Here's a fantasy I've been having lately that I'll share with you. It's been on my mind so much it even inspired a video 😈😉
I've been thinking about a kink club. Not specifically a club for gainers though, that's very important. I want to walk in there and know that not everyone admires my body, that some people are shocked by it, so that the heat in my cheeks is very, very real. But nonetheless, it's a place I can go dressed pretty much however I like. I can dress up my body, make it as provocative as possible. Make my new identity as a fatty painfully intentional and obvious. Prowl the club in a slow gait that makes my gut bounce, relishing the rub of my thighs and the wobble of my embarrassingly heavy ass.
My hands wander down my body. Over swollen landscape. Across lardaceous pastures. Hills and hills and hills which used to be valleys. A quiver through my trembling dough, by a hand that knocks my dangling stomach. Bounces against my legs. The weight of it pulls, and pulls a gasp. My spine arches, leaning forward, encouraging the drop lower. Further down my fat thighs. I think of nothing but soft swelling, gentle straining, secret blushing. And eat. And eat. And eat for you.
Not before. Not when I probably ‘could’ have, when my body was made up of attractive lines and hard planes, a charming face with a sharp jaw, slim cheeks. Wide shoulders, narrow hips. When I was in possession of all things where vanity thrives, I never found a use for it. I never felt compelled to indulge in my own looks.
I liked the way I looked. I just wasn’t *obsessed* with it.
Now, in the neon-lit haze of my bedroom, it’s past midnight and my closet door stands open so I can see myself in the mirror on the inside. Thighs and hips spilling over the side of the chair repurposed from the dining room, so I can sit here and see myself like this. Pumping myself slowly between my legs, letting my hand bump the pendulous hang with every stroke. It’s sensitive - incredibly sensitive, responsive to every brush of rapturous fingertips, every jiggle that runs through it like a continuous electric current, rolling like the ocean. Conducting the heat. I watch my face crumple into dismay and ecstasy. My new signature scent. I get off on opposing forces. Disgust and obsession. Desire and horror.
Shame and vanity.
A big dinner sits in my belly, pushing it out, dragging it down, blushing my cheeks as I try to reach around it. I angle myself a little so I can see the hang, and my big, thick side rolls. Dark, obvious stretch marks. My heart thumps like the bass from the nightclubs I can hear far beneath my apartment, drifting up on the breeze. I should be down there. That’s where I used to be on a Saturday night. But I’ve found a drug that’s far more intoxicating than anything I ever tried in the bathroom of a cocktail bar or recklessly in the back of an Uber, and now it’s all I want. It gets me higher, lasts longer, grips me in its addiction far tighter, and is certainly more ruinous.
I fucking love ruinous.
It feels like the old me is bound and gagged in the corner of my mind, shouting against the rag stuffed in his mouth as he watches me hijack his body and transform it into an embarrassing, swollen disaster. I reach down beside the chair, chubby hand slipping into a bag of chocolate truffles. I’m so full from dinner still, far too full, but I watch my desperate eyes in the mirror as I push a few into my mouth.
*Fatter,* I whisper to myself, egging myself on, and reach for more. It’s perfectly balanced, salty and sweet. But honestly, by this point, I don’t really care about the taste. *Fatter, you obese hog. Look what you’ve done to yourself.*
I adjust myself in the chair, big ballooning hips like a petticoat puffing up around me, feeling my stomach, all just fat, pressing into my plush inner thighs. Filling up the space between them. More truffles get pushed into my mouth. I don’t want them. Even with my Herculean new appetite, I’m too full. I just want what they do to me.
I don’t know how long I’ve sat here this time - staring, eating, fondling. Long enough to have worked myself into a quiet frenzy, aching and blushing from the sight and feel of myself now. Neon light cups my belly, slips across my heavy rolls. I could grab and lift and wobble and stare and slap and it’s still not enough. The desperate obsession with my own hot ruin is so enormous, such a needy overwhelming force inside me that none of that is enough to sate it. The hundred-plus pounds I’ve recklessly gained already isn’t enough to satisfy the craving for something… more. Something extreme. It’s a seething, screaming itch that I just can’t seem to scratch.
It’s not enough, I need *more.*
The thump of the nightclubs below drift up. I meet my eyes in the mirror, a hazy drag echoing through my vision as I realize the thought that I’m having.
*No. No way.*
But I can see the way my pupils have already blown. My heart’s beating faster, a tremble of excitement running through my fat body. I can do anything inside my apartment, and it never lands as harshly, as sharply as it could.
As it could, if I had, say… observers.
Attractive, vain observers, who’ve never seen a belly hanging out of a shirt. Whose gaze alone would make my heart punch through my ribcage, would maybe give me the true panic and shock and deep humiliation I’ve been craving all this time. I feel lightheaded.
*I’m not really going to do this?*
But I’m up and out of the chair before my better judgment can pull me back. A few glasses of red wine grease my inhibitions - not enough to make a true uninformed decision, but enough to make me reckless. To let hot excitement overwhelm self preservation.
I throw open my other closet door, sliding hangers to the left, revealing the untouched section, clothes that haven’t fit me in months. I pull out a pair of black jeans, far too tight, too small by at least a couple of sizes. My fat face flushes as I lay back on my bed and tug them on, straining the button closed beneath my new belly, and when I sit back up it flops over, exposed and vulnerable. Electricity shoots up and down my spine and my heart slams the inside of my ribcage like a speedbag, as I struggle up to find a tight t-shirt to complete the outfit I should never be seen dead in.
A crisp white t-shirt, which was designed to already be snug on me even when I was in good shape. It was meant to show off my coveted body, and it did. Now, it gets to show off my ruined one.
My cheeks burn like they’re being lit from the inside. It already feels tight going over my head. I shove my arms in and they barely go. For a moment I think I’ll get stuck, but it passes. There’s not a lot of thoughts happening right now, least of all rational ones. I force my arms through, and the tight sleeves press painfully into my fat upper arms, causing wobbling puffs to tenderly expose themselves. The t-shirt barely stretches over my globular new belly, letting a vulnerable slip of soft hang drop out the moment I move without caution. The big handfuls my chest has bloomed into huddle like cleavage.
A jacket? I consider the small leather bomber for a moment. It would give me a slight layer of protection, of safety. Not much, but something.
I chew my lip, then discard it. I’m not doing this to feel *safe.*
I can't hesitate or I'll lose my nerve, so I force myself forward against the panic. My trembling hand grips the inside handle of my front door, twists and pulls. I shove myself out into the hallway, and suddenly it’s *real.*
It reminds me of those movies where the cartoon characters get shoved into the real world. Where suddenly people don’t have outlines anymore and everything is so normal that you realize how much you’d suspended your disbelief. This is normal life I’m in now, not my hazy horny fever dream. My clothes feel ten times tighter, my stomach ten times heavier, more vulnerable, more obvious. Dropping lower, more exposed. Infinitely more exposed. Part of me wants to turn around before anyone sees me, eyeing the peep holes in the doors lining the hallway with paranoia, but I force myself to turn for the elevators, instead. My face burns nuclear, hands tremble. I’m a mess of nerves. I’m also a mess of flushed desire, and I can’t stop now.
Enjoying one of my favorite activities tonight: coming home on the train with my belly *straining* a thin, stretchy tshirt that’s WAY too tight 🥵🥵 can’t stop looking at myself in the windows, holy fuck I look inappropriate 🫣🥵
I love the way the afternoon light wraps around my rolls 🥵
Do you like how I'm looking? I've let myself get a little bigger lately and the change has me on fire constantly. I'm so obsessed with how this fat looks on me, and the feeling of my heavier belly. 😫🥵 It might be time for a weigh-in soon, what do you think?
I've always kind of had a 'model who gets fat' fantasy. Maybe because fashion models are so scrutinized for their appearance and expected to keep such perfect standards, the idea of wrecking it is hot to me. I couldn't help digging out some tight clothes and posing for you 🥵 A few years ago, I actually might have had a shot at becoming a model if I wanted to. But now... well, what do you think? Would you book me? 😮💨😫
It might not surprise you to know that I was always a little bit... vain. And honestly, before my weight gain, I had good reason to be. Sorry if that sounds egotistical but I'm just being honest.
But the thing is, now... I'm vain in an entirely new way. I still love to show off, to have eyes on my body, but it never used to come with heat in my cheeks. Embarrassment and vanity is one of those intoxicating combinations that shouldn't work but it does 🥵 Good God, does it work. So find me in the spotlight, flushed and flustered, with my belly dragging lower and lower and lower...
Wanna know a fantasy I have? It's just being your fat boy. Your blushing fat pet. I want to wake up on my side to the feeling of my belly flopped against the mattress, making it dip from the weight of my gut alone.
I can hear you in the kitchen, and smell the coffee and pancakes, the hiss and pop of sizzling butter. I knead my dough with lazy fingers as I slowly wake up, the morning sun falling through the sheer curtains in dappled shafts and warming my overstuffed body where the sheet's slipped off it. I feel plush. I feel *huge*. And it's all because of you.
Even once sleep clears, I feel heavy. *Slow*. Huge thighs move against each other. I feel the weight in my face, my heavy cheeks and double chin. I'm nothing but soft, thick dough now, with plush arms and tender moobs where I'd been all biceps and flat chest before you swept me off my feet and into this surreal daydream.
I hear you gasp from the doorway. It's playful, but at least half-genuine. I've been gaining weight so fast lately that sometimes we both forget how big I am now. You've got a plate of pancakes in your hand, and a cup of coffee in the other, a fluffy spool of whipped cream towering above the rim. You're in nothing but underwear, and the sight of the morning sun dipping attractively in and out of the divots of your lean body makes me feel self-conscious, and I blush.
You love when I get gently embarrassed. I do, as well. It's what makes this whole thing so much fun. Along with the hedonism and the pampering and the sex and the transformation, there's also the thrill of taboo bubbling under the surface. That we're doing something we shouldn't be. That we're falling down a rabbit hole together.
"Oh, my sweet hog." Your voice is like syrup as you place my coffee down on the side table with the pancakes, and cup my double chin. You help me sit up, legs apart, belly falling forward and resting heavily against the mattress between them. I sit patiently while you arrange my rolls for me, but I'm eyeing the pancakes. I can smell the butter, the chocolate chips melted through them. You notice and have mercy, putting the cup in my chubby hands and cutting a thick slice while I lap at the whipped cream.
Then the piece of pancake gets pushed into my mouth with the efficacy of a bank note getting fed into a vending machine. You never offer me food anymore - you *put* food into me. We both want to be sure that every pound I gain is yours. It makes me shiver. Neither of us wanted you to simply help me gain. The only way to do this right was for you to put the weight on me.
Without you, I might have indulged in three pancakes, maybe four. But you've got nine on the plate, thick and dense, loaded with butter and chocolate. You slowly feed me every single one of them while I sip my sweet, creamy coffee. Between bites, your hand teases my rolls, hefts my stomach, lifts a moob, sinks into the fat of my thigh.
"Look at you," you whisper - sometimes praising, sometimes scolding. My puffed-up face blushes deep scarlet. "My good little pet. Eating so nicely for me."
When we're done, I'm flushed and panting, and my belly's straining forward, the weight of it making me moan. I place my hands on the crest, made instantly lightheaded by the sheer size of me. It doesn't feel like *my* body beneath my hands. It's changing so quickly.
"More?" you ask, hand gently soothing the heavy flop resting against the mattress.
"...can't," I gasp. My belly's throbbing, but you get on the bed with me and slowly run your hands up the accordion of rolls spilling from my sides, and plant a sweet kiss on my double chin.
"I'll get you more," you coo, with a second kiss on my nose. You reach down and work your hands underneath my belly, adjusting it outwards so that it rests more comfortably. Heat fills my swollen face. I've never felt more doted on. It makes me want to be good for you. An obedient little housepet. So I settle back in my pile of rolls and wait for round two.
My heart pounds as I reach for the front of my belly, almost too far away to hold, and think about how I was *never* going to get this fat. And I never would have, if not for you.
*(2023 post - thanks for being patient as I move everything over! It's all good stuff but I promise to include plenty of new stuff amongst it too! Filmed some stuff today in fact 😉)*
Godddd I can't stop touching, lifting, wobbling. I can't believe I've done this to myself again. 😫 I really did think for a while that I was going to get my flat stomach back. Maybe I even would have been able to, if I didn't get pulled back into the surreal world of fat and food and hot, hot shame. 🥵 Thank you for enabling me.
![allfattenedup post **Vanity | Weight Gain Story [Part One]** I never had a pro.. from onlyfans](https://img1.onlyfaphouse.com/storage/4/bc/jn/0196fb51-01fc-7a04-ae85-dbbc02cfec4f.jpg)
