The Diet
By More Wider

I cannot remember ever wanting to be anything other than fat. I wanted to be obese. To waddle through life, gorging at every chance. By the time I was sixteen I weighed a corpulent 190 pounds. My breasts were "DD" cup, my hips broad and protuberant, my waist a relatively small 40 inches. Because I was living at home my parents could force me to diet, which they did until I was five pounds from the target weight set by the supervising doctor. I graduated from high school weighing 125 pounds. I wore mini-skirts and low cut dresses and thought of myself as slender. At least until my boyfriend pointed to another girl in the school who had lost weight (but I knew not as much as I had) and told me I would look good, like her, if I lost another twenty pounds. At that moment he became my ex-boyfriend, and I knew the truth: given my exaggerated hourglass figure I would never be seen as slender no matter what weight I dieted down to. So that was the last time I tried to lose weight, and by the time I got to college I had gained fifteen pounds, enough to make me the official fat girl on campus.

By my twenty-fifth birthday I weighed 220 pounds - enough to make me huge in the eyes of the world (and my disapproving family), but not enough to satisfy my craving. I had 54 inch hips, "G" cup breasts and my once nipped in waist had swelled to 46 inches. I was stared at where ever I went, wearing clothes bought small to emphasize how gross I was. I deliberately bought snacks from the same bakery daily. Ditto with my daily haul of groceries. Of course, as salespeople became familiar with me they began to suggest I should lose weight, stop buying pastries, stop buying a quart of ice cream a day - that kind of stuff. All good fodder for going home feeling humiliated, so that I had an excuse to gorge even more!

My work as a temporary secretary exposed me to many workplaces, where I was certain to overhear negative comments about my weight, style of dress, habit of gobbling candy bars. I collected such comments, writing them daily in a diary that I could read on the weekends to spur me to further overeating. Naturally my weight kept increasing. Two months after my 30th birthday I weighed 250 pounds. And there I stuck, having apparently fattened all that my body would allow.

But that wasn't good enough for me. I continued to gorge in the hopes I would gain more. In three months I only gained four pounds - too little for anyone to notice. But I had to keep fattening: I just had to!!

On one of my jobs I ran into a man who leered at me salaciously, not judgmentally. He was obese, with a protruding beer gut, man tits and a swag of fat under his chin. I didn't find him attractive, but I went on a date with him just to gorge in front of someone so I would be teased. He encouraged my gorging, ordered more food until I couldn't stuff any more into my stomach, then cajoled me back to his place, where he showed me a magazine for people who love fatties. One of the personal ads was from someone who called himself a feeder looking for a female feedee. I memorized the information, and pleading a stomach ache (a very real stomach ache!) waddled home to immediately dial the phone number.

The man who had placed the ad asked lots of questions about my weight, appetite, general health, and didn't answer any about himself. Despite an inner cautioning voice, I was very eager to meet a feeder, so we arranged to find each other at the food area of a local mall where I could easily walk away if he proved to be unsavory. I waited an hour there, eating my way through a pastry, a large roast beef sub with extra mayo, two milkshakes, a dish of soft ice cream and a handful of enormous cookies. I expected to be met by some grossly obese male like my last date, but I saw no one that met that description. I never noticed the short, well proportioned man reading a magazine and sipping spring water at the table next to me, until he came over and introduced himself. This man, with not an extra ounce of fat on him, wanted to coach someone, me, in the fine art of gaining weight?

"You are well on the way," he said amiably as I began on a bagel with cream cheese, butter and American cheese that he handed me. "But you are obviously in a slump, or you would be truly obese by now, not just a piddling 254 pounds."

Piddling? I had worked hard to get to this weight!

"Let me show you my album," he said, pulling out a small book of photographs. "These are all women I have coached. Not a single one is now less than four hundred pounds."

I looked slowly through the photographs. Each woman wore the same bathing suit - a string model with extra cord attached to go around their enormous buttocks and chests. It concealed basically nothing. They were, without exception, huge, their skins stretched by monstrous amounts of fat, their facial features obliterated by pouches and swags of flesh. But one and all they looked beatific and I was instantly jealous. I crammed the rest of the bagel in my mouth to keep from confessing my craving to look just like them, or perhaps, even a bit bulkier.

"Let me show you their before pictures," he said softly, laying another book of photos beside the first. "I think you'll find the changes impressive."

I believe they were the same women, but it was hard to be certain. They all wore the same bikini - which almost fit some of them. Not one was as heavy as me, although all were fat in society's eyes. "So?" I pretended nonchalance.

"I helped all these women reach their goals. I can help you. Tell me what you have been doing to fatten yourself…"

Drawn in by his matter of fact tone, I detailed my actions. He simply nodded until I came to the diary.

"Oh, excellent. Yes - I always learn something from my girls. But I think we can go one better by recording the comments so the tone of voice will help trigger overeating. I'll work out how to do it. Now let me tell you my side of the bargain. I support the girl I am coaching until she reaches her goal - then she is on her own. I provide all food, shelter, clothing, coaching, and anything else she may desire within certain monetary limits. I take nothing in return."

"Not even sex?" Despite my growing excitement I was trying to be sensibly suspicious.

"Watching girls fatten is better than any sex for me," he said cheerily. "I feel truly fulfilled and, if you wish, engorged. So, what do you say?"

"But I've been overeating - and I'm not gaining. What makes you think you can help me?"

"I have the key," he said. "Fasting. Fast for several months. Gorge until you regain twenty percent more than you lost. Then fast again; gorge again. You can become any size you wish with my system. It takes time, but the results are excellent, so its worth doing it right."

"How fat can I get?" I was too eager to hide my longing.

"As fat as you want," he answered. "I have yet to find an upper limit to my girls' gaining."

"I choose when to stop?"

"Well," he hedged. "That's my prerogative, actually. I judge whether you are strong enough to continue fattening, and stop the process when you can't afford to gain any more weight. After all, I don't want to harm my girls. But I guarantee at least a doubling of the initial weight. In your case that would put you over five hundred pounds."

500 pounds!! Pleasure squirched inside me. "Done," I said immediately. "When do we begin?"

"Right now," he said happily. "Right now."

That night he had my things moved into a room in his large apartment, and took photographs of me wearing the bikini. Then he gave me a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt that comfortably covered my fat flesh. Under his supervision I fasted, taking in quarts of water and special saw-dusty liquid meals. It was horrible, because he ate in front of me, talked to me about food, insisted I watch cooking shows. All my dreams were about stuffing my face, and I often woke in tears, my stomach aching with hunger.

While I fasted he insisted I exercise under the supervision of a personal trainer who came to his apartment. At first that meant easy stretches and slowly hiking a mile a day. But by the end of the fasting months I was jogging four miles at a time (twice a day), swimming a brisk mile, and lifting weights. At the trainer's suggestion a masseur was brought in to give me a daily massage to help my skin tighten from losing weight so quickly. The masseur was a gentle plump man, thorough and very sympathetic. He listened to my complaining about fasting and encouraged me to give the regime a chance.

But all the time I was losing and becoming fit I fantasized about eating, gaining weight, ballooning into a blimp. I lost 115 pounds, putting me at a mere 142 pounds, the lowest I had been since college, and the sweatpants had to be pinned at the waist to keep them from falling off me. Nor was I plump, since I had exercised many pounds of muscles onto my frame. I was fit, trim, healthy, attractive and desperate to stuff my face.

After another session with a camera and the bikini, I was allowed to break my fast. The feeder sat me at a table groaning with food and told me to go at it. And did I ever, until I had eaten so much I vomited. "Stupid," he chided me. "Here take this," a small white pill, "it will help your stomach to stretch again. Eat until you feel full, rest an hour, pop another, eat again until full, and so on. You will be gratified at the results."

And was I ever. I regained the 115 pounds and twenty percent more in thirty days. Thirty days! That's almost five pounds a day!! The trainer stayed away during this period, but the masseur was a constant presence who kneaded my stomach when it felt engorged, and murmured hesitant comments about how attractive he found my expanding body. Served by my feeder, I moved from table to bed and back, never exercising as I lived my most potent fantasy. My hips swelled to sixty inches; my breasts filled out to an "I" cup; my abdomen lost all semblance of a waist as I ballooned to a swollen bellied 279 pounds, content to recline with a packed stomach and ample snacks in front of a TV all day, breathless and waddling when I moved at more than a slow walk. My sweat pants wouldn't tug over my gut and the T-shirt rode up under my engorged breasts so that almost my entire belly was exposed. I felt marvelous.

"Fasting time again," the feeder announced, taking away my food. "Up and moving, my little couch porker."

I despised the months of fasting and exercise. Took no pleasure in my slendering body, the loosening sweat pants, my ability to jog two panting miles. Dreamed and fantasized about gorging until my stomach couldn't be stuffed any fuller. He talked to me constantly about food, being fat, having a belly and breasts and hips and thighs grosser than anyone else in the mall. This time I lost only 100 pounds, remaining a pudgy out-of-condition 179 pounds.

"Good, good," he said happily, passing me the pills and setting a mountain of food in front of me. "Eat hearty."

I gained back 120 percent, 120 pounds, in only 24 days. At 299 pounds I felt replete, fully rounded and uninterested in moving. When I walked my legs rubbed down past my knees, my face flushed, my belly jellied up and down, my breath came in pants that set my huge breasts to heaving. Sitting my gut rested on my upper thighs, and my unconstrained breasts reached my waist, or would have if my upper belly swell hadn't been in the way! Content with my girth, I might have stopped the process there, but the feeder wouldn't allow it.

This time as I fasted the trainer really pushed me to exercise. When I complained my feeder said that exercise was the key to gaining, but I never moved from slow waddling to walking let alone to jogging, never became fit, or trim, because I only lost 80 pounds.

I regained 100 pounds in 15 days, becoming a gut busting 319 pounds in the process. The Feeder had to give me new sweats when the old ones wouldn't reach past my knees. When I waddled my enormous thighs pushed against the lower swag of my belly and my breasts hung like milk engorged udders. I had never imagined I could look like a pregnant hippo. And at 319 pounds - not five hundred. Enough. I was fat enough. When the feeder took me to the mall for a feast, I felt every one mocking me as I slowly, breathlessly, waddled, my elephant belly swaying, breasts jiggling. "I'm too fat," I whined to my feeder, even as I gobbled the last of the meals he had provided.

"Nonsense," he exclaimed. "Tomorrow you begin the crucial fast. You are so near your goal of becoming super blimp. Don't give up now!" Seeing my tray was empty he got up and brought me back several soft serve hot fudge sundaes.

Even as I greedily spooned ice cream into a stomach that was already over full I whined, "I'm too fat. I want out. I don't want to fast and gorge any more. I want to be normal!"

"Listen," he said seriously. "You made me a promise. I agreed to be your feeder, to provide you with everything you need, if you would be my feedee. Have I kept my part of the bargain?"

"Yes," and he had, more thoroughly than I had thought possible.

"Then you owe it to me to go through one more cycle. That's all I am asking for. Just one more fast and gorge cycle."

I scraped at the last bowl trying to get a morsel more of the fudge stuck to it. "Well, just one more…"

He pushed me harder these months than ever before and instructed the trainer to do the same. They made me go to the mall daily, waddling, panting, sweating, tugging up my loosening sweats, hearing nasty remarks about super blimp pretending to diet. The feeder recorded all negative comments and played them for me as a spur to exercising and fasting religiously. The trainer called me names in public, fat sow, porker, jelly belly. Only the masseur gave me emotional support, telling me I was beautiful. But I shrugged off his comments: since I had first met him he had gained quite a lot of weight himself, concentrated in a swollen protruding paunch that could not be concealed under his loose clothing, so of course he had to pretend that obese is attractive.

The regime worked. I lost ninety pounds. That left me at 229 pounds - hardly slender or fit by any one's measure. My deflated lower abdominal skin hung in folds past my pubic area, and my breasts, similarly stretched, drooped below where my waist should have been, but wasn't since I now had a permanent paunch that swelled out from under my breasts. I couldn't jog; and my thighs remained so big they rubbed together from hip to knee, slowing my walk and making it almost a waddle. I didn't feel slenderer; I didn't look slenderer; and I didn't believe the masseur who still proffered his love. All I wanted was to end my association with the feeder.

"Fine," he said. "You've been a good sport. Just finish the cycle, that's all, then you will be free to go."

Out came the pills and the food. Need I add I ate without restraint, the pills making every bite taste like ambrosia? The masseur worked overtime to help my abdomen stretch and my stomach digest the huge meals I fed it. I never gained less than six pounds a day, and kept it up for 30 days, ending up at a gigantic 409 pounds.

"You didn't make it to 500 pounds," said the feeder sorrowfully as he stood me in front of a mirror to take many photographs of me wearing the augmented bikini. "You're certain you won't give me just a few more days?"

"No," this time I denied my inner longing to be ever more enormous. Looking at the photographs I had to admit that I was pleased with the results of his feeding. My lower belly hung in a huge roll to just above my knee, and I had three large tires of fat stacked on top. My engorged breasts were pushed to the side and hung under my fat-swagged arms, which were angled outwards by my rotundity. My hips were as broad as my belly and stuck out behind like a shelf. Double chins swung from my jaw and rested just above my breasts. My eyes were deep inside the protection of my fat swollen cheeks. Just looking at my exaggerated femininity made me hungry for more! But I was equally certain I was not interested in gaining any more fat for this feeder. Maybe another male, sometime, in other, more loving circumstances, could help me fulfill my fantasy of being the heaviest woman, but not this cold fish.

On the promise of an outing to the mall food court, the feeder dressed me in a flowing cheap muu-muu, and helped me squeeze through the extra-wide doors and out of the house. Where he told me that I was now on my own, and drove away in his car.

Where could I go? I was too fat, too out of condition to waddle more than a few swaying steps at a time, and even these left me straining for breath. I managed to reach a nearby bench and collapsed, crying. What had possessed me to indulge in such a foolish fantasy? Not even the temporary agency, always desperate for help, would send me out to jobs while I was a blimp! How would I support myself? Who would love me?

A full sized van drew up in front of me. Out popped the masseur and hurried over to me, his prominent belly jouncing, barely confined by baggy sweat pants he had to constantly tug up. "Are you all right?" he asked. "I didn't think he would kick you out quite so promptly. But when he called to cancel my visit today I knew." His round face tightened with concern. "Where are you going to go? What are you going to do now?"

I just wept.

"Please don't cry," he begged. "I want you to come home with me."

"You don't want me," I shoved at my belly, wobbling it from side to side like an obscene pudding.

"Yes, I do!" he protested, taking my hands. "I have loved you from the first day I came here. I adore your abundant flesh, your unrestrained appetite, your sexy vastness," his face reddened. "Please say you'll come home with me! You'll never want for anything, ever. I promise. Please!!"

Reader, how could I resist? I went home with my masseur. And the pleasure we have shared is as immense as my body has become.