hydraman18

Warning - this is a fairly dark story. Robert occupied a very strange position in the medical community. He was a dedicated caregiver for people suffering from eating disorders or nutritional deficiencies; he was known to joke that his very presence was somehow nourishing. Working as a nurse, skeletal patients who had previously been deemed hopeless suddenly gained the weight and appetite to continue to live. Nobody credited him, and he wanted none – he was just glad that the people he helped were doing better. Dating was tricky for Robert, though – he’d had more than a few women freak out and stop returning his calls once a favorite outfit felt tighter. He had to downplay things, and date outside the medical circle where his talents were known. He likened his approach as equivalent to luring a wild bird onto his hand. The challenge was getting a girl to ignore her scale and wardrobe long enough to settle in – once she got comfortable, she was his forever. His latest project was Alia, a tall, rail thin punk princess he'd actually met at a bar in a throwback to older dating practices. She was intense but cheerful, a pale blonde with a fox-like face studded with piercings and with a preference for severely punk and goth clothing. On their first date she ate his plate too, and instantly apologized, seeming embarrassed. Robert didn't mind, and his warm affable nature helped her to ignore the pain of an overstuffed stomach. It was good that she was eating, and even better she hadn't noticed how he coaxed her into trying 'just a little' of his food. On subsequent dates she seemed to become a vacuum for anything edible. Alia had never considered food to be a major part of her hardcore, punk rock lifestyle, but somehow her new boyfriend turned everything into a gastronomic delight. They'd stop somewhere for 'a little something' before a show and Alia would end up ordering thirds and staggering home before the band made it to the stage, too stuffed and sleepy for punk rock. Robert didn't mind, he offered to pay for whatever she craved for. She would fight him on this, and often won the argument to pick up the check. This led Alia to still feel in control as she liked, even as her punk rock lifestyle became increasingly replaced by one centered on hedonistic gluttony. She was the type to gain from the belly first, which was difficult for Robert to progress past given her modest chest and penchant for artfully ripped punk crop tops. She became a little more hesitant about eating when she began to have to 'suck it in' to fit into clothes, and a little more reluctant about starting a meal during their time together, but as Robert would relax her into the gluttonous routine of their dates she would forgot about it, letting her stomach bulge over the waistband of her increasingly tight slacks as she stuffed herself, and it, rounder and rounder. He resisted the urge to grab a handful of her belly as it became easy to do so – the time wasn't right just yet. As her tits began to grow as well, the crop tops became increasingly replaced with longer tops that 'fit her new chest', and Robert's appreciation of her growing belly remained covert as she tried to ignore it and focus on her chest, as most girls Robert dated did. By the time it would be impossible to ignore, he usually had the girl comfortably in hand. He genuinely enjoyed spending time with her – she showed him new music he had never considered before, and they sat on his couch listening to it while she enjoyed the bowls of chips and other treats he had deliberately placed there for her. She only became more beautiful as her foxlike face rounded and gained a hint of a double chin that Robert resisted the urge to tell her was adorable. She didn't need to know about it yet. Robert thrived at work, getting previously difficult patients to take a bite or two. He was a star – when the nurses gave up on someone, they called for him. This made his role that of an expensive private consultant, giving him lots of time and money for his other pursuits. Somehow, his presence made the most hopeless cases eager to keep their strength up. Alia became more eager too, as their dates stretched her stomach and she began wanting more and more to quiet its constant rumbling. Robert suggested cooking together, secretly doubling the portions whenever necessary. Cooking a meal for four people, he himself ate a quarter, and Alia finished the rest. Eating the rest of it left her taut, full and huffing, and Robert soon dared to reach and stroke her stomach as they lounged on the couch, her semi-conscious and digesting. Her stomach was now a bulging dome of pale white flab, beginning to rest on her thighs even when empty. Stuffed, she looked pregnant and ready to give birth. It was exactly how he had dreamed it would be – firm at the top, but softer at the bottom. A wonderful stage - Alia wasn't too big for her belly-fat to hide how stuffed she was. Yet. He stroked it, enjoying the sensation of every movement, as she shivered and suppressed tiny burps. She was beginning to worry about her weight, he could see it in her eyes, but he had made her so comfortable, everything so relaxed and warm. She had a hard time worrying about 'a few extra pounds' when everything was going so well. Robert would secretly smile as she watched this struggle play across her face, when she saw her plumpened reflection in the mirror or struggled to button her increasingly larger slacks. All his girlfriends went through this, and it usually meant they were already eating out of his hand - and ready to hop in it. When she reached a few wonderful milestones - Robert loved the look on a girl's face when she realized she was officially 'plus-sized', or that seeing her feet was a struggle - out came the promises of diet and exercise, all quickly smothered by Robert's encouraging presence and her own rising gluttony. Her fiery punk temper reemerged as she failed to lose weight, or even to stop gaining. Robert was an expert of avoiding blame, though - if she told him to make less food he did, lower calorie food as well. He knew that would leave her sneaking extra snacks and guilty late-night fridge raids. Another of Robert's favorite milestones - catching his girl on a late-night secret binge session, guilt on her face, cheeks full, and her bulging belly hanging out of a once-loose nightshirt. He was never the motivating force behind his girlfriend's newfound gluttony once she focused on it, just a tertiary factor hard to blame just for being a supportive boyfriend. This was the last point at which he could lose a girlfriend - some just refused to blame anything but an external force, however irrational (if correct in this case) it was. Her anger turned mostly inwards, then - Alia berating herself for her swelling body even as she stuffed her face. Another milestone: "Oooh, I'm such a pig..." slipping out as a groan, his girlfriend slumped in a chair, surrounded by food detritus and rubbing her bloated paunch. Robert, ever passive and supportive, reassured and supported her, now thoughtfully changing out sizes so they never squeezed her plumpening form. He made sure to remove the sizes though - girls could be so insecure about such things. He wasn't worried, though - she was already sitting in his hand. It would take a terrible shock for her to flee now. They spent more evenings at home now - Alia now felt out of place at her punk shows and bars. Even a simple mosh left her out of breath and insecure, feeling others squish into her softening body. These evenings only made her problems worse, though; they usually ended with her pants opened, belly bulging out shiny and stuffed, Alia burping and groaning as Robert gave her a tummy rub. She began to leave the house less and less - it was too much work to heft her fattened rump off the couch and go places. By then, Robert had thoughtfully moved her into his place. They had never really talked about moving in; she'd just passed out after dessert one night, and stayed the next morning when she couldn't button her slacks. Slowly, Alia spent more time lounging on the couch, either gorging or too stuffed to move off it. After a while, when her big, beautiful belly began to close in on her knees, she scarcely left the couch she increasingly filled, often passing out after her second dinner to snore there all night, Robert at her side. Every so often, she might see something reminding her of her old punk life on TV and sigh, perhaps look down at her flabby bulk ruefully - then reach for another treat. Alia was firmly in her birdcage now; no girlfriend left Robert after she moved in. Robert knew it was all for the best - he loved his girlfriends, his tamed little birds, and only wanted the best for them. The world was such a cruel place for little chicks like them. Robert, first and foremost, was a nurturer, a nourishing caregiver. He had to keep his girls safe. Once he found an innocent little bird in the wild, he would do his best to get her to a place where he could be sure she would be safe. Increasingly, as Alia slept off her gluttony or munched through the day, Robert spent more time in his extensive basement. His job was so irregular, and so separate from his personal life, that he could spend as much time as he needed down here and excuse his absence from one with the other. He loved it down here; the pastel lighting, the well-insulated walls, soft, soothing music, and the delicate smell of incense burning. He kept it very warm, as its occupants didn't wear clothes anymore; Robert's smile was even more content, some might say eerily so, as he wandered between the massive forms of his other girlfriends, reclining on their vast, medically supportive divans, each in their little alcove with their feeding tube descending from the ceiling. All these women had once been vulnerable to the cruel world outside before Robert had taken them in. He gave Alisha a soothing pat on the vast mocha-toned boulder of her gut as he walked past; she mumbled something through her full mouth which he took as thanks. After all, there was no way she could reach that spot on the beanbag-sized globe of flesh filling her massive lap. His girls down here had all reached a level of safety where their wonderfully soft bodies, so well insulated and padded to protect them, were just too heavy for them to move easily, or at all for some - which kept them out of trouble. Occasionally one of his girls did something silly, but a little extra something in their feed kept them dreamy and content most of the time. Robert felt so satisfied watching them, so safe and content. All they had to do here was take in the nourishment he provided and stay in the safe little world he had built. In a few weeks, once Alia started having trouble getting up from her nest on the couch at all, he would give her something a little extra in her fourth serving of dinner and move her down here, to join his other wonderful birds in the menagerie. After she was finally safe, then it would be time to look for his next little bird, flitting through the cold, dangerous world outside. There was so much room left in his aviary, and so many wonderful girls that needed to be kept safe.

There are a lot of interesting new jobs that have opened up, what with the return of magic to our world and all, but I’d dare say mine might be the most unique. In fact, I’m one of only a handful of men suited for this job, what I’ve privately come to think of as an ‘elf farmer’. Let me take you through a day in my life. A typical day for me begins with my door bursting open and dealing with one of my elves having a meltdown. This morning I had barely begun going through my email before it happened. "This is all your fault!" I turned at the screech, seeing Aila fuming in the doorway. I was already sure what I was guilty of, as the red-raced elf was waving a pair of expensive dress slacks at me. I'd heard the grunting struggle in her room earlier - apparently, my latest elf's last expensive outfit was finally impossible to squeeze her fattened rump into. I knew my plus sizes - they didn't make clothes like that in her current size. I grinned up into her glower unrepentantly. I remembered Alia when she arrived; a typical high elven noblewoman, ethereally slender and lovely with porcelain skin and flowing blonde locks down to her waist. Even though she was a few inches taller than me, her practically curveless body was easily 50 pounds lighter. She had glared imperiously down at me, her high cheekbones and pointed chin emphasizing the disdain in her crystal blue eyes. In short, a classical flower of elven nobility. Now, she was bursting out of the same t-shirt and sweatpants combo most of my elves eventually adopted, the lower half of her pendulous gut hanging out of the food-stained shirt's bottom. Her once-baggy sweats were stretched almost sheer over the flabby hams of her thighs, to say nothing of the bulging globes of her rump. Like all of my elves, she had gone from delicate to obese in no time at all, outgrowing dress sizes practically every week. Alia had done from having no curves at all to the kind of bulging rolls usually seen on ancient fertility idols. She had been slender, but in no way fit when she arrived, good genes and elven magics keeping her slim despite the indolent life of a noble. Her new bulk was all flab, and particularly soft as a result, quaking at the slightest movement. Her tirade had her whole blubbery form quaking like a waterbed, and even as I watched she was beginning to puff and wheeze, even the effort of her tirade draining to her now. I found her accusations a bit unfair - after all, it really wasn’t my fault. It wasn't my fault that I had a rare genetic anomaly that allowed me to father fully elven children, or that male elf fertility had been declining for centuries, to a point where the elven nations were looking at possible extinction. The elven government had come to men like me with a proposal - to create as many fertilized eggs as possible through one of the greatest combined works of spellcasting their race had ever undertaken. It was elven magic who kept my chosen ladies so hyper fertile and collected the results almost as soon as sperm met egg, teleporting them away to be implanted in willing surrogates. Most of them could manage two or three a day, and I did my best to oblige. The magic required for this endeavor was incredibly complex; the elves could only manage to keep a tiny number of women in such a state, to the point where more spells were necessary to maintain genetic diversity. I wasn't responsible for the side effects of such magic and being constantly flooded with pregnancy hormones; my elven girls were almost constantly both hungry and horny. Even as she was shouting at me, Alia's gaze was constantly moving to my crotch, her face flushed with more than anger. As the high elf ran out of steam, pausing to gasp for air, I reached out, cupping her soft chin. A shudder ran through her blubbery body; Aila began panting, eyes glazed with lust. With a low moan she threw herself into my arms, and with a chuckle I tore down her skin-tight sweats, pushing her down onto the bed. *** I left Alia a gasping, panting mess, trying to stuff her blubber back into her skin-tight sweatsuit. I stepped out into the hall and whistled as I zipped up my fly. Another of my girls, Liesl the wood elf, was waddling down the hall. Unlike delicate Alia her face was strong, noble - a warrior's countenance, and her mahogany skin and leaf-green hair were strikingly different. I melodramatically pressed myself into the wall to let her pass. She opened her mouth, but whatever remark she had intended was interrupted by a thunderous belch, which also undercut the impact of her glare. Both of her hands remained cradling the glutted mass of her belly, easily sinking into its soft blubber. The wood elf had been a noted ranger and warrior, towering over me at 6’5, her body ripped with impressive muscles when she arrived. I had enjoyed her transformation perhaps the most of all my girls, watching iron-hard muscle melt into bulging rolls of flab. In truth, the sheer girth of her hippo hips left little room in the hall, one of her soft flanks brushing me as I passed despite her best efforts. The wobbling boulder of flab that her gut had swollen into brushed her tree-trunk thighs even standing now, burying them under a mountain of blubber when she sat; it made Liesl standing a grunting puffing spectacle I never tired of. Liesl had reached a size where her blubber made even the smallest movements seem a ponderous struggle, ironic considering the near superhuman levels of fitness she had once possessed. Her plodding waddle made my contact with her soft flanks an extended one which I shamelessly exploited to fondle her blubber. Liesl protested my questing hands with a series of angry grunts and belches as my prodding disturbed the mass of food digesting deep under the wood elf's thick rolls of fat. I ended by thoroughly groping the prize pumpkin-sized spheres of flab that her iron glutes had become, easily gripping handfuls of butter-soft pudge. That time the noise was more moan than grunt. Liesl looked over her soft shoulder as best she could, biting her lip. She was already dripping sweat and breathless from the mere act of walking from dining room to bedroom, but the look in her eyes said she was desperate for more exercise. Puffing into her room, Liesl simply flopped onto her bed face down. She moaned softly as I tugged her sweatpants down. *** I left Liesl snoring on the bed, sleeping off her morning feeding. She'd wake up in a few hours, ravenously hungry and desperate for my cock again. The wood elf was becoming quite resigned to her new life - half-hearted glares and the occasional grumble had replaced the thunderous tirades Aila still exploded into. I was fairly sure she knew things could be worse - after all, she was nowhere close to being the largest of my girls. I did miss the pathetic struggle of her occasional attempt to workout, though. I could hear the low moans and stifled burps well before I entered the kitchen, which brought a smile to my face. Opening the door, I beheld Xyranna del'Shaxis, once the most infamous assassin of the drow nation. Now, she was overflowing one of my custom kitchen tables - more bench width than chair, but her bulging ebony rolls were still spilling over the sides, the massive sphere of her belly bulging out to her dimpled knees, making her flabby arms struggle to reach the remains of the decadent feast covering the massive dining table, plates magically filling themselves even as I watched. The drow was clearly painfully full, sweat pasting her bone-white locks to her round face, glowing red eyes squeezed almost shut - yet she couldn't resist weakly straining to take another decadent pastry from a platter heaped high with them. The table would conjure more food as long as one of my girls was sitting before it; another convenience of magical origin. The drow had been all smirks and flirtation when she arrived, which is how she had gotten close to so many targets. The venom and xenophobia was barely beneath the surface - I could feel the hate behind her lidded gaze. The drow and their endless, hateful wars against their surface kin and all other comers had been responsible in many ways from the catastrophic drop in elven fertility, their priests and sorcerers spewing forth endless curses, staining the elven lands with dark magic. The war was finally over - the drow had been all but wiped out. The children Xyranna bore would be a new beginning, the young drow being nurtured to embrace their kin's values. Thus, Xyranna was an unwilling broodmother to a new line of her people, who would not share her violent hatred of everything non-drow. No one had fought the geas binding her harder or more desperately; the magic that made them hyper-fertile contained a binding spell preventing them from any violence except in purest self-defense. Any attempt to do so simply made the magics affecting them stronger. The backlash had made Xyranna the most ravenous and horny of my girls, ballooning in size and quickly surpassing girls who had been there far longer, like Liesl. Now she was broken, a mere shell of the hate-filled murderer she had once been - but I felt no sympathy for an assassin who had literally bathed in the blood of her victims. Here, she kept the other girls calm by giving them a convenient target for their frustrations and hate - I had witnessed the marvelous spectacle of a group of fat elves force feeding a much fatter drow, a spectacle to treasure. Also, given she was larger than almost all of them, they could at least consider themselves thinner than a vile drow. In a gluttonous daze, the bloated drow didn’t notice me until I clapped a hand to her massive flank, making her ebon rolls wobble. The drow moaned in discomfort, red eyes blinking. She focused on my smirk, and I could see the despair there. “Please… sir.” She mumbled, obviously so stuffed she could barely breathe. “I… need to stop… eating. Too full. Too fat…” She wiggled her massive rump in the seat, trying to muster the will to get up, but she continued to weakly bring mouthfuls of greasy food to her plump lips. “No.” My voice was cold and hard. She whimpered. I take a very different tone with Xyranna than with my other girls. Although arrogant in the way all elves were, they are all good people, trying their best to save their civilization. I can’t deny enjoying the changes that they undergo, but I do my best to keep them comfortable and content. Xyranna is not a good person. She is a blood-soaked assassin who had committed numerous war crimes; torturing prisoners, targeting civilians with bombings. She is responsible for the deaths of hundreds of men, women and children, and honestly I love having her in my care, an outlet for my darkest fantasies. I slapped the great mass of her gut, slate-toned blubber wobbling madly as the helpless drow moaned. "What do you think your victims would think of you now, piggy?" I gripped big handfuls of belly-fat, Xyranna groaning in protest as the glutted mass of blubber was disturbed but not resisting. The front of her massive gut was almost out of her reach by now, and the drow knew how helplessly weak she had grown. I could easily restrain the obese drow with a single hand now, and even lifting her massive rump from this seat would be a struggle that would leave her gasping for breath and soaked in sweat. Her usually shining white hair was greasy, splattered by the detritus of her frantic gorging just as the ebon rolls of her blubbery body were. The cleaning spells that kept the rest of the girls spotless and sweet smelling were only applied to the drow on my whim, another way the elves punished her further. She was too fat to properly bathe herself anymore, forcing her to beg me for help. I had spent many a pleasurable hour in the massive bath with her, scrubbing her rolls before taking her from behind, savoring her unwilling moans of pleasure and the sound of her wet rolls clapping. Her round face twisted as I continued to slap and jiggle her belly-fat, and suddenly there was a long, loud fart, as she was unable to hold in the gas filling her guts anymore. Xyranna was the only elf here who suffered some of the intestinal consequences of her constant gluttony - same as the need to clean herself, it was designed to punish the murderous drow even more. She panted and groaned, squirming helplessly as her flatulence continued as I squeezed her obese gut, tiny burps still escaping her plump lips as the earthy smell of her flatulence filled the kitchen. Finally it tapered off; one final little high-pitched toot escaping her massive cheeks as she sagged back, gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. Xyranna had just exhausted herself by farting, and the helplessness of her situation was clear on her face. I patted her food stained cheek. “See, now you should have more room in that piggy gut of yours. Finish the meal and waddle that fat ass of yours into the bathroom.” The table would stop producing food if the one before it was dangerously full, and the other girls and I kept Xyranna “…Thank you, sir…” There were tears in her eyes as the drow brokenly mumbled, but they evoked no sympathy in me. I turned and left as the sniffling drow again began stuffing her greedy mouth. One day she’d be the biggest of my girls – even larger than the next one I planned to visit. The truth was that almost none of my girls are here voluntarily - some were chosen because of their superior bloodlines or physical ability, like Alia or Liesl, and would eventually leave - in theory at least. The elves had never had to develop spells to aid in reversing the porcine changes that my girls experienced - their fertility spells had been hastily adapted from those intended for livestock. Others, like Xyranna or the one who's door I approached next, were paying for their crimes. Leyra is a sand elf, once an infamous bandit known as the Scorpion. She had been here the longest of all, and today I had some very interesting news for her. *** Leyra was still in bed - of which very little was left visible, her sand-toned flesh close to overflowing the twin mattress. Breasts twice the size of her head flopped atop the planetary dome of her gut, a vast boulder of flab large enough to contain the lithe desert warrior she had once been. Her perfect cheekbones and pointed chin had long vanished, her face round and cherubic now, but her slanted eyes were still the same captivating shade of turquoise, her hair still the same luxuriant mass of dark curls as they had been the day she arrived, the first of my girls... and immediately spat at my feet, sneering an elven racial slur against humans as she visibly strained against the magics preventing her from physically attacking me. She was staring at the massive flat screen next to the door, the elven version of reality TV blaring loudly. Yes, even the elves have that dribble, and it's a great way to distract my girls between feedings. Her plump hands were stroking the portion of her belly she could still reach, her fingers sinking into the jelly-soft flab at the lightest touch. She needed magical aid to rise from her bed now and in truth she can barely move at all under her own power. Leyra had largely ceased to bother, munching through an endless supply of food conjured to the convenient end tables within reach of her flabby arms. More magics handled all the... sanitary needs of my guests, which was fortunate as their size can make traditional grooming a struggle. Leyra's lovely eyes flickered to me, barely seeming to note my presence as she continued to stuff her face with a plate of exotic elven fruit. Given the cavernous size of her belly, the sand elf could gorge for hours before she was sated, and often did so even as I performed the feats of strength and dexterity necessary to make love to an elf of her immense girth. "I have good news, Leyra!" Her eyes focused on me, but the sand elf barely slowed the pace of her gorging, one eyebrow barely raising in response. "The Ministry of Defense has decided you have served your sentence - you are free to go!" Now, she stopped eating, albeit gradually as the words penetrated the gluttonous haze she spent much of her time in, her soft jaw slowly hanging open, eyes growing wide. "We can start planning your trip home right away..." As I cheerfully went through the details of her departure, her round face filled with joy... then a realization seemed to hit her, and all the joy vanished. Leyra peered down at the pendulous mass of her colossal body, her rolls jiggling as she twisted back and forth. Now, the expression on her face was a mix of fear and despair even stronger than her joy had been. I then pretended to only notice her change in mood. "What's wrong - I thought you'd be happy. You're free!" She actually whimpered at my words, mouth opening and closing silently for a minute. "I-I can't even stand by myself anymore..." she finally managed, tears welling up in her eyes. "I can't... can't..." Leyra the Scorpion, former bandit scourge of the desert, burst into tears. I understood - the list of things she couldn't manage given her near-immobile bulk was far shorter than those she could try. I compared the whip-thin criminal that had tried her best to spit in my face with the teary-eyed woman looking up at me with naked terror on her face at the prospect of freedom. "P-Please, d-don't send me away." she stammered, plump hands clutching at mine. "I-I-I know you like...taking me... and I'm suh-sorry about the things I said when I got here..." I stopped her tearful pleas with a comforting hand on her pillow like shoulder, and drew her into an embrace, my hands barely able to encompass half of her immense bulk. I wiped away her tears, and a tiny smile emerged as I saw hope begin to penetrate the fear in her eyes. I cupped the side of her face and she leaned into my hand, both of hers still clinging to my other one. "My dear, of course you can stay - I can even petition the Ministry to find a way to exclude you from the house’s spellwork if you like." Leyra sighed, her turquoise eyes growing moist again. "Oh, what's the use?" She released my hand, one coming up to curl around my other one as I continued to pat her soft cheek. The other delivered a rueful pat to the top roll of her belly, sighing at the soft jiggle that caused. "I'm literally the size of a cow - and I'm hungry all the time. There's no way I'll ever be thin again." A muffled gurgle from her not quite full belly seemed to be agreeing with her, and she sighed wistfully , before visibly perking up and looking into my eyes with a shy little smile. "At least the food is delicious, and the way you... well..." She flushed red and continued in a rush. "I've never had such amazing sex before, and with a human of all things!" I let this unconscious remnant of elven racism slide; she really was a much gentler woman than the hardened criminal that had arrived - softened in mind as well as body. Even given her hellcat attitude upon arrival, I had never taken pleasure in her discomfort and embarrassment as I did with Xyranna - Leyra had become a bandit out of necessity; she was no Robin Hood, but the sand elves were the poorest of their kind, always starved for resources in their arid homeland. She had never broken like the drow; she had mourned the loss of her lithe figure, been embarrassed by her appetites and the limitations her size placed on her, but she never fell truly into despair. I admired her will, and when she'd finally began to talk to me when her bulging size stripped away most of her elven superiority I found a woman with a keen mind and sharp wit, whose anger and arrogance were gradually humbled by her widening girth. Impulsively, I climbed atop her, her blubbery rolls quaking like a waterbed, she gasped, then began to giggle as I rested my head atop her mammoth breasts, my nose inches from her. I kissed the tip of her nose, still delicately elven as were her ears and nothing else. She flushed even redder, giggling even more as she glanced away coyly. Squirming up a little further - my whole body easily resting atop her belly now - I kissed her cheek lingeringly, and she brought her mouth to mine with a hungry moan, embracing as best we could given the watermelon-sized impediments of her heaving chest. We finally broke away, Leyra's face completely flushed now, eyes sparkling like real sapphires. "You can stay here as long as you wish, and I will always care for you." There were tears in her eyes again, but of joy this time. We stared into each other's eyes for an eternal moment, then... I could feel the thunderous rumble of the belly I rested atop. We both blinked, and then began laughing together. Climbing off her, I grinned as she resumed stuffing her insatiable belly. “Just go on eating, darling.” I patted her vast flank and began the laborious task of lifting up her vast belly. “I’ll take care of… everything else.” “Thank you, darling…” she mumbled through a full mouth. It’s hard work being an elf farmer, but I’ve never been happier

Long time lurker here. Just a short idea I had, about a fantasy dungeon-style trap. The room was dark, the better to hide the thick layer of wrappers and fast-food containers littering the floor. The coffee table was stacked high with empty pizza boxes, and empty 2-liters and beer cans filled the trash can. The television provided the room’s only light, illuminating the figure filling the couch before it. Passed out, head lolling back on the back cushions was an obese dark elf woman with pure white hair and flawless black skin. She looked like a portrait of pure gluttony, every inch of her body rounded and soft, plump hands resting atop the massive boulder of flab that was her stomach. Her vast thighs spread wide, it spilled between them like a waterfall of ebony flab, pushing past the seat cushions, quivering slightly with her every breath. Her bloated haunches spread across two cushions, and breasts larger than her head rested atop her bare gut, barely contained by a food-stained bra, her only piece of clothing. By all appearances, this was a lifelong glutton, someone who had never done more exercise than lift a fork to her mouth. She was completely unrecognizable as Meris Trelayne, the feared mercenary warrior known as the Cold Shadow. Violet eyes slowly blinked open. Still mostly asleep she grunted, reaching up to scratch the surface of her gut, ebon rolls of blubber jiggling even at the light touch. Her eyes flickered completely open, and she grunted louder, angrily, scowling as awareness returned to her round face, then discomfort. The drow belched explosively, once then twice more, and growled with weary anger as her belly began to churn and groan, demanding to be filled. The obese woman spent a few moments seeming to shake her head in denial, eyes squeezed shut. Finally, she heaved her fattened body up to standing after a few false starts, seeming as much reluctant as hampered by her bulk. Flabby body quaking with every step, Maris waddled towards the kitchen, kicking debris out of the way. "Got to stop..." Maris mumbled, then winced as she caught her bloated reflection in a mirror. "Getting too damn fat... got to..." Her husky voice continued in this vein as the flabby elf wobbled up to the kitchen door and hesitated, wavering as her vast gut audibly roared. "C'mon, you porky bitch... just stop stuffing your face for one damn..." Maris's vocalized diatribe didn't stop her from filling the table with unhealthy food from the overflowing pantry, then plumping her massive ass into a study chair set before it with a grunt of mixed relief and frustration. With a huff of defeat the drow began stuffing herself, mumbling more self-recriminations through bulging cheeks. The gluttonous repast continued for what seemed like hours, the drow steadily inhaling enough for a family of five. Eventually the table was empty, the drow slumped back in her chair, breathing shallowly and in her pose from the couch again, belly visibly rounder than before even given its beginning size. Eventually, Maris struggled to her feet again, painfully bloated and still huffing and puffing, dripping sweat and exhausted by her own gluttony. The fattened drow belched thunderously again, wiping at her food-stained mouth half-heartedly. "Damn...*urp* can't stop..." she gasped, leaning back like a pregnant woman and cradling her gut, now heavier than ever. "He better… get this open soon..." were her last mumbled words as she staggered back to the couch. Behind her, the pantry refilled, food appearing from thin air as the detritus vanished from the again-spotless kitchen. The piles in the other room increased a bit as she wobbled past them; the floor had been clean once, the only way she could mark time's passage. As the drow flopped back onto the divot her vast rump had dug into the couch, she belched again, completely spent by her 'labors'. As her eyes flickered shut, drifting back to sleep, her sweaty, food-splattered skin and hair became shining and clean again, all except for her straining bra, which soon threatened to join the ruined pile of armor, torn clothing, and abandoned weapons before her. On the television, the smirking face of a long dead wizard waves at her as she falls asleep, barely eliciting an angry grunt from the drow now after so many times. As she began to snore, her belly deflated slightly as the rest of her swelled; as always, the warrior woman would wake again soon to find herself visibly fatter than before, and helpless to resist beginning the cycle again. Maris Trelayne was stuck in a particularly strange wizard's trap, and her last thought before the latest cycle ended was a vague hope her damn wizard was close to a solution. **** "Well, have you gotten it open? Maris has been in there a while..." The young, handsome wizard scratched his chin knowledgeably in response to the short, cheeky looking halfling rogue's question. "Almost sure I have it now..." he replied. In the back of his head, he thought about how the haughty warrior had ignored his warning and picked up the strange little puzzle-box he was studying. Serve her right if he let her learn a lesson by taking his time... No, he couldn't do that. Maris may be arrogant, but she was a good companion - if far too thin to attract his interest in other ways, like he thought she'd been unsubtly hinting recently. "Maybe this will have changed her for the better..." he mumbled, beginning the counterspell to open the trap. At the least, being humbled by a little box like this might soften her attitude a bit.

Were you using the deviantart site? Not getting anything when I try that one myself. Sorry if I'm missing something...

Wow, not OP but remember this author fondly. Thanks a lot! Don't suppose you saved any of the other stories?

I honestly felt that one had run out of steam too; you did a great job, but aside from wrapping up that last scene I didn't see it going any further.

Glad to see you writing again! You definitely haven't lost a step!

Glad to see you're back in action!

Just searched for in on FF w/ that title, no joy. Subject sounds right up my alley; not sure if OP had better luck, but I'd appreciate the story.

That could be a framework for a set of linked stories; a kinda slimy FA, the kind who views women as objects to be fattened for his own sexual pleasure, meets people (like Lincoln) who lead him to a more positive attitude and relationship model. A redemption story, of sorts; it'd be original, if nothing else...

Yeah, the whole thing is a big disappointment, really.

Glad to see you're still with us - you are definitely one of my favorites!

I'm kind of an electronic hoarder, so I have the rest of the stories from his page saved to my hard drive as well - if the author doesn't object, I could send them to people upon request.

Here's what I have as the 5th part - dang, was hoping the author would continue this one. Dr. Kessler had been enjoying his retirement, golfing, fishing and gardening. He felt like a clichéd commercial for the AARP, but it was his life and he enjoyed it. It had been over three years since he hung up the stethoscope and moved away, and he had never been happier. While he didn’t miss the stress of the job, he missed some of the patients that he had seen for years and he missed his nurses. Which was why he was happy to be able to fill in for a week while. his successor was out of town and he happened to be in town visiting his grandchildren. He had agreed to extend his trip and see some familiar faces. He left his daughter’s house early on Monday and stopped to pick up some doughnuts to bring into the office. Lynnette would complain, but eventually eat one, Janice would refuse on principle, but Sarah would be happy to have one. Sarah had always had a sweet tooth, and was just a little chubby as a result’ she was always his favorite. He got to the office and was chatting with Lynette who sat behind the desk in the reception area and had, as he expected, turned down his initial offer of a doughnut, saying that she was sure that Sarah would have some when he heard a noise behind him. The front door of the office was still locked as they hadn’t opened yet and when he went to see about he noise, he opened the door on an absolutely huge ass wobbling around as its owner dig through a backpack that was on the steps. Dr. Kessler couldn’t help but stare, this woman’s backside was enormous, wide and round and stacked on top of thighs as wide around as some women’s waists that pressed together almost to her knees. As she rummaged around in the bag and huffed and puffed, he cleared his throat slightly, “Excuse me? May I help you?” The woman gave a startled gasp, practically a hiccup and slowly, with a slight groan, stood herself upright and spun around. A grey hooded sweatshirt was partially zipped and had ridden up over a beach-ball sized belly, complete with stretch-marks and a deep-wide belly button and tucked itself under a pair of giant breasts, each one easily larger than basketball and visibly squeezed in a bra that was too small. His eyes traveled upwards as the woman gave a giggling gasp and gushed, “Dr. K!” in a somewhat familiar voice. He was momentarily stunned. “Sarah?” The wobbling figure of the woman lurched forward and wrapped his thin, elderly frame in a soft and smothering hug. “I’m so glad to see you! How are you?” He found himself speechless. This couldn’t be his favorite nurse, Sarah. This woman was huge, easily a hundred pounds heavier and twice as wide as the girl he remembered hiring not too many years ago. The embrace he found himself in was all softness and warmth, she was sweating despite the chill and her insubstantial clothing and breathing hard. She smelled like coffee and something else, sugar, maple syrup maybe, but chocolate definitely She stepped back from the hug and tugged her sweatshirt back down, covering up her belly, well almost, the bottom which hung over her pants still stuck out. Pulling the sweatshirt down caused her to wobble all over, especially the absolutely titanic breasts. She looked him up and down and when she met his eyes, he saw that it was indeed her. The same pretty grey eyes and dirty blonde hair but now with rounded, rosy cheeks and double chins. Still unable to say anything, he just smiled nervously and tried to hide his shock. “Arizona must be treating you well, Doc. You look great.” He wanted to respond with a standard “So do you” but he wasn’t sure that he felt that that was true. The woman standing, sweating and almost panting in front of him was barely five foot three and was close – he would wager his decades of experience – to three hundred pounds. What had happened while he had been gone? What had happened to Sarah? His mind reeled. All he could manage to say was a limp and bewildered, “I brought doughnuts…” “Oh, goody,” she cooed and bent over again to pick up the backpack she had set down on the step and the giant coffee and bag from Dunkin Donuts. “I gotta go get changed,” she chirped, then whispered, “Janice hates it when I am not ready to work on time.” She looked over her shoulder and he followed her eyes to see Janice coming up the walk. Sarah bumped past him thought the door and disappeared into the office. “Welcome back, Dr. Kessler,” Janice said as soon as her old employer had turned back toward her after watching Sarah’s ass pass him by. “What? I…?” He began, looking from Janice to the doorway and back. “She.. I mean, she…” “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘ballooned’ if I’m not mistaken. Although you might be thinking ‘got fat’ but I’m not sure that really covers it, at this point.” Once she was into the office and down the hall, Sarah let go of the air she’d been holding in her lungs in what was probably a vain attempt at sucking in her gut. It bulged out, well further out than it had and caused the zipper on her hoodie to click down a few inches and for her bra to creak, for some reason. God, she was tired of her clothes making so much noise all the time. She had been dreading seeing Dr. Kessler for the first time this week. She had spent many a pot-fueled binge anticipating it in the months since they found out he would be covering this week. The stress of that moment alone had probably only made the root cause of that anxiety worse as whopping pans of lasagna, party- sized bags of chips, pint after pint of Ben and Jerry’s and take-out banquets fit for extended families coming off of hunger strikes hadn’t done anything to make her smaller or make her anticipation of Dr. Kessler’s reaction to her gain any easier to bear. Now, Janice was out there with him, someone to whom she could give vocal expression to the dirty looks and silent judging of the last several months. Just thinking about that made her angry and as she glanced down at her clenched fist, she saw the swell of her belly and felt a sudden shift from anger to anxiety. They were talking, probably, about how fat she had gotten, and they had plenty to talk about; and she was looking at it right now. The anxiety built and as he lips turned into a pouty frown, the anxiety changed into what it always eventually changed into, hunger. Down underneath all of its padding, her stomach gave her a small nudge, one she knew she couldn’t ignore. Across the mountain of her belly from her clenched fist, the other fist held a grease soaked bag from Dunkin’ Donuts. Four egg and cheese sandwiches on croissants, each with both sausage and bacon (by special request) lay in the bag and despite the lumberjack sized breakfast she had eaten at home, she was dying to eat those sandwiches. She was done with the first one before she even noticed or had taken off her sweatshirt. Underneath the hoodie was a thin, white tank top as stretched as everything else she owned. It displayed her upper arms, pink and fat as Christmas hams on either side of breasts she barely knew what to do with any more. It also displayed her gut, too short to reach all the way around its steadily bulging sphere. The sweat pants came off next although it was tough to work them over her ass and she had to pay particular attention as they were getting tighter around her thighs. She almost laughed to herself at this thought, the thought that the sweatpants were getting tighter. They were staying the same, stretching even; she was getting bigger and bigger and bigger. She almost laughed, but with the second breakfast sandwich in her mouth, she didn’t want to choke. She stood for a minute in undersized underclothes before bending over with difficulty and heaving herself back up to stuff the sweats into the her backpack and extract her scrubs. How soon before these sweats joined all the other clothes that she tossed into the corner of her closet, never to touch again? These scrubs were closer to the closet corner than the sweats, but they were going to have to do. XXXL on top and bottom and she was busting out of them. And, the wear of the stretching and creaking was making them a little fragile. In order to get the top on, she had to put both arms through and do a wobbling little dance to get it to drop down over her head, then she, if she bent her arms down at the elbows, she could start to tug it down into place. This morning, she got it over her head and had begun to work it downwards with only a slight moment of panic as it caught on the bulges of fat above and below her bra straps. With that crisis averted, she smoothed it the rest of the way over her breasts and gut. It didn’t drape the way it was supposed to, but clung tightly to her ample figure making it tough to breath, but dampening her jiggling slightly. She had to be careful when she sat down, making sure that she was always perched on the edge of her seat and sitting upright, or else the outward swelling of her belly and love handles might threaten the seams at the side. In fact, as she sat down to put on her pants, she rolled the top back up, just to avoid this scenario and plopped herself onto one of the arm-less office chairs. She took a short sweaty break to catch her breath after her shirt calisthenics and to finish breakfast sandwich number three. She wiped her greasy fingers on the chair fabric and began the struggle into her pants. Sarah could remember, since it was not all that long ago, when she didn’t need to use verbs of effort and discomfort to think about getting dressed. She used to throw on a pair of jeans or button a sweater when it got cold. Now, and she wasn’t sure exactly when it started, but a while ago she started squeezing herself into jeans, struggling into dresses, stuffing herself into a skirt, or wrestling with a belt. Then, the verbs of effort were joined by others: she sucked it in while she crammed herself into a pair of jeans, she had to stretch up to wiggle her way into a top. All this effort and maneuvering, it almost made her glad that her sweats were almost all she wore. It wasn’t easy to get into them, but it was less work, or at least it was. To get the scrub bottoms on she had to lean as far forward as she could, which was not far, and flap them around, until she got them over her feet. Once her feet were through, she had to rock back and forth a little to get the waistband to drop down onto her outstretched calves. Then, keeping the calves pushed apart to stop the scrubs from falling down again, she could rock to a standing position. If she was successful with move, she would be able to grab the waist when she leaned over. Then, ever so slowly, to avoid ripping, she would work them up, one inch on a side at a time, sometimes going up onto her tiptoes to try to make her legs longer and more stretched. Slowly, slowly, careful not to pull too hard, they would come up her legs. As bowls of pudding, Big Mac, and buckets of fried chicken thickened those thighs, it had gotten harder, and now on this find Monday, the pants were like a second skin around those thighs, but they had to be inched and snugged all the way up before she even attempted to get her ass into the pants. She leaned back, her back starting its familiar twinge and slowly worked the thinning fabric over the shelf of her ass, which wobbled with her touch and seemed to fight against her. Finally, if she had practiced the art that she knew so well, she would find herself standing, stuffed, crammer, and shoehorned into her work clothes for another day, and as long as she made no sudden movements and if the patron saint of fat girls heard her prayers, she could make it through the day. She sucked in as much as she could to rolled the top back into place. It was tight, way, way, way too tight, but she could do it. She lowered herself onto the edge of her desk chair, still holding her stomach in, she couldn’t fit her hips between the arms of the chair anyway, so even if her clothes weren’t about to rupture, she still couldn’t lean back in the chair. As she relaxed her back slightly, she felt he fabric tighten and bind across her chest, belly, hips, and thighs. The last breakfast sandwich sat on her desk, leaking grease through the wrapper. She picked it up and unwrapped it. If she was going to make it through the week with Dr. Kessler here, she would need all of the comforts that she could muster. A small voice in her head reminded her of the tightness of her scrubs and how she was undeniably one egg and cheese croissant with sausage AND bacon away from a set of tight fitting 4X scrubs. That voice was quickly shouted down by others, and one, in particular that piped up and reminded her that Dr. Kessler had said he brought doughnuts. She loved doughnuts.

I agree that this is well written, and I rarely delurk to comment. Solidly begun, would love to see where you go with this.