**Vanity | Weight Gain Story [Part One]** I never had a pro..

**Vanity | Weight Gain Story [Part One]**

I never had a problem with vanity.

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.

*To be continued...*