Britt Reid
Library Editor
~BBW, Imagery, ~Sex, ~MWG – a latent BBW finds both her true beauty and true love
Part 1 – Becoming the Fat Girl
“Ugh I’m getting fat.” I said to my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
The body I was looking at could not possibly be mine. I knew I had been neglecting my exercise for over a year now, and for the past month had been haphazardly overeating. But, certainly I would have noticed something before this! At least… I should have noticed something before this…
While it used to loosely hang off my body the black nightie I was wearing was snug tight against my torso, and did nothing to hide the fact that my soft potbelly stuck out farther than my breasts.
The elastic band on my pink yoga pants was stretched to its maximum across what could only be described as the cream colored width of my belly and hips while my buttocks and thighs were stretching the soft fabric.
I looked at myself from the front: I was curvy, soft, and thick – obviously a woman who wasn’t exercising and obviously eating just a little too much. And it was, I knew, true. Who had I been kidding with my rationalizations that a snack or to here, a second helping there, and the not so occasional dessert to boot “couldn’t matter?”
Of course they mattered! And in reality I knew that. But part of me just hadn’t cared.
Though still only B-cups, my breasts did now seem fuller, and even in black from the front the round bulge of my belly could not be hidden, my hips were obviously wider, and there were love handles
“I’ve never had those before, “I acknowledged to myself, but only objectively. There was no disgust or remorse.
Even with as much as I had grown in width I looked even fuller when I turned to the side and saw my thickened thighs, my full buttocks sticking out from my rear, and my potbelly bulging in front of my body.
I turned and looked over my shoulder: my ass was so wide and full my jaw dropped. I kept staring at my body: I was so full, so plump, so soft, so tender, so scary for someone who used to be tiny. I was frighteningly chubby; I was frighteningly… beautiful…
The thought startled me.
“No, I’m not” I told myself. “‘ I’ve put on forty pounds since the last time I weighed myself. I’m not beautiful or sexy anymore: I’m woefully out of shape, I’m chubby, “
Who was I kidding? My true feeling was “I’m … gorgeous…”
I lifted up my nightie and I studied the soft round fullness of my potbelly and I smiled. I rubbed it and pinched the thick layer of fat on it. I giggled.
I should have been appalled by what had become of my body; the forty pounds of extra flesh on my thighs, butt, hips, and stomach, but no. Instead I slapped my belly and rotated my hips while I bit my lower lip and smiled.
What was I so happy about? I was so out of shape and chubby, but there was this contented gleam in my eye.
“I need to lose weight,” I told myself over and over until I was able to pull myself away from my own reflection.
I glanced at the clock; it was almost midnight, and I was feeling a little puckish. I went to my pantry and reached for an oatmeal cream pie. I paused, then decided that one wouldn’t hurt, and I could start jogging again tomorrow.
Right now this pie needed some milk as a chaser … and there was a situation comedy rerun on the tv that caught my fancy.
Moments passed. Two episodes later I glanced around, noting the five empty wrappers, which I crimpled together for the trash can.
I looked down at my widened middle. I grabbed the box from the pantry and went back to the bathroom with the remainder of the empty milk carton.
I sat the carton on the counter, and studied the softness of my body as I unwrapped and consumed the remaining four oatmeal cream pies.
When I had finished I rubbed my plump belly and purred, catching myself smiling again.
“What am I doing?” I asked remembering I already weighed 180 pounds. I knew I shouldn’t be eating like this! I had just filled up on junk food at midnight and I knew I should hate my body. But when I looked at my reflection again - the way my flesh filled out my clothes, and the way my belly sat slack from my middle resting on my thighs I simply smiled again.
“I’m getting fat.” I said grinning.
I took a glass of wine for a nightcap and lay in bed with my soft potbelly sticking up from my middle.
“I’m getting fat.” I whispered these words to myself over and over again my fingers traced light patterns over my palpable flesh. “I’m getting fat, I’m getting fat, I’m getting fat…”
I laid in bed for about an hour before I got up again and helped myself to a large bowl of leftover spaghetti, and another glass of wine before finally letting myself doze until the morning..
…….
Despite not going to bed until the wee hours of the morning I woke up feeling quite well rested, refreshed, and very hungry. I didn’t think about the plumpness of my body when my tummy grumbled; I just went to the kitchen for my breakfast.
I placed my plate on the table and sat. That’s when I thought about my weight again. I felt my belly rest on my lap, and I gazed down at it spreading wide over my thighs, and I looked at my overflowing plate of food.
“I’ll just eat half of that now, and the rest at lunch.” I told myself but when I had eaten half it was, “just maybe one more bite,” then “just another bite,” and after that it was again, “just one more bite.”
When all the food was in my belly I sipped my coffee trying not to obsess over the forty extra pounds of fat on my body: my soft thighs, my full chubby buttocks filling up my seat, and the round growing belly poking out from under my breasts and perched on my lap. I tried not to think about any of it, but in the back of my mind there was a broken record: “I’m getting fat, I’m getting fat, I’m getting fat…”
When I rested my arm at my side I felt it brush my love handle, and I looked at my coffee which was so pale it was more cream than coffee.
“No wonder I’m getting fat.” I said taking another sip.
After breakfast I grabbed a bag of chips and reclined on the sofa to watch television in order to distract myself from my body and from my plumpness. There was nothing really worthwhile on, but I was able to keep thinking about it too much.
After a few hours though I became bored with the television, and I realized at some point I had lifted my nightie up to reveal my full belly and my hand was aimlessly rubbing my plump flesh. I looked at the three empty chip bags on the coffee table and sighed contentedly my mantra, “I’m getting fat.”
I stood up planning to exercise, but only made it to the kitchen for a bowl of ice cream. When I sat back down I felt and heard the seam across the butt of my yoga pants rip, and I began laughing while I ate the ice cream.
Feeling my plump body shake as I giggled and filled my stuffed belly up I came to terms with the fact that I could no longer deny the fact that I was actually enjoying what was happening. I swallowed the last bit of ice cream and smacked my poochey belly.
“I’m getting fat.” I said aloud smiling.
I changed clothes, I had great difficulty in squeezing my body into the jeans, and even though the sweatshirt was big my potbelly was still very visible as a rounded bulge. But, Saturday was grocery day anyway.
The entire time I was at the grocery store I felt like I was spilling out of and being choked by my tight clothing, I felt guilty for buying all the junk food I could, and yet I felt free to do so, free to put in my body what I felt like eating, regardless of how fattening it was. I felt like people could see underneath my sweatshirt and were seeing in their minds the soft coating of fat clinging to my once lithe frame.
When I came back from the grocery store I had to undo the uncomfortably tight jeans, and I loafed and I ate and smiled and snacked on all the extra junk food I had picked up.
The television was on again, but all of my attention was on my food, the plumpness of my body, and how full I was.
I spent the remainder of my Saturday and all of my Sunday doing nothing but loafing and snacking.
In fact I spend the next few months of weekends in the same fashion until one Sunday evening I realized I had neglected all of my weekend chores that week and got myself off the couch to clean, but I only grabbed yet another bag of chips which I had eaten by the time I made it to the bathroom
My jaw must have put a hole in the floor when I saw my reflection. My hips were now even wider, my love handles had undeniably grown, my belly looked looser, fuller, and wider, my thighs were plushy smushed against each other. I turned to my side, my butt was much fuller and plumper, my love handles were spreading to a thick deposit of fat on my back, my thighs seemed immensely thicker as well, I knew my breasts had to be c-cups now, and my belly bulged out loosely to what seemed like twice as much as it had before.
“I am getting fat,” I exclaimed
I stepped on the scale and read the bright digital numbers, 227 pounds.
“Wh… what?” I asked myself in disbelief with my lower lip quivering. “Even after the way I’ve pigged out all weekend for every weekend over the past couple of months there’s no way I had piled so much on to be another 47 pounds heavier!”
I was shocked, but I rubbed my full grown belly and smiled.
“I’m not getting fat,” I said to my soft overfed reflection, “I am fat.”
I was grinning and rubbing my wide midsection.
“And, I…” I patted my spreading loose belly, “am going to get fatter.”
I grinned my way to my kitchen with my junk food stocked pantry.
At this point I couldn’t help but acknowledge that I had fully accepted this lifestyle, this choice, this desire, and everything it was doing to me. I was now fat, couldn’t hide that. I had grown lazy and unfit, and had been enjoying being that way. There was no reason for me not to continue this. The cream pastry in my mouth made my hum with pleasure, “I am fat, and getting fatter.”
Beth
By Kissy the Amazon
By Kissy the Amazon
Part 1 – Becoming the Fat Girl
“Ugh I’m getting fat.” I said to my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
The body I was looking at could not possibly be mine. I knew I had been neglecting my exercise for over a year now, and for the past month had been haphazardly overeating. But, certainly I would have noticed something before this! At least… I should have noticed something before this…
While it used to loosely hang off my body the black nightie I was wearing was snug tight against my torso, and did nothing to hide the fact that my soft potbelly stuck out farther than my breasts.
The elastic band on my pink yoga pants was stretched to its maximum across what could only be described as the cream colored width of my belly and hips while my buttocks and thighs were stretching the soft fabric.
I looked at myself from the front: I was curvy, soft, and thick – obviously a woman who wasn’t exercising and obviously eating just a little too much. And it was, I knew, true. Who had I been kidding with my rationalizations that a snack or to here, a second helping there, and the not so occasional dessert to boot “couldn’t matter?”
Of course they mattered! And in reality I knew that. But part of me just hadn’t cared.
Though still only B-cups, my breasts did now seem fuller, and even in black from the front the round bulge of my belly could not be hidden, my hips were obviously wider, and there were love handles
“I’ve never had those before, “I acknowledged to myself, but only objectively. There was no disgust or remorse.
Even with as much as I had grown in width I looked even fuller when I turned to the side and saw my thickened thighs, my full buttocks sticking out from my rear, and my potbelly bulging in front of my body.
I turned and looked over my shoulder: my ass was so wide and full my jaw dropped. I kept staring at my body: I was so full, so plump, so soft, so tender, so scary for someone who used to be tiny. I was frighteningly chubby; I was frighteningly… beautiful…
The thought startled me.
“No, I’m not” I told myself. “‘ I’ve put on forty pounds since the last time I weighed myself. I’m not beautiful or sexy anymore: I’m woefully out of shape, I’m chubby, “
Who was I kidding? My true feeling was “I’m … gorgeous…”
I lifted up my nightie and I studied the soft round fullness of my potbelly and I smiled. I rubbed it and pinched the thick layer of fat on it. I giggled.
I should have been appalled by what had become of my body; the forty pounds of extra flesh on my thighs, butt, hips, and stomach, but no. Instead I slapped my belly and rotated my hips while I bit my lower lip and smiled.
What was I so happy about? I was so out of shape and chubby, but there was this contented gleam in my eye.
“I need to lose weight,” I told myself over and over until I was able to pull myself away from my own reflection.
I glanced at the clock; it was almost midnight, and I was feeling a little puckish. I went to my pantry and reached for an oatmeal cream pie. I paused, then decided that one wouldn’t hurt, and I could start jogging again tomorrow.
Right now this pie needed some milk as a chaser … and there was a situation comedy rerun on the tv that caught my fancy.
Moments passed. Two episodes later I glanced around, noting the five empty wrappers, which I crimpled together for the trash can.
I looked down at my widened middle. I grabbed the box from the pantry and went back to the bathroom with the remainder of the empty milk carton.
I sat the carton on the counter, and studied the softness of my body as I unwrapped and consumed the remaining four oatmeal cream pies.
When I had finished I rubbed my plump belly and purred, catching myself smiling again.
“What am I doing?” I asked remembering I already weighed 180 pounds. I knew I shouldn’t be eating like this! I had just filled up on junk food at midnight and I knew I should hate my body. But when I looked at my reflection again - the way my flesh filled out my clothes, and the way my belly sat slack from my middle resting on my thighs I simply smiled again.
“I’m getting fat.” I said grinning.
I took a glass of wine for a nightcap and lay in bed with my soft potbelly sticking up from my middle.
“I’m getting fat.” I whispered these words to myself over and over again my fingers traced light patterns over my palpable flesh. “I’m getting fat, I’m getting fat, I’m getting fat…”
I laid in bed for about an hour before I got up again and helped myself to a large bowl of leftover spaghetti, and another glass of wine before finally letting myself doze until the morning..
…….
Despite not going to bed until the wee hours of the morning I woke up feeling quite well rested, refreshed, and very hungry. I didn’t think about the plumpness of my body when my tummy grumbled; I just went to the kitchen for my breakfast.
I placed my plate on the table and sat. That’s when I thought about my weight again. I felt my belly rest on my lap, and I gazed down at it spreading wide over my thighs, and I looked at my overflowing plate of food.
“I’ll just eat half of that now, and the rest at lunch.” I told myself but when I had eaten half it was, “just maybe one more bite,” then “just another bite,” and after that it was again, “just one more bite.”
When all the food was in my belly I sipped my coffee trying not to obsess over the forty extra pounds of fat on my body: my soft thighs, my full chubby buttocks filling up my seat, and the round growing belly poking out from under my breasts and perched on my lap. I tried not to think about any of it, but in the back of my mind there was a broken record: “I’m getting fat, I’m getting fat, I’m getting fat…”
When I rested my arm at my side I felt it brush my love handle, and I looked at my coffee which was so pale it was more cream than coffee.
“No wonder I’m getting fat.” I said taking another sip.
After breakfast I grabbed a bag of chips and reclined on the sofa to watch television in order to distract myself from my body and from my plumpness. There was nothing really worthwhile on, but I was able to keep thinking about it too much.
After a few hours though I became bored with the television, and I realized at some point I had lifted my nightie up to reveal my full belly and my hand was aimlessly rubbing my plump flesh. I looked at the three empty chip bags on the coffee table and sighed contentedly my mantra, “I’m getting fat.”
I stood up planning to exercise, but only made it to the kitchen for a bowl of ice cream. When I sat back down I felt and heard the seam across the butt of my yoga pants rip, and I began laughing while I ate the ice cream.
Feeling my plump body shake as I giggled and filled my stuffed belly up I came to terms with the fact that I could no longer deny the fact that I was actually enjoying what was happening. I swallowed the last bit of ice cream and smacked my poochey belly.
“I’m getting fat.” I said aloud smiling.
I changed clothes, I had great difficulty in squeezing my body into the jeans, and even though the sweatshirt was big my potbelly was still very visible as a rounded bulge. But, Saturday was grocery day anyway.
The entire time I was at the grocery store I felt like I was spilling out of and being choked by my tight clothing, I felt guilty for buying all the junk food I could, and yet I felt free to do so, free to put in my body what I felt like eating, regardless of how fattening it was. I felt like people could see underneath my sweatshirt and were seeing in their minds the soft coating of fat clinging to my once lithe frame.
When I came back from the grocery store I had to undo the uncomfortably tight jeans, and I loafed and I ate and smiled and snacked on all the extra junk food I had picked up.
The television was on again, but all of my attention was on my food, the plumpness of my body, and how full I was.
I spent the remainder of my Saturday and all of my Sunday doing nothing but loafing and snacking.
In fact I spend the next few months of weekends in the same fashion until one Sunday evening I realized I had neglected all of my weekend chores that week and got myself off the couch to clean, but I only grabbed yet another bag of chips which I had eaten by the time I made it to the bathroom
My jaw must have put a hole in the floor when I saw my reflection. My hips were now even wider, my love handles had undeniably grown, my belly looked looser, fuller, and wider, my thighs were plushy smushed against each other. I turned to my side, my butt was much fuller and plumper, my love handles were spreading to a thick deposit of fat on my back, my thighs seemed immensely thicker as well, I knew my breasts had to be c-cups now, and my belly bulged out loosely to what seemed like twice as much as it had before.
“I am getting fat,” I exclaimed
I stepped on the scale and read the bright digital numbers, 227 pounds.
“Wh… what?” I asked myself in disbelief with my lower lip quivering. “Even after the way I’ve pigged out all weekend for every weekend over the past couple of months there’s no way I had piled so much on to be another 47 pounds heavier!”
I was shocked, but I rubbed my full grown belly and smiled.
“I’m not getting fat,” I said to my soft overfed reflection, “I am fat.”
I was grinning and rubbing my wide midsection.
“And, I…” I patted my spreading loose belly, “am going to get fatter.”
I grinned my way to my kitchen with my junk food stocked pantry.
At this point I couldn’t help but acknowledge that I had fully accepted this lifestyle, this choice, this desire, and everything it was doing to me. I was now fat, couldn’t hide that. I had grown lazy and unfit, and had been enjoying being that way. There was no reason for me not to continue this. The cream pastry in my mouth made my hum with pleasure, “I am fat, and getting fatter.”
