudge. Pies. More food. More food. I loved and savored every bite. It was done carefully. Out of passion. Out of curiosity. Lust of fullness. Lust of eating. Love of savoring. Love of the fattening fattening body. I was fascinated with my girth. As if I was outside myself watching the pig grow rounder each day. Violet! You're turning Violet, Violet!

Choice time. Flip a coin?

He grabs me around my waist. My belly presses tightly to his. A passionate kiss. His hands rest on my hips. No way you're reaching around that fat rump honey. Sweet kisses. He loves me he says. I guess I believe him. I step in and begin the last step towards immobility. I know this is the final turning point and I am willing.

Sweet, sweet, filling. So much. Go Porky go. Eat. Stuff. Munch. Munch. Belly growing growing. Rounder. Rounder. Eat eat eat. So sweet. So filling. Sticky all over. I recline and rub my belly, so so so big in front of me. I like to fill it. Overfill it. Overstuff it. Eat fat girl eat. More more more. I can take it. As I rub and recline, he uses a table spoon and stuffs me like a Thanksgiving turkey. I giggle. Squeal. Rest. Eat. Stuff. I will be round soon. So fat. Luscious, flowing, soft rolls of fat.

Can I finish? More more more lover boy. I am YOURS. Feed me feed me feed me.

*

A couple of weeks later was when I met Dr. Reuter. There I was at the pastry shop. Fogging up the glass at 5:30 in the morning, waiting for them to open. He says:

--Oh I see a naughty little girl who doesn't watch her weight.

I ignore him.

--Are you hungry, Sweetie? I bet you are. How would you like a free banquet in your honor? Hm? Don't say a word. Just come with me. Right up the street. All you can eat. Yes even you, Porky. All you can eat.

He pokes my round, fat belly. My jaw slacks. He walks around me. For some reason he excites me. Is he sizing me up? It's turning me on. Why why why?

--Sweetie. Somebody is not taking care of you well enough, hm? Wasting away are you? What do you weigh my plump little princess? Hm? 270? 280? No? 300? 325? No? 400?

I nod guiltily. I like playing the role of naughty girl. I am a junkie. He is my dealer.

--Princess, you need spoiling. No one is around. Come on over to my office. I'll see that you get all you need. All you need. All this walking and waiting has made you hungry, hm? You'll get plenty to eat. Plenty plenty plenty. . .

--Is it 400, or more?

I shrug. How did this all start, anyway? My little experiment. Oh I have grown sooooooo big.

He pokes me gently. Gently pinches my arms. I am helpless.

I nod. I will go.

--Yes, sir. I'd like that.

--Oh, you are a greedy little fatty. Are you round? Why yes, almost. I bet you need help getting out of bed. You are a fat one. But you need some TLC. Come with me. My aren't you out of breath. You are so stuffed you don't even jiggle at all. Amazing. I have just the cure for you. You are so pretty. My god. You may be perfect. You just love to stuff your pretty little face, don't you?

--Mm hm. Yes sir.

--Right in here.

A clean office. Into a back room. Sit right there Sweetie. A big chair. Twice as wide as I am.

--Are you hungry, Princess? My. (Patting my mountainous, stuffed belly.) Such a big, full, full belly.

He brushes under my chins. Oh I am so aroused. Why? I like his talk. He will be so good to me. I know it. I belong here. Do I smell cooking? Yes.

--Are you hungry, Princess?

--Yes.

--Starving, Sweetie?

--Yes. Yes.

--Don't worry my plump little princess. You'll get plenty to eat!

Suddenly, soft leather straps close on my wrists and ankles. A belt closes around my fat fat belly. A restrainer holds my head still. This is new. So arousing. The door closes. The doctor rubs his hands together greedily. Smiles. Rubs my belly. I smile. Then the endless parade of food begins.

I am home. The doctor will take care of me. . .

6

--Is my Sweetie ready to eat?

--Yes sir.

--I am afraid I don't know my limits so you have to tell me when you've had enough.

--Yes sir.

The food began. He wheeled a giant cart of fattening treats. Steak, potatoes, cakes, pies, pasta, lasagna, casseroles, sweet bread, the list goes on. He would slice a piece of steak, a big one, and stuff it into my mouth. I had no choice but to chew. Bite after bite. My mouth was stuffed. Chew or suffocate. Two pounds of steak. So juicy and good. Potatoes au gratin. Pan full. Shovel it in my dear doctor.

--You are hungry indeed my sweet little princess. Oh you eat like a pig! I bet there's no filling you up.

Stuff. Stuff. My belly rises. Stuff stuff. Whole pie--blueberry. Bite after bite. Swalow.

--Getting full yet?

--No sir. (Muffled by pastry sweetness.)

Chocolate cake. Beef stew. Chicken pie.

--Please. No more. I'll explode.

--But my sweet. You are here now. And you are mine. Here!

More into my mouth. I must chew. More. More more. Sweet goodness. Delicious. Delicious. More more more. He loosens the belt as I grow. My belly grows past my knees. My thighs expand. My breasts and belly are covered with filling, gravy, crumbs.

*

After a month. He sets me free.

--Have you had enough Princess?

I am absolutely round. My arms stick out helplessly. My ghost of a face hides under pounds of glorious fat. My generous ass is like two globes of dimpled flesh. My thighs are as big as him.

--My, look how you've grown. Is there no end? You will continue my work?

--Yes. Oh you have been so kind.

He pokes my belly. Rubs it.

--Oh, my sweet, sweet, fat little queen. I fear that if you eat one more bite you will pop. Your belly is so taut. You are well over 600 lbs. You are so beautiful you know. You like to eat like that, huh?

I nod, blush.

--You are as big as a house now. Do you see what you've done? You are so naughty. So fat. More than round. Is the dress I got you comfortable?

I nod. He pinches my arms, caresses my belly, rubs my ass. Oh it is sooo big. I am so big. So round. If I fall I will roll around.

I step sideways through the door. Out onto the street. I am so stuffed full that nothing jiggles. I am much like a blimp. My breasts are the size of basketballs and my stuffed tight belly sticks out before me. I waddle. Shuffle. Hiccupping. So full.

Well. Back home I guess. To Charles' house? Breakfast at the buffet?

I waddle away. Grown so big. Such a fat fat pig. I can't stop now. I lick my lips in the prospect of breakfast. Stacks and stacks of pancakes and French toast.

I am so hungry!