Chiara

[Borghen]

It was a lazy late Winter morning. I was sprawled on the couch reading a novel and stealing glances at my roommate Chiara, seated on the armchair intently browsing a cheap magazine. Chiara and I had been sharing a small flat for the past two months and I had grown fond of her. Her central Italy accent did not bother me anymore and her cheerful demeanor provided a foil to my more serious countenance.

 

Standing 5’6’’ with a weight fluctuating between 130 and 140 pounds, she was by no means fat, not even chunky, but the roundness of her cheeks and a small layer of pudge around her midsection teased a potential for growth. She was kind of top heavy, with round breasts and broad shoulders, but her calves were stout and powerful enough to give her figure a certain harmony.

 

I had always been into fat ladies. I know they want to be called curvy, zaftig, voluptuous, soft… It doesn’t matter to me: they all have what I need, which is a good amount of lard. My “ideal weight” is usually 20 pounds higher than a girl’s ideal one. Chiara had been considerably heavier as a foreign exchange student in Spain, but had lost most of the weight after coming back to Italy. Sure, I had seen a couple of pictures and she had looked hot then, but now, stuck with a meager allowance from her parents down in The Marches, she could not afford to indulge.

My train of thoughts was interrupted.

 

“Nothing, yet,” she mumbled. “Too bad…”

 

I peered above the pages of my book. “What are you looking for?”

 

“A job.” She absentmindedly scratched the roll of fat peaking over her jeans. “There’s nothing here.” She pouted, her full cheeks giving her a cute expression.

 

“Well,” I reasoned. “You have a degree in Literature, after all. What do you expect?”

 

Her frown deepened. “Hostess… Promoter… Lousy, stupid jobs!”

 

“I think you should lower your expectations.”

 

She was not paying attention. “Wait! What’s this?” She read an ad more carefully. “St. John’s Day eating competition?”

 

I waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah… It is on June 24^th, over four months from now. People stuff their faces and…” My voice drifted away, realizing this could be my opportunity to fulfill a wet dream.

 

“The prize is 3.000 Euros,” Chiara kept on reading. “Whoever eats the most wins…”

 

The fattest pig gets the award, right. “Do you feel up to the task?”

 

Chiara stood. “I could always try, right?” She ran a hand over her soft tummy. “No harm in that and it could be fun.”

 

“What makes you so sure?” I shifted my weight on the sofa and raised my eyebrows. “It sounds kind of…” I bit my lip, suppressing a smirk. “Hard.”

 

“Nonsense. I've always had a big appetite, after all. You remember how big I got on that exchange trip?” She patted her pudgy stomach. “That prize is exactly what I need. I already feel richer.”

 

And fatter. “Ok, if you really want to.” Images of Chiara stuffing her face and ending up with a bloated belly flooded my mind. Something stiffened in my pants. “If you’re that serious about this, then you should probably train.” My erection was growing, making it impossible for me to stand. “You don’t know what kind of opponents you are facing.”

 

“That’ll be even funnier,” she beamed. “I could start right now! I remember packing away so much comfort food during exam weeks in school. Whole meals like it was nothing... You know, I've never really tried to see how much I can eat in one sitting. Maybe it'll be the secret talent I never knew I had. ”

 

“Well, I just went shopping.” I gestured towards the kitchen. “You know the way.”

 

Chiara trotted towards the food. My eyes lingered on her broad shoulders, drifting down to her thick thighs. Where would she grow first? My money was on boobs and belly, which had already a good head start, but genetics is unpredictable more often than not.

 

The cupboard door slammed in the kitchen. I shook my head, took a deep breath and got up. It took me a while to adjust my jeans over my outrageous erection. I briefly considered taking a shower, a very cold one, but I opted for a long walk, instead. The microwave buzzed cheerfully as I left the flat.

[Hazymington]

Great potential!!

[Bmo944]

Indeed. This may prove to be a fine piece of weight gain literature. 

 

[Borghen]

8 hours ago, lazymington said:

Great potential!!

 

4 hours ago, Bmo944 said:

Indeed. This may prove to be a fine piece of weight gain literature. 

 

Only time will tell, but I thank you for your trust.

Next episode coming on Friday (Europe time).

Best wishes!

[shammyboy]

Always good seeing a classic writer come back. 

[Borghen]

1 hour ago, shammyboy said:

Always good seeing a classic writer come back. 

Am I a "classic writer"? That is high praise, indeed.

Thanks!

[Borghen]

I came back two hours later, around 2 pm. I entered the apartment and went straight to the kitchen. It looked like a battlefield. Two dirty pots were in the sink, an empty pizza box was on the table. The floor was littered with paper bags and wrappers; the shelves above the sink were cleared. I cringed: this challenge was going to be expensive. Chiara was nowhere to be found.

 

“Anybody in?” My voice boomed. A muffled groan answered me from the living room.

 

No, it cannot be! It almost seemed too good to be true. Shaking with anticipation I made my way to the living room, following a trail of crumbs and empty wrappers. I took a deep breath and entered. Chiara was there, looking like a character in one of the stories I was so fond of: my friend was lying on the sofa, surrounded by the remains of a massive feast. She had an arm behind her head, the other draped across her midsection. She looked huge. The small mound of pudge that she always sported, usually almost invisible whenever she laid down, was now a massive food baby: her shirt had ridden up uncovering her navel and her belt was undone.

 

“Chiara…” My tongue was dry.

 

She turned her head towards me. “Hi, you’re back.” She grimaced. “I’ll clean up, don’t worry. Just give me some time to recover.” She patted her stuffed belly, which groaned ominously.

 

I cocked my head to one side. “Are you all right?” I took a step towards the sofa and knelt, mainly to hide my excitement. “How do you feel?”

 

“Heavy. I…” She was cut off by a huge belch. “Sorry.” She pressed her hand on her stomach. “I guess I overdid it.”

 

I reached out my hands and tentatively poked her just beneath the navel. Her belly was swollen and tender; it gurgled and Chiara moaned. She flapped her arm to bat my hand away, but I dodged her clumsy lunge and rested my palm on her stomach patting it.

 

“You look pretty full,” I smirked. “I think I should do the cleaning while you digest.” Her stomach gurgled again. My dick throbbed painfully. “Let me handle it.”

 

“As you wish.” She fumbled with the button of her trousers and finally undid it. Her belly swelled out further, pushing the zipper down a couple of notches. “Much better.”

 

I glimpsed her pink panties, pressed downward by the heavy mass of her gorged midsection. My vision blurred. With a last stroke to her huge belly, I finally stood and walked awkwardly towards the kitchen, picking up wrappers and leftovers as I made my way.

 

I came back to the living room an hour later, only to find Chiara fast asleep. Her pants were completely undone and her shirt was rolled up all the way beneath her sizeable boobs. Her belly, still stuffed and bloated, rose gently with every breath and there was the shadow of a smile on her round face.

[Borghen]

“Dinner is served,” I called from the kitchen. “Ready for a second round?”

 

I had cooked a nice pot of spaghetti with tomato sauce and a couple of steaks were ready as a second helping. I sincerely hoped that Chiara was up to the task, having awakened while the water was boiling.

 

“Spaghetti and tomato sauce?” Chiara entered the kitchen, a groggy expression on her face. She had donned a baggy sweat suit and was wearing flip flops. She sniffed the perfume and grimaced, putting a hand on her still rounded stomach. She padded to a chair and sat heavily.

 

I grabbed the pot and laid it on the table. “You need to train, remember? Eat up.” I sat, to conceal my second erection. God, I’m about to explode!

 

Chiara leaned back, spreading her legs. “I don’t know if I can eat that much.” Her hand patted her belly. “I’m still pretty full,” she admitted, lifting the hem of her shirt. Her belly was pushing the waistband down and the lace was untied.

 

I squirmed on my seat. “Haven’t you digested, yet?”

 

“Nope.” She lowered the shirt and gave the pot a dainty look. “To be honest, I’m having second thoughts about this whole affair.”

 

That could not be: my wet dream was about to end and I could not allow that! “Listen,” I reasoned. “You were so excited about that prize. There must be a solution.”

 

Chiara shrugged, put a small helping of spaghetti on her plate and took a forkful. “Maybe I’m not built for this. I guess it’s a matter of…metabolism.” She chewed and swallowed with some effort.

 

Metabolism, right! “Yes, that’s it!” I slammed my fist on the table. “We’ll have to work on your metabolism!”

 

She looked at me quizzically, a second forkful hanging in the air. “How…?”

 

“Don’t worry!” I leaned forward. “We’re starting tomorrow anyway.”

 

“Aren’t you working?”

 

Shit! “I’m taking the day off, just for you.”

 

“Thanks, but…”

 

“But you must do me a favor.” I raised my index. “Prove that I’m not wasting my time, that you’re serious about doing this.”

 

“How exactly?” She eyed the pot doubtfully.

 

You’re not so dumb, after all. “Finish the spaghetti.”

 

“It might take a while.”

 

It would not take long, if I had it my way. “I can wait.” I sat back and served myself a good helping; then pushed the pot towards her. “Here you go.”

 

Two hours later Chiara had swallowed the last forkful and looked at me with glazed eyes. Her fork fell to the bottom of the pot with a metallic ring, followed by a loud belch. Her shirt had ridden up once again and her belly was even fuller than before. She patted it with a dull sound, followed by a gurgle.

 

“I’m done,” she whispered. “Leave me here.”

 

“You’d better go to bed,” I suggested. “Sleep it off.” And turn it into lard!

 

Chiara shook her head. “Not sure if I can stand.”

 

“Nonsense.” I stood and slid behind her. “Here, let me help.”

 

I grabbed her by the armpits and pulled her up. I was stronger and heavier than she was but, despite that, it took some effort to get her standing. Chiara needed a few seconds to find her balance and had to arch her back; she put and arm around my shoulders and used the free hand to sustain her swollen midsection.

 

I slid my own arm around her thickening waistline and we slowly made our way to her bedroom. She staggered a couple of times but I held her tight; the mass of her huge belly was enough to make my head sway. We entered the room and I gently lowered her on her bed.

 

“Sleep well.” I caressed the bloated dome of her gut one more time. “Tomorrow we are gonna have some real fun.”

[Borghen]

“Wakey, wakey!” I looked down at Chiara, still asleep on the bed. Her stomach had deflated slightly during the night, but was still rounder than usual.

 

Chiara opened her eyes. “What…what is happening?” Her belly rumbled and she belched. “’Scuse me.”

 

“We are working on your metabolism, like I said.” I reached down and patted her gut. “Put on some workout clothes and join me in the living room.”

 

I ignored her muffled groan and left her. The living room was also a workout area, with a bench, a set of dumbbells and an old rubber mat. I rolled the mat and put it away, then knelt to adjust the discs on the dumbbells. I figured ten pounds would be enough to start.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

I raised my head. Chiara was standing in front of me. I almost dropped the dumbbell I was handling. She had her hair pulled back in a small bun and was wearing matching tank top and workout shorts. The top squeezed her boobs giving her distinct cleavage and the shorts were tight on her thick thighs.

 

But what really entranced me was her midsection. Her belly, still rather full from the previous day’s double binge was hanging free, jiggling slightly. It curved outwards right beneath her sternum and sloped down into a cute muffin top, enhanced by the tight waistband; the muffin top itself circled her waist forming a pair of soft love handles.

 

“What are you doing and what are you looking at?”

 

I shook my head, realizing that I had been staring. “Nothing, nothing.” I looked down, while blushing. “I was just fixing these dumbbells for you.”

 

“What for?” She scratched absentmindedly her soft tummy.

 

I stood. “Well, you said something about improving your metabolism, right?” I gestured towards the weights. “What better way than building some muscle? You’ll be stronger and hungrier in no time!”

 

“Shouldn’t I go for a jog or something?” Her rueful expression made it clear that she did not think highly of the idea.

 

And burn some fat? No way! I shook my head. “No, not really. Cardio isn’t gonna help you that much.” I grabbed her broad shoulders. “You need some mass.” I shook her lightly and her boobs bounced.

 

“Ok.” She put her hands on mine. “Let’s get started.”

 

We began her workout with some stretching for her shoulders and upper torso. Every time she raised her arms, her breasts squashed and bounced together, trying to escape the tightness of the top; every time she twisted her torso, the layer of pudge bunched and formed cute rolls. Just wait till I get through with you and we’ll see how well you’ll bend.

 

I had Chiara sit on the bench and go through a basic set of presses for shoulders, arms and chest. She began sweating almost immediately and, just looking at her shiny tummy, I felt my temperature rising, too. Ten pounds proved to be too light, so I quickly upgraded her to twelve. She grunted during her second set of lifts and I gave her assistance, grabbing her arms and helping her during the last reps. Her muscles were tight, under a soft layer of fat.

 

I gave her some time to catch her breath and drink some water, then moved on to the lower body: performing squats and lounges she soon was dripping with sweat. I wasn’t any cooler, mesmerized by her thick thighs and bulging calves. After the last set she dropped the dumbbells and eyed the mat.

 

“Are we going to use that, too?”

 

“That? Oh, no. Absolutely no!”

 

“Why not?”

 

Because I want you round, not flat. “Because you do not need to strengthen your abs.” I tried to sound as knowledgeable as possible. “Tight abs would act like a wall, preventing you from filling your stomach while eating. You would find yourself feeling full too soon.”

 

She looked down at her stomach, past her boobs. “Yeah. My tummy needs some room to expand. Right?” She patted her stomach. It grumbled.

 

“Speaking of which,” I squealed. “Ehm!” I cleared my throat. “Speaking of which, it’s almost time for lunch.” I looked at my watch. “You’ve been working out for over one hour. Are you hungry?”

Her belly rumbled again. “Yes,” she admitted. “I could eat a horse.”

 

Be careful what you wish for… “Good, go take a shower,” I answered, heading for the kitchen.

[Borghen]

Two hours later Chiara was slumped in her chair at the table, her belly massively bloated by a double helping of penne all’arrabbiata. The pasta had been very spicy (I had made sure to drop some extra pepper in it) and my friend was fanning her open mouth with a hand, while the other was busy rubbing her bulging belly. Undone belt and unbuttoned pants completed the picture.

 

“That was great,” she gasped. “I’m on fire. Why is there only a small bottle of water?”

 

“There is a reason.” I perched on the edge of the table to better look at her huge, heaving stomach. “It is all part of your training.”

 

“What?”

 

I could not resist. I leaned forward and poked her tummy. It was swollen, but tender. “How are you feeling?”

 

Chiara groaned and rolled her eyes. “How should I feel?” She put both hands on her stomach. “Full.”

 

I poked her a couple more times. She yelped. “There’s still some give,” I commented. “You aren’t completely full, yet.”

 

“So, what should I do?”

 

I stood, opened the fridge and retrieved two big bottles of beer. “You’re thirsty, aren’t you?”

“Sure, but…”

 

“There you go!” I slammed them both on the table. “You can quench your thirst and expand your capacity at the same time: two birds with a stone.” Something else is rock hard right now.

 

She eyed the bottles doubtfully. “Are you sure”?

 

I opened the first one. “Just drink.”

 

 

She did. She drank every drop of the first with massive chugs, only taking breaks to catch her breath and belch. The second took longer and she had to pace herself with smaller sips and longer breaks. I watched her intently has her stomach swelled rounder and rounder. Halfway through the second bottle she gave up on any pretense of restraint and pulled down the waistband of her trousers, again exposing her pink panties. My heart raced faster.

 

Eventually both bottles were empty. She leaned back and slowly massaged her taut stomach. I rested a hand on it: it was as tight as a drum, filled to the brim with food and liquid. Chiara closed her eyes and took quick, shallow breaths, without interrupting the rub. A smile crept on her lips and she chuckled.

 

“What's so funny?”

 

“I feel tipsy, that's all,” she answered, without opening her eyes. “Lightheaded.”

 

And your belly is heavy. “Try sleeping it off. Tonight I’ll have another good meal planned for you.”

 

“Gimme a minute.”

 

She kept her eyes closed, humming a song and gently stroking her own gut. I took a deep breath and tried not to stare. My arousal had become painful and everything she was doing was fueling my fetish. Her breath intensified and her hands moved more languidly. I looked at her boobs: the nipples were clearly visible through the fabric. She was enjoying it as much as I was.

 

I reached one more time with my hand and caressed her bloated midsection. She grinned and let me do it for a while, without opening her eyes. Her belly gurgled ominously, she opened her mouth and released an earth-shattering belch. I stopped, she opened her eyes and smiled at me sheepishly, shrugging her broad shoulders.

 

“Sorry. Much better now. Thanks.”

 

“You're welcome.”

 

“Better get to bed.” She grabbed the edge of the table and heaved herself up. “Man, the room is spinning!”

 

I watched her, as she was trying to keep her balance. Her belly was so swollen and heavy that the waistline of her jeans was pushed downwards and only held up by her thick thighs. The roll of fat that encircled her waistline was nowhere to be seen, now replaced by a taut sphere of tan flesh. Chiara swayed a little, then made her way towards her bedroom, arching her back like a pregnant woman.

 

I followed her, my mouth dry. In the hallway she stopped in front of the mirror and gaped at her reflection. She raised her shirt, posing frontally and laterally, smiling all the time. The she let go a drunken giggle, shrugged and went to her bedroom. I shook my head several times, leaning on the wall for some support, then I went to take a shower.

[Borghen]

Chiara woke up several hours later, when it was already past dinner time. She lumbered to the kitchen with groggy eyes and a gurgling stomach, still clad in the ill-fitting clothes she had been wearing at lunch. I had restocked the pantry and was ready to serve her but, following an inspiration, decided to play it differently: I only gave her a small plate of pasta, with a glass full of beer.

 

“Is it that all there is?”

 

“Eat up.” I licked my lips.

 

She devoured the pasta in no time and chugged the cold beer as quickly. I waited for a while, making idle chat, then I served her some tuna salad, with one more beer. Again she ate and drank everything quickly; I let a few minutes pass, before repeating the trick: a small helping of tasty food and a big glass of beer. Towards the end of the meal, Chiara was bloated with liquid and visibly lightheaded.

 

“I feel funny,” she slurred, leaning back. She patted her sloshy tummy. “The beer is so gassy.” She belched.

 

“Good,” I approved. “It will help expand your capacity.” I placed a plate of dry cookies in front of her. “And here is your dessert.”

 

Chiara mechanically grabbed one of the cookies and stuffed it in her mouth. They were freshly baked with chocolate chips, both filling and fattening. I let her eat a good part of the plate, before taking a milk cartoon out of the fridge and filling a tall glass. I held it nonchalantly out of her reach, and only gave it to her when the cookies were finished.

 

“Thanks,” she said. “My mouth was dry.”

 

She grabbed the glass and chugged it like there was no tomorrow (which could have been truer than we thought at the rate she was eating). The milk had just disappeared down her throat when what I was expecting happened: the crumbs stuffed at the top of her overfull belly began to expand, soaked with the milk. It began with a slow rumble, then Chiara’s belly surged noticeably forward. Her shirt rolled up once again and her groan of distress became a loud belch.

 

“What… What is this?” She held her own gut in both hands, trying to prevent it from expanding further. She did not look to be successful.

 

I shrugged. “Your tummy. What else?”

 

Chiara blinked. “But what just happened?”

 

“A simple matter of physics.” I grabbed the hem of her shirt to pull it down, but it was stuck under her boobs and the top of her stomach.

 

“I hate you,” she moaned, then she belched again.

 

It took more time than the previous night to carry Chiara to bed. Not only was she bloated and gassy, but also nearly drunk. After a lot of staggering and cursing (she stomped on my foot a couple of times), we eventually made it to her room, where she spun and landed with her back on the bed. The fall was enough to provoke another rumble from her tummy, followed by a barrage of belches. I retreated to the safety of my own room.

[Borghen]

Next day I got up early and went to our little gym, pondering what kind of workout I could get Chiara thorough. I heard the door to her room open, but her heavy steps went the opposite way, towards the bathroom. I tiptoed to the corridor and listened. She pissed for a good minute, surely full of beer since the previous night.

 

When she flushed the toilet, I went back to the den. She entered a moment leather, already clad in her workout gear. Her hair was still disheveled and her eyes were bloodshot and heavy-lidded. My gaze drifted downwards, past her squeezed cleavage, and came to rest on her midsection. It was still puffed up from the night before and there was a noticeable bulge below the navel.

 

“Good morning!” It took me an effort to look into her eyes. “How are you today?”

 

She made a face. “Hungover. Do we really have to go through with this?”

 

“Yes.” I stepped aside. “I have two dumbbells with your name on them.”

 

Chiara sat heavily on the bench and bent to pick up the weights. As she did so, the fat on her tummy bunched in two distinct rolls and her love handles poured over the waist of her short. She took a deep breath and lifted the dumbbells for the first set of repetitions. Her breasts bulged further and her tank top fought to restrain them, riding higher with every move. Chiara started sweating soon, still bloated from all the liquids ingested the night before.

 

“I’m exhausted,” she panted. The dumbbells clanged to the floor and I pretended not to notice a chipped floorboard. “Let me catch my breath.”

 

“Ok. We can change the exercise. Stand up and touch your toes.”

 

Chiara rose awkwardly and took a step forward. I maneuvered beside her. She tried to bend at the waist but her stomach was still too bloated to allow that and her hands only came to around knees. She grimaced, then spread her legs a little, but only succeeded in grabbing her ankles. I took a step behind her and admired her chunky hamstrings and rounded calves, as she struggled to reach further down.

 

“Ok, enough!”

 

She straightened herself with a grunt and staggered back, spreading her arms. “I feel dizzy,” she complained, leaning on the wall.

 

“Low pressure,” I smirked. “Let’s raise it.”

 

She sighed and went back to the dumbbells. After the initial struggles, she performed fairly well. Like the previous day I make her work her chest, arms and shoulders, before moving down to thighs, calves and buttocks. Her abs were intentionally neglected, as I wanted to provide her belly the maximum room to expand.

 

“We are finished,” I said, over an hour later. “Now go get a shower and prepare for lunch. Dress comfortably.”

 

Chiara was lying on the ground in a pool of her own sweat. “Yeah. Just gimme some time.” She stood slowly and ran a hand over her soft belly, soaked with perspiration. “Say, isn’t it too early for lunch?” Her stomach growled. “Not that I’m not hungry, but…”

 

“Yes, it is early, but we’re eating out.” This thing is gonna cost a ton. “My treat, of course.”

 

It was a mild late morning and we left the apartment at a leisurely pace. Chiara was wearing a loose blouse and a low rise pair of pants that only came down to her knee. Even though we weren’t walking very fast, she was somewhat winded when we arrived at the restaurant.

 

“What is this place?” She frowned, squinting to read the sign. “Sushi Wok?”

 

“It is all-you-can-eat,” I cheerfully explained. “Or, in your case: all-you-can-fit.” I patted her tummy bulge. “Just think of it as a training arena.”

 

Chiara shrugged. “I guess that makes sense. Let’s go!”

 

The place was still half empty, so a tiny Asian woman seated us right away. We ordered some water, then stood to approach the buffet. It was really massive: sushi, spring rolls, wantons, shrimp crackers, pork, beef, chicken and many other scrumptious kinds of food. Chiara’s belly emitted a loud gurgle and she started piling her plate.

 

The following ninety minutes were devoted to tasting and devouring each and every single plate available. By no means in a hurry, Chiara would load her plate, methodically demolish it and move onto the next one. Every time she stood, she took a few seconds to pull her shirt down and hike her trousers up, much to my delight.

 

The water was soon finished and I ordered a beer instead; she did not seem to mind. Once she’d gotten to the end of the buffet (it took almost an hour), Chiara smacked her lips and moved heavily to the grill. She filled her plates with every meat and fish available, handed them to the cook and plodded back to our table. She waited, sipping her beer and rubbing her rounded paunch. When the food arrived, she grunted, unbuttoned her pants and dug in.

 

It was almost two in the afternoon when she finished. She put the last morsel of sausage in her mouth, chewed slowly, swallowed and collapsed back in the chair, licking the grease off her fingers. I took a deep breath, having finished my own meal long before, and admired the breathtaking sight.

 

Chiara's eyelids fluttered, as she drifted in a food coma; she had been eating for an hour and a half and it showed: her blouse, once loose, was now pulled tight across her distended midsection, the fabric stretched thin and small slivers of tan flesh visible through the gaps between buttons. Her low rise jeans now rode even lower, as her massive food baby slowly made way to her lower abdomen. I took one last sip of water, fighting back my excitement.

 

I cleared my throat. “Chiara,” I called. She moaned. “Chiara!” No reaction.

 

I stood up and approached her. I looked around but no one in the restaurant was really paying attention to us: there were a few patrons lingering on their respective umpteenth plates and a small woman was cleaning the tables. I knelt beside Chiara and admired her magnificently stuffed belly. That close, I could hear it softly growl, trying to digest the massive feast. She looked like a boa constrictor digesting a goat, or an overfed bear ready to hibernate.

 

Too bad I cannot allow that! I had other plans for her. I laid a hand on the round surface and gently squeezed: Her stomach was hard rock, under a soft layer of lard. I frowned, slid my hand upward and found some give, right under her ribcage: so there was still room to be filled. I stroked her gut with slow, circular motions and her breathing intensified; her round face once again sported the smile I had already seen: she was enjoying that almost as much as I was. Her lips parted and she belched.

 

Her eyes shot open. “Sorry!” She blushed.

 

“Don’t worry.” I patted her tummy one last time. “Better out than in, that’s what I always say.”

 

Chiara blinked and stifled a second belch. “What…What time is it?”

 

“Past two. But this place closes at three.” I gestured towards the buffet. “You have plenty of time to grab some dessert!”

 

Chiara’s eyes bulged. “Dessert!?” She rested a hand on her gurgling belly. “I don’t think I can…”

“I think you can,” I interrupted her. “Let’s go!”

 

She shook her head and feebly kicked her legs. “I’m too full to stand.” Her belly let an ominous rumble. “Can you just get it for me?”

 

Bad idea, worst idea ever! “Sure, relax. Let me handle this.”

 

I did not wait for her answer and marched towards the buffet. Regretting that I only had two hands, I piled one plate with tiramisu and fortune cookies; then I filled two cups with ice-cream, making sure to put at least two scoops for each of the four flavors available. I carefully picked up my load of sugar-based calories, made my way back to the table and dumped everything in front of Chiara.

 

“Here you go. Enjoy!”

 

“How will I ever eat all this?” Her tone was one of complaint, but she was already reaching for her spoon.

 

“Like everything else: one bite a time. I suggest you start with the ice-cream, before it melts.”

 

Chiara heeded my advice and started spooning the sugary treat into her mouth. After she finished the ice cream, she moved onto the second plate, albeit at a slower pace. I watched her, entranced by such a display of gluttony. It was almost three in the afternoon when my friend swallowed the last fortune cookie and laid back in a stuffed stupor.

 

I got up and hurried to pay the check, before she could fall asleep again. The waitress gave me our ticket and motioned us to leave. I nodded and rushed back to Chiara. Getting her out of the seat was no easy task, as I had to stand behind her and haul her upright, kicking the chair to on side. Chiara almost lost her balance and staggered backwards, painfully squashing my erection with her stout butt. I prayed she wouldn’t notice.

 

I slid an arm around her thickened midsection and we made our way out of the restaurant walking side by side. Her swollen belly bumped against my hip at every step and I was having difficulties concealing my arousal. She in turn, was using her free hand to support the lower part of her abdomen, bulging in a wide gap between pants and shirt. We proceeded slowly along the sidewalk, but it was clear that Chiara had difficulties breathing. She pushed my arm away, took a step to the side and straightened with a grunt, pressing both hands on the small of her back.

 

“Blast it!” She clutched her belly with both hands and hefted it up. “If we keep on doing this, I’m gonna need a wheelbarrow to carry this thing around!”

 

“Do you think you can walk home?”

 

She leaned on a wall. “Barely. I think we should take the bus.”

 

“Yeah, better.” I do not want you to fall down and pop like a balloon. Or to burn precious calories, for that matter.

 

I led her to a nearby bus stop and we waited together. I was now holding her by the shoulders, appreciating their breadth and firmness, while she was busy massaging and petting her bloated belly with both hands. The bus arrived a little later and I helped her up, pushing from behind; the doors closed behind us and the vehicle departed.

 

Chiara grabbed a handle and steadied herself, one hand still pressed on her bare tummy. An old woman seated beside us grabbed her crutch and stood, wincing. I thought that she wanted to get off at the next stop, so I stepped away from the door. But the woman limped towards Chiara and gestured to the empty seat.

 

“Sit down, darling. I would not want to strain yourself in your condition.” She flashed her gums in a toothless smile. “I’ve had three children of my own and I know how painful it can be.”

 

Chiara blushed to the roots of her hair, whispered something and walked ponderously towards the seat. The bus braked right when she was about to sit herself and she fell into it. The sudden move was enough to pop the lowest button of her shirt. Chiara’s face went even redder and I could not hide a smirk. The rest of the trip was uneventful, with Chiara stroking her gut under the benign gaze of the old crone.

 

We reached our stop shortly after and I helped Chiara up, like the loving husband and soon-to-be father I was believed to be. Chiara maneuvered her full belly out of the bus and all the way up to the stairs to our apartment, where she collapsed on her bed without even taking off her shoes. I stood beside her and removed them for her. It was almost four o’ clock.

 

“Thanks,” she groaned.

 

“You’re welcome. Quite the friendly old lady, wasn’t she?”

 

Chiara rolled her eyes. “She thought I was pregnant.” She patted her billowing paunch for emphasis. “Pregnant!”

 

I leaned forward and planted a kiss on her tummy. “Yes, pregnant with a huge food baby. Seriously, you were amazing at that buffet. A good sign if you’re gonna try to win that prize.”

 

Chiara rested a hand on her belly and craned her neck upwards. “You took off my shoes, right? I can’t even see my feet.” She wiggled her toes. “I think I’ll take a nap.”

 

I closed the shutters at the window. “Sleep lightly.” Until I prepare a dinner.

[Borghen]

I went shopping and came back carrying a huge watermelon and several bottles of cheap discount beer. Chiara was still asleep, so I took everything to the kitchen, put the beer in the fridge and started cutting the watermelon; it had to be at least a dozen pounds and every slice was so big it could barely fit the plate. I sat in the kitchen and waited until eight, then I stood and went to wake up Chiara. She was laying on her bed, like a huge beached whale. Her belly, only slightly deflated, rose like a mountain.

 

“Chiara!”

 

She groggily opened her eyes. “What else?”

 

“Dinner is served! Come on!”

 

She flailed her arms, but I decided not to help her, in spite of how eager I was to lay my hands on her bloated body. Chiara groaned, rolled on one side and pivoted on her hip, until she was across the bed; then she flopped flat on her back and put both feet on the floor. I watched fascinated as she tried to sit up twice, propping herself on her elbows. She almost managed on the second attempt, but her arms slid on the duvet and she fell back. With an exasperated groan, she pushed herself forward and slid to the floor, landing on her butt. Only then, seated with her back to the bed, could she gain enough leverage to stand up.

 

“I’m impressed,” I remarked. “That was quite a feat.”

 

She pressed a hand on her stomach. “Man, I got sweaty just getting out of bed.” She sounded almost as amazed as I was aroused. “Quite a workout.”

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

“Better. The nap helped.”

 

I poked her belly. It was softer than before. “Seems like you have some room left.”

 

“I hope so.”

 

“Just follow me.”

 

“What’s to eat?”

 

“Watermelon, and plenty of it.”

 

She bit her lip. “Are you sure?”

 

“That’s exactly what you need,” I explained. “After all that fat and greasy food, you need something light to recover and watermelons are little more than water.”

 

“It makes sense, I guess.”

 

“Sure!”

 

Chiara took a quick detour to the toilet and joined me in the kitchen. I immediately seated her in front of the watermelon and took a frosty beer bottle out of the fridge. Sure enough a watermelon had nearly no calories but, as every self-respecting FA with a stuffing fetish knows, it is also good to stuff somebody’s belly to the bursting point to increase its future capacity. Chiara was still thirsty after her lunch, so she dug in the fruit with gusto and chugged a liter of beer while doing so. The nap had indeed freed some room in her stomach and she quickly took advantage of that.

 

Only two slices were left and her shirt was stretched to the bursting point. Her low rise jeans, unbuttoned since lunch time, were now riding even lower, barely covering her buttocks. She leaned forward to reach another slice and the second button of the day popped open. This gave her the room she needed, allowing her to finish the watermelon. I grabbed the last bottle of beer, still one third full, and brought it to her lips. She slowly drank it all. Then she belched (it was a sound I was getting used to) and laid back, immediately falling asleep.

 

I had to wait until a little before midnight before she woke up and came to her senses. Only then, at price of a great effort, could I carry her towards the bedroom. I had to open all the buttons of her shirt, except the first three, to prevent them from popping under the strain. Even so, she could barely bend at the waist and I had to grab her under the armpits, not daring to put any pressure on her midsection. She leaned back to accommodate her new center of gravity and eventually managed to lay back on the bed. I poked her tummy one last time: hard as a rock, it wouldn’t give a quarter of an inch. Chiara belched a couple of times, then closed her eyes. I left her to digest and went to my room, for a sleep filled with wet dreams.

[blyth]

Cool stuff! Hoping for more

[Borghen]

On 26.2.2018 at 7:30 PM, blyth said:

Cool stuff! Hoping for more

Thanks!

Next episode is coming on Tuesday 6th!

[Borghen]

The ball was rolling. Never was a figure of speech more appropriate. During the following days, my plan began to unfold: Chiara would wake up, have a strenuous workout, eat a fattening three-course meal and go back to sleep; in the evening she would work on increasing her capacity with a lighter but more filling meal, then she would painfully carry her bloated figure to bed, leaving me deeply amazed.

 

After a couple of weeks the effects of this regimen began to show. Chiara was sporting rounder cheeks, broader shoulders, bigger breasts and thicker thighs. Then, of course, there was her impressive belly. What had started as a tiny, soft tummy was now becoming a real potbelly. It would ceaselessly amaze me how its shape changed during the day: soft and flabby early in the morning, warm and sweaty after her workout, swollen and tender after lunch, tight and taut after dinner. More than once I had a chance to pat or stroke it; Chiara did not seem to mind. After an especially heavy meal I was even allowed to perform a quick rub to help her stomach relax and ease some of the pressure.

 

Chiara’s muscle were growing, too. Neither her arms or legs showed the barest hint of definition, but they were brawny enough to handle heavier workouts and I was soon forced to upgrade her dumbbells to twenty-five pounds. Her increased muscle mass gave her an increased appetite, which led her to consume even bigger meals. It was a downward spiral, or an upward one, depending on the point of view. My roommate was slowly turning into a buxom amazon and I was enjoying every minute of it.

 

Truth be told, she did not seem too displeased, either. More than once I caught her admiring her own reflection in the mirror after a big meal and it was not unusual to see her stroking her distended midsection while waiting for the next course. I once stole a glimpse of her giggling and fingering her deepened navel after unbuckling her belt for the umpteenth time. Chiara was also fond of her newly acquired muscles, as she would often strike a double biceps pose after our workouts. At first she had a mocking smile but, as the days passed, she looked even proud of her massive upper torso.

 

Two months into our training regimen she skipped her first workout. I was waiting for her in the living room, ready to guide her in her daily routine, but she failed to show up. I was disappointed and even a little worried. I paced back and forth for a while, then tiptoed along the corridor towards her room. I stood in front of the door and listened; groans and grunts were coming from inside. I took a deep breath, then knelt and peered through the keyhole.

 

I gasped. Chiara was standing in front of the mirror, her back turned to the door and she was only wearing her workout shorts; only then I realized how tight they had become in the past thirty days: the fabric clung to her tree trunk thighs like a second skin (I could not help but thinking about juicy sausages) and the small roll of fat around the waist had become a good sized muffin top. The back of her legs was covered by a layer of cellulite and the top of her butt crack was visible, as the garment couldn’t cover all of her fattened backside.

 

Chiara grabbed the hem of her trousers and jumped a couple of times, trying to pull them up. The floor shook with every leap and I was almost knocked off balance, but she only succeeded in shaking the layers of fat on her upper torso. She paused, panted and took a deep breath. Then it happened: she took a step backwards and turned to the side to inspect her reflection. My jaw nearly hit the floor. Her belly, free of any constraint, hung freely pushing the waistband down. But my attention was, for once, captured by her breasts.

 

She had never been petite for a start, but now she had truly grown: her C cup had blossomed in a D cup, which had in turn blown into a DD. Her huge tits sat heavily on her broad chest, like two overripe melons; tan skin pulled taut by the weight and darker nipples defiantly pointing upwards: Chiara looked like a primitive fertility goddess. She snorted, sucked in her gut and hefted her boobs, cupping each one in a hand; a few second later she exhaled and her belly expanded to its original size. She massaged her swollen jugs for a few seconds, moaning in pleasure, then moved out of my sight.

 

Only when I raised myself did I realize that I was drenched in sweat. I didn’t even care about my painful erection, as in the last few days I had gotten used to conceal my perpetual arousal, and I made my way back to the living room, taking deep breaths all along. Chiara joined me a couple of minutes later, announced by the rubbing of her thighs. She had managed to squeeze her boobs in her tank top, but it was clear that the garment was about to burst at the seams, stretched thin by the massive mammary mass.

 

“You’re late.” It took me all of my willpower to look at her face.

 

Chiara scowled. “Wardrobe malfunction.” She pulled the hem of her top lower, barely reaching under her sternum. “I can’t breathe.”

 

“I see.” Those globes of flesh were mesmerizing.

 

“I see that you see!” She snapped her fingers beneath my nose. “So, what are we gonna do?”

 

“Well, we can fix it after your workout.”

 

“Ok, fair enough.” She lumbered towards the dumbbells.

 

The session was intense as usual, but I decided on a smaller range of exercises, pointedly avoiding every kind of position or movement which might have led to a critical wardrobe malfunction. Chiara was now able to handle arm curls and Arnold presses without even being winded, even though her sweating was always heavy.

 

“Ok, enough for today,” I decided, as she dropped the dumbbells. “Now go get a shower, then we’ll go clothes shopping.”

 

Chiara got up from the bench, dripping with perspiration. “Sounds great!” She clapped her hands, sending her melons into a jiggling frenzy.

 

“Hurry up!”

[Borghen]

Twenty minutes later we were walking along the street. It was a beautiful sunny day. Chiara had her hair in a ponytail, accentuating her full cheeks, and had donned a sweat suit. The pants were reasonably loose (albeit not as much as they were supposed to be), but the top barely covered her belly and was pulled tight by her huge tits. A deep noise rumbled.

 

I looked up. “What’s this thunder? There’s not a cloud in sight…”

 

Chiara chuckled. “It is my tummy.” She caressed her fat belly. “It is well past lunch time.”

 

“Can’t you wait a little longer?”

 

She shrugged. “Not my fault. I’ve gotten used to having lunch every day at the same hour.”

 

“Ok, then let’s hurry up!”

 

We quickened our pace. Chiara started sweating after a few blocks and her face got redder under the tan. The rhythmic thump of her footsteps was accompanied by her heavy breathing and by the rubbing of her thighs. I stole a glance at her, admiring how she was slightly leaning backwards to balance her weight and the surreptitious move whenever she pulled down the hem of her jacket. We arrived at the clothing store a few minutes later and she was a total mess. I let her catch her breath, then we entered.

 

“Hello, may I help you?” A skinny salesgirl whose tag identified her as ‘Romina’ approached us. She was pale, with dark hair and slim fingers. “What are you looking for?”

 

“Some clothes,” Chiara answered.

 

“Stretchy ones,” I added, fighting back a smile.

 

Romina cocked her head to one side, looking at Chiara. “I guess they’re for you.” She gestured towards an aisle. “Maternity…?”

 

“Nope.” This time Chiara had to force back a chuckle. “Just plus size.” She could not help but stroke her gut.

 

The clerk’s white complexion flushed red, but she managed a tight smile. “Ok, this way.” She turned towards a different aisle.

 

We followed her skinny butt to a section of the store dedicated to the female summer clothing.

 

Chiara loaded her arms with blouses and skirts, then disappeared into a changing room. I waited for a while, tapping my foot on the floor and stealing not so furtive glances at Romina, who was in turn rearranging a couple of flowery shirts on the shelves.

 

“Does it fit me?”

 

We both turned towards the changing room. Chiara was wearing a sleeveless blouse, which emphasized her broad shoulders and billowed over her huge bust. The light tissue outlined the round shape of her belly below and the small indentation of her navel could be clearly seen. The flowing skirt ended just below the knee, leaving her powerful calves uncovered; her thick thighs were more or less concealed, but even the loosest garment could do very little to hide how massive her butt had become.

 

“I asked: does it fit me!?”

 

Chiara’s voice snapped me out of my reverie: I had been staring for almost a minute. Just then I realized that Romina had not said a word either. The slender salesgirl moved a tentative step towards Chiara, eyes fixated and lips pursed. She reached towards the hem of the shirt, which fell just beneath the skirt’s waistband.

 

“It is pretty loose. Maybe we should try a different combination of…”

 

Chiara meaty hand snapped and locked Romina’s skinny wrist in a vice-like grip. “No, thanks.” She smiled, then released her. “I need room to grow, anyway.”

 

“As… As you wish.” The girl massaged her wrist and took a step backwards.

 

In the end we bought two skirts, two shirts, a new workout attire and even a bikini. I snuck a peek at the bathing suit’s tag and a big letter “E” flashed in front of my eyes: my heart skipped a beat. We went to the cashier and I had to pay with my credit card, having run short on cash. The “training” of Chiara was proving more expensive than I had anticipated, as I was providing her with an endless amount of food, while taking several days off from work.

 

We left the shop and, since we were already outside, decided to go for a lunch (mostly because Chiara’s rumbling stomach could not wait any further). The designated place was the same all-you-can-eat buffet of three weeks earlier, but this time my friend was better trained: at 3:00pm the Asian lady had to order us to leave, as Chiara was still eating her fourth or fifth dessert (by that time even I had lost track).

 

I paid without a word (another transaction on my MasterCard), then headed back to the table. Chiara managed to stand, thanks to the sheer power in her legs. Feeling immensely proud of my personal training skills, I admired how the loose blouse had ridden up, uncovering her gorged midsection. Fat and stuffed, the girl leaned heavily on the table beaming happily. I came beside her, kissed her on the cheek and led her out of the place. We were only halfway to the eating contest, but I already felt that we could win!

[Borghen]

Eight more weeks passed in a blur of working out and overeating. The bank called me once to tell me that my account was approaching an overdraft, asking me to check if anybody had stolen my credit card. I grimaced and answered that my MasterCard was still in my wallet, while Chiara, in the kitchen, was feasting on a stack of pizzas with five different toppings, which had cost at least twenty euros. My money allowance was quickly dwindling, but I had no time to look for a proper job.

 

Finally, June 23^rd came around. It was St. John’s Eve: the next day the famous competition we had been training so hard for would take place. I had invested so much of my time and money in it that I simply could not afford a loss. With this idea in mind, I woke up earlier than usual and got dressed. Reassured by a telltale snoring coming from Chiara’s room, I hurried downstairs and went to the chemist’s round the corner. There I bought a small package of laxative pills, then I rushed back home.

 

Chiara had just awakened and was waiting for me near the bench; I dropped the small packet on the sofa and looked at her. Her workout attire, a tank top and matching shorts, fit just a month earlier, but now had grown quite tight: her breasts had somewhat plateaued at an E cup, but her belly was still soaking calories like a sponge and was billowing even when empty, while her legs, meatier than ever, resembled two overstuffed sausages.

 

I looked at her and nodded appraisingly. “Are you feeling ready for tomorrow?”

 

“You betcha!” She patted her belly.

 

“How much…” I cleared my throat. “How much do you weigh?”

 

“Dunno. Shall we check?”

 

She moved towards the bathroom and I followed her chunky backside, admiring every bulge and ripple that her plodding stroll provoked. In the bathroom she pushed the scale from under the sink, smiled and stepped on it. The needle spun back and forward; I held my breath and Chiara bent forward to read the number over her massive frontal load: 180.

 

I blinked. “One hundred and eighty!?” I felt dizzy for the umpteenth time in the past months.

 

Chiara got off the scale and stood in front of the mirror. “That’s forty-five pounds: I haven’t gotten too big, have I?” Her exposed lower belly touched the edge of the sink and she tried to suck it in.

 

“No way.” I was sincere. “Let’s get back to the gym.”

 

That morning’s workout was as good as usual, with my roommate handling with little effort thirty pound dumbbells and fifty reps of squats. I could barely see her muscles flexing underneath the thick layer of lard, but I knew they were there, ready to boost her metabolism and appetite in the contest. Or, at least, that is what I hoped. I did a quick calculation: fifteen of the forty-five pounds she had gained must have been muscle, but the remaining thirty were pure fat, sweet padding for her already soft body.

 

As she was nearing the end of the training, I surreptitiously retrieved the laxatives and tiptoed to the kitchen. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and tore the box open. The booklet said “one or two pills a day”; I shook my head and poured six in the bottle, before returning to the living room.

Chiara had just finished her routine and was, as usual, dripping with sweat.

 

“Drink this.” I handed her the water. “It’ll help.”

 

She nodded wearily, brought the bottle to her lips and chugged it down. I watched her intently, as a liter of water disappeared down her gullet. When the bottle was empty, she gave it back to me, punctuating the act with a small belch. She stood, caressing her belly; I stared, keeping my poker face.

 

“What are you looking at?”

 

“Nothing.” Yet.

 

“Well, it is about lunch time and…” She frowned and rested a hand on her paunch.

 

“And…?” It had acted faster than I had anticipated.

 

Chiara’s stomach grumbled. “I feel funny,” she whined.

 

“Hungry?”

 

Another rumble and she doubled over. “My belly,” she yelped. “What was in that water?”

 

“It is for your own good…”

 

“Fuck you!”

 

Still bent double, Chiara dashed for the bathroom. A few seconds later she slammed the door behind her and released a pained howl. I went to lock the front door of our flat and pocketed the key, then sat on the sofa, pretending not to notice the noises coming from the closet. Ten minutes later the door opened and out came a very pale and sweaty Chiara, a hand still clutched to her flabby belly.

 

“You are an asshole!” She pointed at me with a chubby finger. “Why in the world did you do this to me!?”

 

I stood. “Listen, there was really nothing else to do if we really wanted to win.”

 

Chiara opened her mouth, but her tirade was cut short by another ominous gurgling sound coming from her innards. Two big tears formed at the corners of her eyes, as she sprinted one more time for the bath. It was going to be a long afternoon. This time she only remained there for five minutes, but had the good sense not to leave. I sat on the sofa and stared at the ceiling.

[Borghen]

Two hours later Chiara came out of the toilet, still massaging her big belly. She had gone white under her tan and walked awkwardly. I stood up, feeling sorry for her, and helped her lay down on the couch. She groaned and looked at me.

 

“Dick.”

 

I sat on the ground beside her. “I'm sorry, but I wanted you to be ready for tomorrow.” I poked her love handle. “I can't afford to have you full and stuffed before the contest.”

 

“I feel like someone's ripped out my innards,” she complained. “And I'm starving.”

 

“Good.” I caressed her chubby cheek. “Now rest for tomorrow.”

 

“What's for dinner?”

 

Shit's about to hit the fan. “Nothing.”

 

“What!?”

 

“I said 'nothing'.”

 

Chiara sat up, abruptly. “Nothing!?”

 

“The pantry is empty. I haven't gone shopping since yesterday.” Beside, I'm almost broke.

 

“Aren’t we having dinner!?”

 

“You heard what I just told said, didn’t you?” I explained. “You can't...”

 

Chiara jumped off the couch and sprinted towards the door, her huge boobs bouncing and jiggling, barely contained in her workout top. She pulled futilely the handle, then looked for the key that was still in my pocket. She growled, then started pounding the door with her meaty fists. The hinges shook, but held. She punched the door one more time, the rushed to the window and opened it.

 

“I need food!”

 

“Before you think about jumping down,” I warned her, standing up. “I remind you that we are on the third floor.”

 

Not even your lard might cushion that fall.

 

Chiara spun and faced me, clenching her fists. Then she attacked, swinging clumsy but powerful punches at my face. I was hit square on the cheek by the first hook and staggered backwards, managed to parry the second and dodge the third, but Chiara, carried by her momentum, was on me. I grabbed her waist and my finger sunk in her layers of lard, then I fell flat on my back, with her considerable weight pinning me down.

 

The impact left me breathless and the buxom amazon took the advantage to grab my neck. Her heavy melons hovered in front of my face, her fat tummy pressed on my chest, and her tree trunk thighs squeezed my sides. It would have almost been erotic, a wet dream come true. Had I not been suffocating, that is.

 

My vision blurred. I tried to lift her, but she had grown too heavy. With my last ounces of strength I sank my fingers in her tender stomach. She screamed and let go of me. Air rushed back into my lungs and I rolled on my side, bringing her to the floor beside me. We lay the panting for a while, she massaged her poor belly and I rubbed my sore throat.

 

“Were...” I wheezed. “Were you trying to kill me?”

 

She turned to face me. “No.” She smiled. “But you didn't seem to mind, did you?”

 

“What do you mean!?”

 

Her smile grew wider and her knee rose to stroke my crotch. “This.”

 

“That?” I blushed. “Yeah, well…” My cock stiffened. “After a fashion…”

 

“It's a good thing you were having fun.” She pulled back her knee. “’Cause I wasn’t having any!” Her hand darted and took hold of my balls.

 

I shouted in pain. “No! Let me go!”

 

“So full and swollen,” she commented. “Now you know how I have been feeling these past four months.”

 

“I… I had a clue before, actually…”

 

She released me. “Well, that’s all you get.” Chiara sat up, her fat belly bunching in several rolls. “I am getting some rest, if you do not mind. Tomorrow is going to be a fulfilling day,” she added, stroking her tummy.

 

I remained curled on the floor in a fetal position, clutching my crotch, as she stood and towered over me. I took a couple of deep breaths, then managed to stand up myself. Chiara ignored me and lumbered towards her bedroom. The last I saw of her that day was her fattened backside as she entered the corridor. I shook my head, wiped sweat from my brow and headed to bed: next day would be taxing for both of us, to say the least.

[Borghen]

“How much further?” Chiara’s voice was strained and she was panting.

 

“Two minutes at my pace,” I answered. “Five at yours,” I added, as an afterthought.

 

We had gotten up around 7:00am and had obviously skipped breakfast, in view of the eating contest. I could easily manage a few hours without eating, but Chiara had been ravenous after a sleepless night and had tried to bite my hand off at the wrist. Luckily I had pulled back in time to avoid serious injury, but I had kept my distance from her for a few minutes.

 

She had donned her matching blouse and skirt. I remember how loose they were only two months earlier, now they were tight on her massive jugs and hefty rump respectively, so tight that they were almost transparent and her purple bikini (top and bottom) was visible through the fabric. Her belly was a totally different matter: even after a twenty-four hour forced fast, it stuck out past her massive breasts, quivering with every step. Shirt and skirt failed to meet at her navel and an inch of tan skin was visible.

 

Chiara was hot, not just metaphorically because she was to me a walking orgasm, but also literally, as the pounds of blubber accumulated during months of non-stop eating were making her sweat like a pig. Her hair, initially done in a bun, was disheveled and her clothes were soaked. It was a very warm early Summer day and the sun was shining up in the sky, even though it was only 8:00. We were climbing the boulevard on the hill south of the city, headed to Piazzale Michelangelo, where the contest would be held.

 

“Let me get a rest,” Chiara pleaded, leaning on a tree beside the road. She wiped the sweat from her head with a hand, using the other to caress her growling gut. “I feel drained.”

 

“You are carrying a lighter load than you’re used to,” I reasoned. “Why can’t you make it?”

 

“Cars don’t run with an empty tank.” She patted her flabby stomach. “I’m exhausted.”

 

“Come on, come on!” I moved a step towards her and grabbed her chubby wrist. “Here, let me help!”

 

We resumed our walking. Chiara was not resisting, but she had grown so heavy that I could barely pull her. When we got at the top of the hill, I was drenched in sweat, too. I let go of her arm and arched my back, moaning when my spine popped back into place. The landscape of Florence was wonderful, seen from high above, but our attention was drawn elsewhere. Right beneath the statue of David, there was a stage with a dozen chairs and a long table. People were gathering around and a middle-aged man in a striped shirt was on it, testing a microphone.

 

I pointed it out for Chiara. She nodded and made her way towards the stage, a determined look in her eyes and her meaty fists clenched. I marched beside her, somewhat tense myself, and examined the scene. A smaller group of people was gathered by a nearby booth; they were easily told apart because they were huge: the least fearsome was a teenage kid around 200 pounds, the others were all bigger. Suddenly I realized that Chiara was the only woman; if she had any doubt, clearly she did not show it, as she went straight to them. She looked puny beside those behemoths, standing barely 5’6’’, yet they all seemed to be aware of her presence and stepped aside to let her pass. She chatted with the man in the booth, listened to his answer, then shrugged and beckoned me closer.

 

I rushed towards her, my legs unsteady. “What do you need?”

 

“That guy said there’s an entry fee of 25€.” She pointed with her thick thumb at the man in the booth behind her. “I got no pockets here,” she added, patting her chunky thighs. “Take care of that, ‘cause I’m starving.”

 

I retrieved my wallet, thinking how it had gotten thinner, just to make Chiara fatter, and approached the booth. “I’d like to pay for my friend,” I said, handing the clerk a fifty euros note. It was my last banknote.

 

The man took the money, gave me my change and motioned Chiara towards the stage; she climbed the four steps and the other contestants followed in an admirable display of chivalry. There were seven of them, but they probably weighed as much as ten or eleven grown men. Was it my imagination or was the wooden frame creaking under their steps? I shrugged and joined the crowd, ready to watch the show. But first, I had to check the “competition”.

 

Aside from Chiara and the fat kid, there was a short man with massive muscles and a thin mustache, wearing a leopard skin. Another was a tall, lanky guy in a sweatsuit who must have stood at least 6’6’’: his hair and beard were both red and closely cropped. Then there was a guy in ripped jeans and combat boots, whose Metallica t-shirt was stretched over the biggest beer belly I had ever seen: it was so massive that he had to spread apart his legs even when standing. He had long, greasy hair and a bushy beard. Next to him stood a nerdy guy, with a stained shirt unbuttoned over an equally stained tank top; his glasses were askew and I doubt that he could see anything through such greasy lenses. He slouched even when standing, but his flabby torso was probably ready to expand, given the right amount of junk food. The sixth in line, getting on the stage right after Chiara, was a massive man in his forties: I guessed he stood about six feet even and was roughly a hundred pounds heavier than Chiara. He was broad-shouldered with massive arms, tree trunk thighs and a belly that looked both round and hard. His gray hair sported a buzztop haircut and his beard was neatly trimmed, curving around a benign smile; he looked as friendly as a bear ready to pounce. I decided that he and the metal-head were the most fearsome opponents.

 

The man with the striped shirt stuck the mic under his armpit and rolled up his sleeves: he was sweating, too. Then he retrieved his microphone and moved towards the front of the stage. “Signore e signori, welcome to our annual eating contest!” His nasal voice blared from a pair of loudspeakers. He gestured with his free hand towards the crowd and we granted him a small applause. He smiled. “Ok, let’s introduce our valorous contestants!” A sweeping gesture encompassed Chiara and the other six. “Seven proud men who…”

 

“I beg to differ” Chiara’s voice rang louder than the loudspeakers. The crowd laughed.

 

The man pivoted on his feet and squinted at the contestant. “What? What is that?”

 

Bear man moved to the side and Chiara stepped forward, smiling. “I don’t think we’re ‘seven men’, as you say.” She made a mocking curtsy. “Last time I checked, I was a woman.”

 

The guy with the microphone was clearly dumbfounded. I guess he had not expected a girl to take part in the competition. “Well,” he stammered. “I'm not quite sure that...”

 

“...That I'm a girl?” Another laugh shook the audience. “Wanna check?” Chiara hefted her massive boobs and let them fall back. They jiggled for a few seconds, as the crowd roared louder.

 

“I mean...” The guy regained control soon enough. “I mean, I am not quite sure you should participate.” He gestured towards the rocker. “We have real heavyweights and you are...” He looked at her, taking a step forward. “Well, clearly you are no featherweight, but...”

 

“Is there any rule that forbids me from taking part?”

 

“Not to my knowledge.”

 

The bear man stepped forward, the stage creaking beneath his feet. “So let her play! She is just a skinny little runt: what harm could she do?” He patted Chiara on the back, making her stagger forward. For a second I feared that her heavy tits would drag her off balance down onto the crowd, in a murderous stage dive, but she regained her balance.

 

“Watch what you’re doing,” she shouted back at him. He threw back his head and laughed. “Asshole!” Chiara pushed him square in the chest, but he would not budge an inch.

 

“Calm down, calm down.” The man with the microphone stepped between them. Then he turned to the crowd. “Ok, let’s just get ready to start!”

[SyabLovesChub]

Just read the story up until this point. Well written dude. I hope she wins it all!

[Borghen]

1 hour ago, SyabLovesChub said:

Just read the story up until this point. Well written dude. I hope she wins it all!

I am glad to know that I piqued your interest.

As for the style I have to admit that I have received some thorough editing, being English not my native language.

Sure, we all want Chiara to win but her competition seems to be fierce and she is a relatively small 180lbs lass, whose only weapon is a pair of cantaloupe-sizd breast. Might she have some ace up her sleeve (or down her cleavage)? Only time will tell. As a side note I can tell you that the story has just passed its halfway mark, there is plenty more to come.

Next update coming on Sunday morning!

[SyabLovesChub]

Loving the teaser for what's to come. Can't wait til Sunday!

[Borghen]

The contestants sat at the table facing the public and the empty chairs were quickly removed. I checked my watch: it was 9:00am. The rocker rhythmically stomped his booted feet on the floor and the fat nerd tried in vain to clean his lenses with his greasy shirt, while the bear man cracked his knuckles. Chiara, seated on the far edge of the table blinked at me and surreptitiously adjusted her bra. Some people noticed anyway and smirked: I felt both proud and jealous.

 

The announcer stood in front of the table and smiled again. “Ladies and gents, I’ll quickly go over the rules, In case any of you didn’t know them: our friends here are going to eat a succession of courses, with a few breaks in between. The prize will be given to the last man standing!” Chiara snapped her fingers, the man turned and she pointed at her chest. “Or woman, of course,” he corrected himself. “Well,” he continued. “Since we have some time left, shall we get better acquainted with our contestants?” He moved in front of the tall redhead. “What is your name?”

 

The guy smiled awkwardly. “Hello, I’m Gianmarco.”

 

“Very well, Gianmarco, welcome!” He looked at his lanky frame. “Well, you look pretty thin, if you don’t mind me saying: are you sure you can handle this competition?”

 

Gianmarco stood up, towering head and shoulders over the announcer. “What I lack in breadth I make up in height.” He sat back. “I think I have enough room.”

 

“Very well, we shall see for sure.” The next in line was the rocker. “What about you?”

 

He raised his right fist, the studs on his leather wristband shone in the sun, and extended thumb index and little finger. “I’m Luigi, but the guys in my band just call me ‘Human Tanker’.” He slapped his huge belly. “Wanna know why?”

 

“I think I can guess it on my own. By the way, what instrument do you play?”

 

“I used to be the guitarist, but the strap was sooo uncomfortably tight.” He grimaced. “Beside, I don’t like standing too long. Now I’m the drummer.”

 

“Good, I hope you can still reach your drums after this.” The announcer passed to the nerd and handed him a tissue. “Here, use this.”

 

The man took off his glasses with his pudgy fingers and cleaned them. “Thanks.” He blinked at the crowd as he was seeing us for the first time. “Well, I’m Giovanni and I’m hoping to win this prize because I need some funding for my upcoming 48-hour campaign in Word of Warcraft.” He explained with a high-pitched voice. “Serious stuff!”

 

“Sure! It looks like our contestant has a purpose in life.” The crowd snickered. “And you?” The fourth was the bodybuilder. “By the way, nice outfit: black spots on yellow background are so very classy!”

 

The man grinned and flexed his biceps. He had white teeth and a hairy chest. “Hi guys, my name’s Antonio. I need some protein for these big guns!”

 

“Surely what we are gonna give you you beats weight gain shakes, right? Yeah, I’m sure.” He moved on. “And you, kid.”

 

The chubby teen waved at a portly woman, whose sundress let a pair of fattened calves exposed. “Hi mommy!” He shouted.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“I’m Andrea.” A shy smile appeared on his pimply face. “I’m hungry.”

 

“I guess so,” remarked the man. “Since school ended you had no chance to steal other kids’ breakfasts, right?” The audience laughed, even Andrea’s mother. The boy blushed, while the announcer moved to the next in line.

 

“Wait, I think I know you,” he said, in mock surprise. “You look like the guy who won last year. Do you maybe know him?”

 

The bearish man roared with laughter, slapping a meaty paw on an equally meaty thigh. “You always crack me with that one!”

 

The announcer turned to us. “Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you our champion and owner of a five-year winning streak, Tommaso!”

 

The man raised his arms over his head and clapped his hands. He was smiling and we all joined in an applause. It looked like he was an audience’s favorite. He stood up and gave us a gracious bow, then sat back heavily and loosened his belt, tucked a napkin in his shirt’s collar and gave us all an exaggerated thumbs up.

 

Finally it was Chiara’s turn. The announcer approached her. “And, last but not least, our lovely young… lady, as she has already reminded us. What’s your name, darling?”

 

“I’m Chiara, from the Marches.”

 

“Very well, Chiara. I apologize for my previous mistake. What brings you here?”

 

“Well, let’s just say that the prize seems more than adequate, even for somebody with an appetite like mine.”

 

“And what would you like to buy with three grand, I might ask?”

 

Chiara jumped up, spreading her fat arms. “More food!” The public cheered and she fell back on the seat, sending her boobs into a jiggling frenzy. I hoped her bikini could withstand the strain.

 

“Excellent answer!” The announcer turned towards the man in the booth and gave him a thumbs up. “Ok, the first course is arriving soon. Please stay seated and un-buckle your belts!” He chuckled at his own witticism.

[Borghen]

On 6.4.2018 at 6:29 PM, SyabLovesChub said:

Loving the teaser for what's to come. Can't wait til Sunday!

Sorry for the delay, yesterday I was kind of busy.