One year on Patreon

This time last year, I was on track to getting my life and body back. The moon I'd blown my face up into was starting to look attractive and almost angular again. The wobbling mess that my hot little obsession had transformed my body into was starting to look respectable again. Still plump, but not obscene. People were proud of me. Every time I saw my friends they told me how good I was looking. It was obvious they were thrilled to see I was turning back into the person they recognised.

And then, a little thought in the back of my mind thought, "What if I just went back, but didn't gain any weight?"

I could look but not participate. I'd worked hard to undo the horror transformation I'd put my body through, but I missed the gaining community, and I thought I was in control.

So I posted a small announcement. Said hello again. Admitted the weight I'd lost. Showed my new body. Stated my intentions to stay that way.

My inbox was immediately flooded.

The endorphins started to rush.

'Gaining no weight' turned into 'just gaining a tiny bit of weight'. I'd been so good for so long. I could put on just a little, something that people wouldn't even notice. A little 'welcome back' present to myself.

In the back of my mind, I could see history repeating itself. I ignored it, and planned my first stuffing in months. Walking home from the grocery store with a bag full of cookies, ice cream, frozen pizza, sausages and bread, chocolate (I don't honestly recall exactly what I bought but these sorts of things were my go-to), I remember feeling my little belly jiggling underneath my t-shirt, and thinking back to how it had felt when it had flopped and bumped. When it had hung low and slapped my thighs. I'd gotten used to sucking it in again. It had gotten to a point by then that I could. And when I did, I looked almost normal. Not skinny, but normal. Thick, but not someone you'd stare at. With my heart pounding and excitement turning me lightheaded, I slowly relaxed my stomach muscles and let it out. My tshirt pulled, and I blushed. I remember trying to subtly shift my hips to work my jeans down enough for my newly-released belly to hang over the waistband. The feeling was a bolt of nostalgia and fantasy. I hadn't let myself feel like this in a long time, too afraid it would do exactly what it was already starting to do, and pull me back in.

The fear only made it better. Was I going to ruin my body again? Was I going to put myself through that horribly embarrassing ordeal, destroy the good looks I'd only just started to get back? Of course not, I told myself. But I was walking home with thousands of calories stuffed in a bag to do just that.

I breathed in and pushed my stomach out, as big as I could, and felt my t-shirt pull across the front of my belly, felt my face heat up, felt my heart start pounding. I shouldn't be looking like this in public. 

In hindsight, I think it was then that I knew I wasn't going to be able to stop.

When I stuffed myself that night, it was almost like getting high. The forbidden thrill went straight to my head, the privacy and the taboo, doing something so counterintuitive to what I'd been working so hard for. It was a one-man bacchanalia. The novelty and nostalgia of a heavy, stretched belly. The excited tremble of what I was doing to myself. Pleasure, thick and heavy in the air.

I don't want to get fat, I whispered to myself, one hand curling under the new engorged roundness, the feeling of it in my palm pulling back vivid memories of hot shame, rushing blood, flushing face, and racing heart. I whispered it again, and pushed the whole block of chocolate into my mouth, biting off half a dozen pieces at once.

I don't want to get fat, I whispered, more like a moan, and rubbed into the side of my gut, tenderly soothing it, then giving it a wobble. 

Please. I loved to hear myself beg. I don't want to get fat.

And I ate until I saw stars.

When I woke up in the morning, still bloated and heavy, in a body that felt both new and frighteningly familiar, I knew what I'd begun.

And then I made a little video.

It was maybe a few weeks later. I had the idea out of the blue on a Friday night while walking to the train station after being out in a new part of town. That might seem like an insignificant detail, but it wasn't. I'd already put on a little weight, and it was small enough to still be my hot little secret, which made it somehow even more exciting when I would release my stomach and let it all tumble over my waistband, making me visually fat in an instant. I would let myself do that when I was in different parts of town, where neither me nor anyone I knew lived, where I wouldn't be seen. I could feel it so plainly, it felt so blatant. My waistband was tighter. My t-shirt clung. My face felt puffy but that was probably from all the salt. 

And then the idea came to me. To make a little trailer. Some cinematic-looking video showing myself off.

You know how sometimes you have those thoughts that come out of nowhere, like lightning, and you just know instantly that they're going to change your life? It's so vivid in my memory. I wasn't quite sure how long it would take me to get home, but every minute was agony. I was desperate to get back and get to work, and sat on the train with my belly pushed out in my lap, even under the bright interior lights, making a shot list on my phone.

I got home around 9pm, opened a bottle of wine and a bag of cookies, and got to work.

I filmed and ate all weekend.

Watching the clips back, I was overwhelmed. The way I looked from angles I'd never seen before, the way I wobbled, the way I looked like some obese showpony, on display and begging for attention. This wasn't how I'd ever intended to end up, and that only made it more exciting.

When my friends abruptly stopped telling me how great I was looking, I knew my weight gain was starting to show. It hit me with a barrage of mixed emotions, but the strongest one by far was arousal. So I went home and ate until I was gasping, then took more photos. Took a video. Watched it back until I was gasping again.

I started outgrowing clothes. I started to look different. Feeling a wobble where there hadn't been one before. The exhilarating awareness it was getting out of control. The thrill of not being able to hide what was happening to me anymore, exposed and fattening, knowing everyone was seeing. I would go through entire days so lightheaded with arousal that it was like being drunk. That I would think back the morning after and hardly remember any of it.

And then I decided I need more. I loved looking fat for the camera, seeing myself wobble and showing it off, making my body into art and then making art from my body. But art that made me blush, and made me burn. I wanted to do this all the time. I wanted it to be my job.

But I knew that could come with some dramatic physical side effects.

And that just made it hotter.

(like everything I write, this ended up getting a bit flowery 😆 But just to be clear, this is not fiction, it's a true account of my head-first fall back into weight gain one year ago this month. Thank you so much everyone who's been along for the ride)