Weight Game Streamer

Brendan hurried back to his station, careful not to drop the precarious stack of tinfoil trays in his hands. He huffed and clicked his tongue, muttering to himself about delivery drivers and being too early. One by one, he transferred the stack to an empty section on his desk. A dozen white lidded containers, a dozen Styrofoam boxes, and a trinity of two litre bottles of cola to join the field of unopened drinks he kept underneath. He pulled the receipt out from between his breasts and poured over the details. When someone ordered the volume Brendan did taking inventory was mandatory--god forbid he be short a single burger, hot dog or chicken tender. It took him a few minutes to cross-reference every item. Everything was accounted for, bringing a smile to his snouted face.

“Alright guys, sorry for the interruption. Delivery Fox said that it was going to be another twenty minutes. I wasn’t intending to eat on stream, but I guess we’re doing another gorge-and-gankfest,” Brendan explained the situation to his followers. An expensive webcam rested on the top of his monitor; a blinking mechanical eye perched atop a curved screen almost as wide as his belly. Another two screens, squatter but still impressive when they didn’t have to compete, were erected to the sides of the primary monitor. Another webcam had been positioned to the far left, on top of the computer tower itself. Brendan claimed it was for doing bits and providing a wider angle for his virtual reality streams, but his viewers gave it another name; the chair-break camera.

The chair-break camera was a reference to the frequent destruction Brendan visited on his gaming chairs. He had gone through about twenty, each growing in scale and becoming more reinforced with every incident. The chair he settled into today had wide, curving arm rests, that accommodated his girthy hips, but still brushed up against his sides from time to time. Its hydraulic cylinder was reinforced with military grade alloy. And the cushion was an expensive blend of memory foam, and shape retaining plastics, which bent and conformed to the boar’s doorway blocking ass when it heated up. All together it looked like a futuristic pilot’s seat, rather than a seat for a video game streamer. It cost almost as much as his computer.

Thankfully, Brendan had a loyal fanbase who were eager to foot the cost of his new chair. His takeaway was paid for by the stream as well. His fans were incredibly supportive of his work and would pay through the nose to ensure he was well fed and comfortable. Not every streamer got to be so lucky, so Brendan made sure to clap his porcine hooves together and offer a heartfelt thank you to tonight’s donors. He leant forward, accidentally causing his viewers to gain a deep view of his cleavage, and offered a sincere message of gratitude, filling the camera’s view with his heavy moobs. He was gifted, or cursed, depending on the day, by a prodigious chest. Something he inherited from the women in his family. When he leant back into the reinforced chair his chat had lit up with emojis. Everyone was posting the same thing; two watermelons, over and over. Brendan scratched his head. He didn’t always understand the trends his chat followed. But they were happy, and waiting eagerly for him to begin his next session, and that’s what mattered.

“Alright everyone let’s get started,” Brendan smiled at the camera and booted up his go-to choice for streaming. The colourful red and gold lettering for League of the Ancients 3 popped up on his desktop, then darkened the screen to reveal the launcher. He typed his username and password, got it wrong a few times, finally achieving success on the fourth attempt. His keyboard had wide spaced keys, a necessity for larger porcine mammals with a penchant for high dexterity role playing games. He snorted triumphantly and made a show of pointing at the screen.

“And this ladies and gentlemen?” He motioned a fat arm at the monitor, causing his doughy bicep to wobble like a slapped pudding. A black furred bear in a white fur vest took up the screen, wielding a twin pair of war hammers as tall as he was. “This is Barrag, the Bearserker. He’s the newest addition to the game as of this morning and he’s quickly becoming one of my favourite characters,” which was something he tended to say about most new Avatars, the playable characters of LOTA3. But this time he meant it.

“Barrag is a front-line bruiser who stores up energy as he takes damage,” Brendan popped a Styrofoam box open and devoured the burger within. He licked the grease from his hoof, and then continued speaking. “The more energy he stores up, the less damage he takes, and the more he can dish out. The trick is managing his healing ability. You see... hang on, that burger made me thirsty,” he paused and unscrewed the cap of a two-litre bottle of cola, chugging it down by a third and pausing for breath. His stomach gurgled, and he erupted with a belch. The chat replied by filling the text box with applause emojis.

“Sorry about that,” he said while absent mindedly divesting a thick and crispy coated chicken wing of its meat. “Barrag becomes slower the more he swells up like a damage sponge,” Brendan placed the wing in his mouth then pulled out a clean chicken bone. “That means his movement speed, attack speed, and cooldowns all suffer as his damage and tankiness goes up.” He grabbed the same bottle of cola, chugged it dry, then massaged his stomach out of view of the primary webcam. But the side facing chair-break camera gave his viewers a wide shot of the boar rubbing his stomach, and his microphone picked up the intense sloshing and gurgling within.

“Guess I’m hungrier than I thought,” Brendan pushed another burger into his mouth, barely chewing the beef patty before it slid down into his stomach. His rapid soda consumption perked his belly up, giving it a taut curvaceousness that contrasted the natural teardrop shape of his body. He kept on going for new pieces of food from the stack of chicken, burgers and hot dogs. His stream lit up with commentary, talking about how this was going to be another one of Brendan’s ‘moments’ or how it would eventually devolve into another suspension. The boar didn’t pay attention to the chat, he was focused on filling his belly, the initial purpose of the stream becoming lost in his hunger daze.

“Just a few more bites.”

Two hot dogs, one in each hoof, plunged into his open mouth. He chased the piping hot pork with cool drink, a fizzy orange soda. He glugged it with reckless abandon, snorting air through his snout to keep himself from asphyxiating as he drained it to the last. His stomach was rising from the purple tank top he wore to cover himself; it didn’t fit at the best of times, and his bloating raised it up and against his wide facing breasts. He felt a twinge of soreness at his furthest point, lamenting his inability to rub that area of his stomach as it extended well past his knees.

“Mm, well it would be a waste to let it go cold,” Brendan began working on the boxes of wings, chicken legs and alternated between on the bone chicken and the boneless tenders. He used his right hoof to hold the former and sawed away at each greasy, tender piece of fried succulence. His left hand was relegated to the latter, providing him with a constant supply of less greasy, but no less filling cutlets of chicken coated in golden breadcrumbs. The more he filled up, the higher his gut rose and the further it encroached on his desk.

Brendan could feel the sanded edge of his computer station pressed against him. It dug into him a few inches above his navel, eliciting a gentle moan as the pressure it exerted was just enough to send a shiver of delight down his spine. He wished his audience could help him. It was well and good that he lived deliciously off their generosity, but he was sorely in need of a more physical type of support. A pair of strong hands running up and down the contours of his gut, armed with peppermint oil to cool the hot, sweaty feeling which began there, and had spread to the rest of his body. He was coated in a sheen of sweat, making his short brown fur and skin glisten.

“I’m... I’m going to take a short break, you guys,” Brendan spoke though laboured groans. He struggled to see over the protuberant, singular curve of his stomach. It was taut, with barely any give, like a weighty balloon. Brendan extended a hoof, feeling the sweat trickle down from his forehead and on to his shoulder. His flabby bicep wobbled as he struggled to reach for the last remaining piece of his meal, waiting for him inside of the largest Styrofoam container. It taunted him with the faintly sweat aroma of meat and grease.

His chat was pulsing with cheers and goading from the audience to keep eating. They celebrated his conquest, and made comparisons between his groaning belly and whatever large, round shapes they could conjure in their collective minds. He squinted, pushed too far from his screen to read with clarity and too overcome with the self-inflicted fullness to comprehend. Brendan swore he could see comparisons to cartoon pigs, famous blimps, even a few of the fatter champions from League of the Ancients 3. The only comment he could read properly was one in bold, highlighted by the user spending their points from watching regular streams, which read: BET YOU CAN’T CHUG THREE BOTTLES IN A ROW.

Brendan reached his final box. He discarded the box and gingerly brought the burger to his snout. His destruction of the patty, bun, meat and cheese was drawn out, almost sensual through the slowness of each bite. It was juicy and exploded in his mouth, delicious, fattening, moreish. But he could feel the fullness in his belly pulse, warning him against adding any more to the packed uneven sphere he was still determined to feed up. “Just a bit, more, I’ve still gotta chug.”

He used his hoof to press the final bite into his mouth. For a moment he couldn’t hear anything over the turbulent gurgling, and he worried he might erupt in more than just a belch. “Ugh, I’m gonna burst,” he rubbed his flanks. They were the only parts of his extended middle he could reach, and even then, he barely managed. It felt like simply existing in such a corpulent state was enough to give him a full body workout. But the ache, while tense and a little painful, was exquisite in its own way.

“Heh. Maybe... being fit to burst... would help me play a character with burst damage?” He laboured to ready another two litre of cola. He placed the neck in his mouth, his stream drawing comparisons between the way it bubbled as he glugged, and the way someone would go about refilling a water cooler. His eyes rolled back, and he moaned. His wide breasts rose up, almost cushioning his double chin, as his stomach pushed everything up, out, and away. It rose another couple of inches, the soft brown flesh tinting rouge with absolute fullness.

Brendan made quick work of the second of the three bottles his audience had taunted him to down. He felt a trickle of cola drip down his flushed cheeks, but it didn’t deter him. He went for the final bottle, and practically breathed its contents in, absorbing that sugary liquid into his stomach.

When a groan filled the room Brendan worried he might have overdone it, and that his seams were about to split like an overstuffed cushion. It continued and took on a deeper tone, the sound of straining metal. A sequence of high-pitched squeals preceded the rivets in the armrests of his chair firing out, impacting the walls at terminal velocity and joining scores of similar marks from past chairs. When Brendan tipped back, it was already too late, and with an almighty bang the chair was gone. A pile of compressed scrap dug into his ass cheeks.

With a hissing woosh, the gas within his belly agitated and rose into his cheeks, puffing them out like grapefruits. Brendan went crossed eyed before releasing a belch of such magnitude it shook the windows, his stomach - now uncompressed by his desk, and vented of its excess pressure - relaxed, prompting the boar to sigh dreamily.

His stream applauded, but a few comments alluded to League of the Ancients 3. Wondering if Brendan was ever going to get back to playing the game, or if tonight was going to be another post-glut nap show.