~BBW, Stuffing, Feederism, ~MWG - Over the hill model finds a feeder to make up for all the lost years
PRESENT DAY:
I can feel the sweat dripping from my forehead – thick layer of perspiration forming on my bare and bloated belly …buttons had burst long ago. I pant trying to stay ahead of the wedges of luscious buttery cake being pushed between my lips…food inflating my chipmunk cheeks. My gut aches, so overfed – couldn’t possibly budge from my equally overstuffed chair. More and more cake pushed between clenched teeth…mphfff…can’t speak to say please stop…mphfff…mphfff…mphfff…so stuffed can only grind and swallow…cheeks overstuffed…a piñata busting with treats…gut aching – the pain of being stretched too taunt.
I plead with him with my eyes to stop…but he knows my secret desires, fully understands my long buried fantasies. He understands everything and knows deep down I don’t really want him to stop. But, he did stop then…prolonging my anguish, putting the food just out of reach…so bloated can’t stand…can’t move. He reaches out and lightly brushes my belly. A shiver goes up my spine. I would have gasped if not for my face still swollen with chunks of cake.
Mphfff…mphfff…mphfff…lah…lah…my tongue is released and only crumbs remain. He lays my head back on his hairy chest and makes me take a long drink of water. Glug...glug…glug…glug…glug…glug...g lug…glug…glug…glug…glug…glug…glug…glug…he slows but doesn’t stop the flow. Belly rounding out, heavy on my lap. He lays his hand firmly on the top of my swollen mound. I scream, my suffering revealed. He stops stands back to assess his work. He attentively reaches out and touches me…more gently this time…I cry out again – can’t bare the touch – so much built up pressure – ready to explode.
A WHILE BACK:
I was a cute kid. The kind my mother said belonged on the jar of baby food. When I was about five, I was officially discovered by a talent agent. So, my mother put me into modeling. I started out quietly – a few catalog shoots here and a few there. This quickly turned to more catalogs wanting me to model and then exposure in many prominent magazines and a television commercial by the age of seven.
My parents were thrilled. My father had been sick for some time with cancer and the medical bills had been mounting. The money I made really made a difference. That was until I turned eleven. I hit a cold spell between eleven and fourteen. I had become an adolescent, a tween – not so cute anymore – the punk kid stage. Then came the zits to make it even harder to get looked at and then the weight gain. I was becoming round and pudgy; my body responding to the extra calories of a teenaged gormand. I didn't mind the extra flesh at all, and the ful feeling was ecstasy..
My mother freaked. “You can’t get fat, Lizzy,” she’d say. “No one is going to hire a fat model.”
She enrolled me in track. I ran the fat right off of me. I then began playing soccer and then began pumping iron like crazy. The weight came off and stayed off especially with the addition of a strict diet – vegetarian and drinking lots of water. Sometimes, I’d deliberately drink so much, my belly would bloat – swell really large. Sometime, I’d do it with diet soda, the bubbles further inflating me, expanding me; I’d rub my big belly enjoying the feel of it, knowing that I could never get this way if I wanted to continue modeling. I had to suffer for my art, so to speak.
When I hit 16, I had a slender 28-inch waist, hard, muscular shoulders and abs. The jobs flew in fast and continued into my early thirties. I was a hit, a living babe magnet for every guy with testostrerone in his veins. Everyone wanted my body on the cover or on the pages of some magazine.
The pressure to remain thin was intense. I struggled valiantly to keep up a body I was never meant to have. I starved myself, refusing to indulge in meat and fatty foods. I didn’t drink beer which would add too much weight. I pushed myself with backbreaking workouts, popped laxatives like candy, and blew myself up with large enemas…drank so much water I thought I’d burst. But, also I loved to inflate myself …to feel the sheer indulgence of being able to let myself go – get fat even if it was a fake fat – rubbing myself until I was hard.
It was around this time that I discovered Dimensions online. It started out as a curiosity. I found myself strangely attracted to men with large, bulbous bellies. Then I began reading the stories. I was totally hooked. It became a secret obsession. No one knew that I lusted after big men. Or that I enjoyed being bigger myself.
No one knew that I would bloat myself with water, secure myself in super tight clothing that made my swollen belly push out of my jeans. I’d lean back and rub my tortured belly as I read stories of men and women fattening, eating to their hearts content, and growing so, so round. Then I’d eat and eat until my belly hurt – rebelling against my forced starvation. This resulted in paying a heavy price later…the guilt…the scale moving forward… more deprivation and exhausting work outs to get rid of the pounds.
It wasn’t until I hit my thirties that my genetics began taking over and my will weakened. It seemed that no matter what I did, I continued to put on weight. And as the jobs stopped coming, my snacking and indulging in all the things I had denied myself took a strong hold. Love handles began to form, a slight belly over my belt, my thighs swelled like sausages in my too tight jeans - a size too small…the too tight waist making my belly jut out especially when I sat…my thighs rubbing together. I grew fatter and fatter. My 28-inch waist became a 36 in no time. Not that I was complaining.
I felt good. I looked good. Men still would stop and stare at me as I walked down the street. I got plenty of dates and had a few longer term relationships. The only problem was that I had to change my occupation. Some jobs came in from people who wanted bigger models (imagine thinking that a size 36 waist would be considered a plus size, but it is in modeling), but those weren’t going to keep me afloat for long.
I turned to the college classes I had taken in photography and my connections in the business. I started to work in the fashion industry, just on the other side of the camera. Then I began taking pictures for other magazines – scenic shots for travel and family fun magazines. Things were really going well. But, something was still missing.
I yearned to turn my fantasies into realities. I wanted to be fed. I wanted to fatten for someone. I wanted to find that special someone who would be accepting of me – all of me and of all I wanted to become. I never wanted to deprive myself again.
I began my search on the Internet and in chat rooms. I met some really nice, interesting men. Most were interested in encouraging me, and I did gain a bit. But I still longed for a real loving and truly fattening relationship. In a little more time, I answered some personal ads and met another six or seven men who were into feederism in some form or another. It wasn’t a match for me or for them it seemed, but we did have a good time together going out to buffets, movies, and a couple of local food festivals.
Then I found Hank’s personal ad. It read:
I was intrigued. I decided to take a chance. Hank and I started out communicating by email, instant message, and in chat rooms. Eventually, we progressed to long phone calls and text messaging. Hank lived in upstate New York while I lived in Woodside near Manhattan. One weekend I decided to take a break from the city and take the drive up to meet him.
I drove the two hours upstate. I wish I could say that the weather was lovely, but it wasn’t. It was stormy and dark. I was hoping that this wasn’t a bad omen, but I was eager to finally meet Hank so I drove through the storm.
I reached the diner we had arranged for our first fat-to-fat meeting. I was nervous. I quickly got out of the car and ran to the front door in the torrential downpour. My navy silk shirt was clinging to my body like a second skin. I shook the water that puddle in my loafers, wiped my palms on my blue jeans and went inside.
It was a regular diner with many trucks parked outside. It was unpretentious on the inside…just an average diner which served good, wholesome, down-home cooking. The booths were large and spacious with cushioned seating. The place was a bit crowded. I guess a lot of them had come in to take shelter from the weather.
“We finally meet,” a voice said from the counter. An attractive man in his late thirties walked over and offered to shake my hand. “Hi, you must be Lizzie.”
“Hello, Hank. Nice to finally stand face-to-face,” I replied with a broad smile.
From many of the photos we exchanged, I guess I was expecting more of a Grizzly Adams type since he was so attracted to the outdoors and he seemed to have a rather large collection of plaid shirts. But, this man was far from it.
Hank was in jeans as well and wore a shirt that I’d seen in the Territory Ahead catalogue or maybe it was something out of LL Bean…not quite sure. He stood a little over six feet tall, had sandy-blonde hair, hazel eyes, a masculine square jaw, short-well kept beard and moustache…and had the beginning of a monster gut.
I was instantly enamored with him. He had a slight swagger as he walked – oozed self-assurance. He led me to a table close to the rear. It was a circular booth – the seating going around in a crescent.
He let me slide in first. His hand “accidently” brushed my rounding belly, and gave me an appreciative look. I think I may have blushed. I moved all the way in to the center of the crescent. Hank slid in to sit beside me. This was a good choice. There was a cozy atmosphere here. I liked it.
Hank explained that he came here often. He said that there were mostly a lot of regulars as well as the truck drivers coming through. The waitress, Susan, poured us a coffee, chatting gaily with Hank. He took the menus from her as she made a few recommendations. We thanked her and perused the specials. I chose a meatloaf with mashed potatoes, brown gravy, and buttermilk biscuits – good comfort food. Hank selected a hearty beef stew with biscuits from the specials.
We warmed to each other immediately. Sometimes meeting someone for the first time can be awkward. But, Hank was a very charismatic speaker. He seemed to have a never ending supply of stories. Besides the story he told about going ice-fishing in Alaska with a couple of buddies, he was an avid fly fisherman and hunter. He also enjoyed reading. His favorites were Chaucer, Shakespeare, Hemingway, and Lustbader. A vision of him sitting in a canoe reading Shakespeare to all the wild creatures came into my head.
I also found out that he was originally from Wisconsin. His dad was a mechanic and his mom was a waitress. He had three younger brothers and an older sister. They were scattered to the wind as he put it – all except one brother had moved out of state to persue their different professions or interests.
Hank was constantly moving from place-to-place. He made his living as a writer – mostly outdoors-type magazines like Field and Stream, Travel, The Great Outdoorsman, Fly Fishing, Hunting, as well as a couple of articles for National Geographic. For extra cash, he also admitted that he dabbled in writing erotic novels - usually there was a feeding scene of some kind snuck in somewhere. He said he delighted in teasing his gainer/feeder/feedee readers by just touching on a display of gorging on large amounts of food in some erotic depiction and then hedging away from it and then revisiting it later in the story.
I told him a little more about myself. I found him almost hypnotic. I felt I could tell him anything and I did. He took it all in – ingested it. Hank told me he would enjoy feeding me, fulfilling both our fantasies. He stopped in mid-sentence.
“Here eat more of your meatloaf…more rolls…you’re a growing gal…” Hank encouraged.
I had barely realized that the meal was served. I guess I was so engrossed in our conversation I had actually forgotten about the food. Imagine that! I knew I had found my feeder . He was a real find.
Two hours just flew by. I ate all of my meal and a bowl of the stew Hank had order for me. He told me that my stomach was still too small. My capacity would increase as my belly was stretched out with more food. He recommended that I be stuffed daily to keep my stomach stretched to be able to take in more and more food.
“Then we’ll increase your intake. You’ll blow up nicely,” Hank said, rubbing my bloating belly.
“Do you really think so?” I asked
He looked at me quizzically. “Well, maybe we should test my hypothesis. Come with me.”
We got up from the table. He paid the check at the counter and said goodbye to Susan. She handed him a large brown paper bag from under the counter.
“Here’s your order, Hank darling,” Susan said.
He thanked her, gave her a generous tip, and we got into his truck – Hank in the driver’s seat and I in the passenger seat. Hank opened the bag revealing several pies – 3 cherry, 1 chocolate cream, and the other banana cream. He took a couple of hunks out of one of the cherry ones and then offered me the rest.
“May I?” he asked, undoing my belt buckle, sliding off my belt. “You won’t need this any more.”
I was barely able to finish the first pie with the big meal still weighing heavily in my gut. He shook his head knowingly. Before I knew it, my seat was reclined and he was massaging my abdomen – long deep strokes.
“Moving the food around, relieving some pressure to make room for some more,” he explained. “How does it feel?”
“Good, but I feel tight,” I grunted.
He got all but the last cherry pie into me this way…lots of belly rubs and frequent breaks. I wish I could say that I my buttons burst open during my first real feeding and I gained 25 pounds in one sitting, but that would be a fantasy and this story is true. I must confess that I had heartily wished that my buttons did burst and was praying for it during the process.
Though Hank tried to create a certain erotic atmosphere for me with his half-whispered encouragements, his gentle massage, and how he’d just brush my inner thigh, I was not used to all this rich food. My stomach protested loudly – groaning and grumbling as it was forced larger than it had ever grown before.
My belly was hard to the touch and ballooned as if I had swallowed a watermelon. My jeans were so restrictive – holding me firmly – my flesh pressed painfully against the denim. And, Hank wouldn’t let me open my jeans.
“I want you to truly sense what these jeans really feel like because you’ll never wear them again. You’re going to have to invest in something with a little more stretch,” Hank said, trying unsuccessfully to insert a finger into my waistband.
I gasped. My bloated, rock-hard belly attempting to escape from the top. OH, THE PRESSURE! Hank took me for a drive for about an hour or so, giving me a tour of the area. He watched from the side as I struggled to rub my unbearably stuffed belly, resisting the urge to rip open my jeans himself.
“Now, that’s what I like - a gal with a healthy appetite,” he declared, almost swallowing his piece of cherry pie whole.
I marveled as he almost inhaled his dessert. When we got back to the parking lot, the pain had subsided. What remained was a deep satisfaction – I was sustained by a very full belly and an equally filling companion. I did have another kind of longing at that time which would be satisfied… in due course.
“Again, tomorrow, Lizzie?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” I said.
He chuckled softly as he watched me struggle to get behind the steering wheel, my stomach encountered itsd lower rim. .
PRESENT DAY, A FEW MOMENTS LATER:
He returns to my side with a large plastic container between his hands. I know the dreaded container – pleasure and pain. He slowly uncapped it and pulled out a thick, shiny glob or the sugaring scrub.
“No,” I moan.
“Yes, oh yes,” he whispers into my ear as he kneels before me as if worshipping me.
I whimper as the cold mass brushes my skin. I squealed as he deftly began to rub the exfoliant into my taunt ball-shaped belly…being oiled up so slowly…grains of sugar massaging, reaching deep down, agony…I was his thickly blown up love toy…
“You should have given the hand signal and I would have stopped,” Hank said.
“Wanted to…ahhh…feel…really….full,” I said, groaning.
“Well, you have succeeded,” Hank replied, in awe of my expanding girth. “You’re so tight, Lizzy, so blessedly big. Time to take your measurements.”
He stopped playing with my fat and went for the scale and measuring tape. “Remind me what you were when we met.”
“Ughh,” I exclaimed as he got me on my feet.
I gingerly stepped on the scale he rolled under my feet. “When we met eight months ago, I was about 191 pounds and was a size 36 waist.”
“As of now, you’ve fattened to a nice rotund 247 pounds,” he said giving my engorged belly a good poke causing me to grunt and swear softly. “That’s a 56 pound gain.”
“Now for your next set of accomplishments,” Hank announced, pulling out the tape. “Let’s see…hmmmm…”
“Well?” I asked, impatiently. “What have I blown out to?”
“Your waist is currently just making it at 43 inches around. So, you’re up 7 inches. Now, that ole ball belly of yours is 52 inches round,” he said, almost sadly.
“You sound disappointed,” I replied. “I love the way you’re made me so fat.”
“Fat? You’ve got no idea what fat is yet, my dearLizzie. Now, eat,” he commanded, pointing to a rather large bowl of mini oreo cookies.
I went to sit down, but he stopped me.
“No, I want you to lean over the table…spread your thighs for me,” he said, positioning himself under my ample expanse. “I want you to feel your own weight.”
I grunted feeling the pull of gravity…so heavy…I shoved my face deep into the bowl and being to graze.
OH, MY, HE’S GOING TO MAKE ME STAND FOR THIS.
My hips began to grind and then to thrust forward as I was hand milked being pulled up and down…grunting…snorting…chewing…and swelling more…every crevice filled inside of me…fingers crawled up and down my gurgling belly as I stuffed myself bigger and bigger…moan escaping me lips…tongue lapping up and down my thighs…almost there…ooohhhhh…now grinding faster…painfully bouncing…grasping my belly…then my arms pulled away and held tightly…
Before he took me to his lips Hank explained, “I want to grow you. You will always be filled…this is only the beginning for you my friend…my love…”
Fulfilled
By: Lizzy
By: Lizzy
PRESENT DAY:
I can feel the sweat dripping from my forehead – thick layer of perspiration forming on my bare and bloated belly …buttons had burst long ago. I pant trying to stay ahead of the wedges of luscious buttery cake being pushed between my lips…food inflating my chipmunk cheeks. My gut aches, so overfed – couldn’t possibly budge from my equally overstuffed chair. More and more cake pushed between clenched teeth…mphfff…can’t speak to say please stop…mphfff…mphfff…mphfff…so stuffed can only grind and swallow…cheeks overstuffed…a piñata busting with treats…gut aching – the pain of being stretched too taunt.
I plead with him with my eyes to stop…but he knows my secret desires, fully understands my long buried fantasies. He understands everything and knows deep down I don’t really want him to stop. But, he did stop then…prolonging my anguish, putting the food just out of reach…so bloated can’t stand…can’t move. He reaches out and lightly brushes my belly. A shiver goes up my spine. I would have gasped if not for my face still swollen with chunks of cake.
Mphfff…mphfff…mphfff…lah…lah…my tongue is released and only crumbs remain. He lays my head back on his hairy chest and makes me take a long drink of water. Glug...glug…glug…glug…glug…glug...g lug…glug…glug…glug…glug…glug…glug…glug…he slows but doesn’t stop the flow. Belly rounding out, heavy on my lap. He lays his hand firmly on the top of my swollen mound. I scream, my suffering revealed. He stops stands back to assess his work. He attentively reaches out and touches me…more gently this time…I cry out again – can’t bare the touch – so much built up pressure – ready to explode.
A WHILE BACK:
I was a cute kid. The kind my mother said belonged on the jar of baby food. When I was about five, I was officially discovered by a talent agent. So, my mother put me into modeling. I started out quietly – a few catalog shoots here and a few there. This quickly turned to more catalogs wanting me to model and then exposure in many prominent magazines and a television commercial by the age of seven.
My parents were thrilled. My father had been sick for some time with cancer and the medical bills had been mounting. The money I made really made a difference. That was until I turned eleven. I hit a cold spell between eleven and fourteen. I had become an adolescent, a tween – not so cute anymore – the punk kid stage. Then came the zits to make it even harder to get looked at and then the weight gain. I was becoming round and pudgy; my body responding to the extra calories of a teenaged gormand. I didn't mind the extra flesh at all, and the ful feeling was ecstasy..
My mother freaked. “You can’t get fat, Lizzy,” she’d say. “No one is going to hire a fat model.”
She enrolled me in track. I ran the fat right off of me. I then began playing soccer and then began pumping iron like crazy. The weight came off and stayed off especially with the addition of a strict diet – vegetarian and drinking lots of water. Sometimes, I’d deliberately drink so much, my belly would bloat – swell really large. Sometime, I’d do it with diet soda, the bubbles further inflating me, expanding me; I’d rub my big belly enjoying the feel of it, knowing that I could never get this way if I wanted to continue modeling. I had to suffer for my art, so to speak.
When I hit 16, I had a slender 28-inch waist, hard, muscular shoulders and abs. The jobs flew in fast and continued into my early thirties. I was a hit, a living babe magnet for every guy with testostrerone in his veins. Everyone wanted my body on the cover or on the pages of some magazine.
The pressure to remain thin was intense. I struggled valiantly to keep up a body I was never meant to have. I starved myself, refusing to indulge in meat and fatty foods. I didn’t drink beer which would add too much weight. I pushed myself with backbreaking workouts, popped laxatives like candy, and blew myself up with large enemas…drank so much water I thought I’d burst. But, also I loved to inflate myself …to feel the sheer indulgence of being able to let myself go – get fat even if it was a fake fat – rubbing myself until I was hard.
It was around this time that I discovered Dimensions online. It started out as a curiosity. I found myself strangely attracted to men with large, bulbous bellies. Then I began reading the stories. I was totally hooked. It became a secret obsession. No one knew that I lusted after big men. Or that I enjoyed being bigger myself.
No one knew that I would bloat myself with water, secure myself in super tight clothing that made my swollen belly push out of my jeans. I’d lean back and rub my tortured belly as I read stories of men and women fattening, eating to their hearts content, and growing so, so round. Then I’d eat and eat until my belly hurt – rebelling against my forced starvation. This resulted in paying a heavy price later…the guilt…the scale moving forward… more deprivation and exhausting work outs to get rid of the pounds.
It wasn’t until I hit my thirties that my genetics began taking over and my will weakened. It seemed that no matter what I did, I continued to put on weight. And as the jobs stopped coming, my snacking and indulging in all the things I had denied myself took a strong hold. Love handles began to form, a slight belly over my belt, my thighs swelled like sausages in my too tight jeans - a size too small…the too tight waist making my belly jut out especially when I sat…my thighs rubbing together. I grew fatter and fatter. My 28-inch waist became a 36 in no time. Not that I was complaining.
I felt good. I looked good. Men still would stop and stare at me as I walked down the street. I got plenty of dates and had a few longer term relationships. The only problem was that I had to change my occupation. Some jobs came in from people who wanted bigger models (imagine thinking that a size 36 waist would be considered a plus size, but it is in modeling), but those weren’t going to keep me afloat for long.
I turned to the college classes I had taken in photography and my connections in the business. I started to work in the fashion industry, just on the other side of the camera. Then I began taking pictures for other magazines – scenic shots for travel and family fun magazines. Things were really going well. But, something was still missing.
I yearned to turn my fantasies into realities. I wanted to be fed. I wanted to fatten for someone. I wanted to find that special someone who would be accepting of me – all of me and of all I wanted to become. I never wanted to deprive myself again.
I began my search on the Internet and in chat rooms. I met some really nice, interesting men. Most were interested in encouraging me, and I did gain a bit. But I still longed for a real loving and truly fattening relationship. In a little more time, I answered some personal ads and met another six or seven men who were into feederism in some form or another. It wasn’t a match for me or for them it seemed, but we did have a good time together going out to buffets, movies, and a couple of local food festivals.
Then I found Hank’s personal ad. It read:
Thirty something, masculine, big-bellied New York man looking for my blonde, blue-eyed doll, willing to put on some weight. She must be clean-cut, disease and drug free between the ages of 25 and 45, average to stunning looks. I enjoy hunting, fishing, photography, and cooking large meals to feed and treat the right large lady like she's always deserved to be. Looking to help you reach your full potential in what I hope turns into a long-term relationship if all the conditions are right.
I was intrigued. I decided to take a chance. Hank and I started out communicating by email, instant message, and in chat rooms. Eventually, we progressed to long phone calls and text messaging. Hank lived in upstate New York while I lived in Woodside near Manhattan. One weekend I decided to take a break from the city and take the drive up to meet him.
I drove the two hours upstate. I wish I could say that the weather was lovely, but it wasn’t. It was stormy and dark. I was hoping that this wasn’t a bad omen, but I was eager to finally meet Hank so I drove through the storm.
I reached the diner we had arranged for our first fat-to-fat meeting. I was nervous. I quickly got out of the car and ran to the front door in the torrential downpour. My navy silk shirt was clinging to my body like a second skin. I shook the water that puddle in my loafers, wiped my palms on my blue jeans and went inside.
It was a regular diner with many trucks parked outside. It was unpretentious on the inside…just an average diner which served good, wholesome, down-home cooking. The booths were large and spacious with cushioned seating. The place was a bit crowded. I guess a lot of them had come in to take shelter from the weather.
“We finally meet,” a voice said from the counter. An attractive man in his late thirties walked over and offered to shake my hand. “Hi, you must be Lizzie.”
“Hello, Hank. Nice to finally stand face-to-face,” I replied with a broad smile.
From many of the photos we exchanged, I guess I was expecting more of a Grizzly Adams type since he was so attracted to the outdoors and he seemed to have a rather large collection of plaid shirts. But, this man was far from it.
Hank was in jeans as well and wore a shirt that I’d seen in the Territory Ahead catalogue or maybe it was something out of LL Bean…not quite sure. He stood a little over six feet tall, had sandy-blonde hair, hazel eyes, a masculine square jaw, short-well kept beard and moustache…and had the beginning of a monster gut.
I was instantly enamored with him. He had a slight swagger as he walked – oozed self-assurance. He led me to a table close to the rear. It was a circular booth – the seating going around in a crescent.
He let me slide in first. His hand “accidently” brushed my rounding belly, and gave me an appreciative look. I think I may have blushed. I moved all the way in to the center of the crescent. Hank slid in to sit beside me. This was a good choice. There was a cozy atmosphere here. I liked it.
Hank explained that he came here often. He said that there were mostly a lot of regulars as well as the truck drivers coming through. The waitress, Susan, poured us a coffee, chatting gaily with Hank. He took the menus from her as she made a few recommendations. We thanked her and perused the specials. I chose a meatloaf with mashed potatoes, brown gravy, and buttermilk biscuits – good comfort food. Hank selected a hearty beef stew with biscuits from the specials.
We warmed to each other immediately. Sometimes meeting someone for the first time can be awkward. But, Hank was a very charismatic speaker. He seemed to have a never ending supply of stories. Besides the story he told about going ice-fishing in Alaska with a couple of buddies, he was an avid fly fisherman and hunter. He also enjoyed reading. His favorites were Chaucer, Shakespeare, Hemingway, and Lustbader. A vision of him sitting in a canoe reading Shakespeare to all the wild creatures came into my head.
I also found out that he was originally from Wisconsin. His dad was a mechanic and his mom was a waitress. He had three younger brothers and an older sister. They were scattered to the wind as he put it – all except one brother had moved out of state to persue their different professions or interests.
Hank was constantly moving from place-to-place. He made his living as a writer – mostly outdoors-type magazines like Field and Stream, Travel, The Great Outdoorsman, Fly Fishing, Hunting, as well as a couple of articles for National Geographic. For extra cash, he also admitted that he dabbled in writing erotic novels - usually there was a feeding scene of some kind snuck in somewhere. He said he delighted in teasing his gainer/feeder/feedee readers by just touching on a display of gorging on large amounts of food in some erotic depiction and then hedging away from it and then revisiting it later in the story.
I told him a little more about myself. I found him almost hypnotic. I felt I could tell him anything and I did. He took it all in – ingested it. Hank told me he would enjoy feeding me, fulfilling both our fantasies. He stopped in mid-sentence.
“Here eat more of your meatloaf…more rolls…you’re a growing gal…” Hank encouraged.
I had barely realized that the meal was served. I guess I was so engrossed in our conversation I had actually forgotten about the food. Imagine that! I knew I had found my feeder . He was a real find.
Two hours just flew by. I ate all of my meal and a bowl of the stew Hank had order for me. He told me that my stomach was still too small. My capacity would increase as my belly was stretched out with more food. He recommended that I be stuffed daily to keep my stomach stretched to be able to take in more and more food.
“Then we’ll increase your intake. You’ll blow up nicely,” Hank said, rubbing my bloating belly.
“Do you really think so?” I asked
He looked at me quizzically. “Well, maybe we should test my hypothesis. Come with me.”
We got up from the table. He paid the check at the counter and said goodbye to Susan. She handed him a large brown paper bag from under the counter.
“Here’s your order, Hank darling,” Susan said.
He thanked her, gave her a generous tip, and we got into his truck – Hank in the driver’s seat and I in the passenger seat. Hank opened the bag revealing several pies – 3 cherry, 1 chocolate cream, and the other banana cream. He took a couple of hunks out of one of the cherry ones and then offered me the rest.
“May I?” he asked, undoing my belt buckle, sliding off my belt. “You won’t need this any more.”
I was barely able to finish the first pie with the big meal still weighing heavily in my gut. He shook his head knowingly. Before I knew it, my seat was reclined and he was massaging my abdomen – long deep strokes.
“Moving the food around, relieving some pressure to make room for some more,” he explained. “How does it feel?”
“Good, but I feel tight,” I grunted.
He got all but the last cherry pie into me this way…lots of belly rubs and frequent breaks. I wish I could say that I my buttons burst open during my first real feeding and I gained 25 pounds in one sitting, but that would be a fantasy and this story is true. I must confess that I had heartily wished that my buttons did burst and was praying for it during the process.
Though Hank tried to create a certain erotic atmosphere for me with his half-whispered encouragements, his gentle massage, and how he’d just brush my inner thigh, I was not used to all this rich food. My stomach protested loudly – groaning and grumbling as it was forced larger than it had ever grown before.
My belly was hard to the touch and ballooned as if I had swallowed a watermelon. My jeans were so restrictive – holding me firmly – my flesh pressed painfully against the denim. And, Hank wouldn’t let me open my jeans.
“I want you to truly sense what these jeans really feel like because you’ll never wear them again. You’re going to have to invest in something with a little more stretch,” Hank said, trying unsuccessfully to insert a finger into my waistband.
I gasped. My bloated, rock-hard belly attempting to escape from the top. OH, THE PRESSURE! Hank took me for a drive for about an hour or so, giving me a tour of the area. He watched from the side as I struggled to rub my unbearably stuffed belly, resisting the urge to rip open my jeans himself.
“Now, that’s what I like - a gal with a healthy appetite,” he declared, almost swallowing his piece of cherry pie whole.
I marveled as he almost inhaled his dessert. When we got back to the parking lot, the pain had subsided. What remained was a deep satisfaction – I was sustained by a very full belly and an equally filling companion. I did have another kind of longing at that time which would be satisfied… in due course.
“Again, tomorrow, Lizzie?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” I said.
He chuckled softly as he watched me struggle to get behind the steering wheel, my stomach encountered itsd lower rim. .
PRESENT DAY, A FEW MOMENTS LATER:
He returns to my side with a large plastic container between his hands. I know the dreaded container – pleasure and pain. He slowly uncapped it and pulled out a thick, shiny glob or the sugaring scrub.
“No,” I moan.
“Yes, oh yes,” he whispers into my ear as he kneels before me as if worshipping me.
I whimper as the cold mass brushes my skin. I squealed as he deftly began to rub the exfoliant into my taunt ball-shaped belly…being oiled up so slowly…grains of sugar massaging, reaching deep down, agony…I was his thickly blown up love toy…
“You should have given the hand signal and I would have stopped,” Hank said.
“Wanted to…ahhh…feel…really….full,” I said, groaning.
“Well, you have succeeded,” Hank replied, in awe of my expanding girth. “You’re so tight, Lizzy, so blessedly big. Time to take your measurements.”
He stopped playing with my fat and went for the scale and measuring tape. “Remind me what you were when we met.”
“Ughh,” I exclaimed as he got me on my feet.
I gingerly stepped on the scale he rolled under my feet. “When we met eight months ago, I was about 191 pounds and was a size 36 waist.”
“As of now, you’ve fattened to a nice rotund 247 pounds,” he said giving my engorged belly a good poke causing me to grunt and swear softly. “That’s a 56 pound gain.”
“Now for your next set of accomplishments,” Hank announced, pulling out the tape. “Let’s see…hmmmm…”
“Well?” I asked, impatiently. “What have I blown out to?”
“Your waist is currently just making it at 43 inches around. So, you’re up 7 inches. Now, that ole ball belly of yours is 52 inches round,” he said, almost sadly.
“You sound disappointed,” I replied. “I love the way you’re made me so fat.”
“Fat? You’ve got no idea what fat is yet, my dearLizzie. Now, eat,” he commanded, pointing to a rather large bowl of mini oreo cookies.
I went to sit down, but he stopped me.
“No, I want you to lean over the table…spread your thighs for me,” he said, positioning himself under my ample expanse. “I want you to feel your own weight.”
I grunted feeling the pull of gravity…so heavy…I shoved my face deep into the bowl and being to graze.
OH, MY, HE’S GOING TO MAKE ME STAND FOR THIS.
My hips began to grind and then to thrust forward as I was hand milked being pulled up and down…grunting…snorting…chewing…and swelling more…every crevice filled inside of me…fingers crawled up and down my gurgling belly as I stuffed myself bigger and bigger…moan escaping me lips…tongue lapping up and down my thighs…almost there…ooohhhhh…now grinding faster…painfully bouncing…grasping my belly…then my arms pulled away and held tightly…
Before he took me to his lips Hank explained, “I want to grow you. You will always be filled…this is only the beginning for you my friend…my love…”
