It was my choice to stuff myself. It didn't just happen by accident. I didn't drink too much, or get carried away at a party. I didn't get so excited and turned on that I lost track. I chose to eat, and to keep eating. I got in my car and spent a day and a half finding food to stuff into my belly.
I did that.
And I took it seriously too. I pushed myself to eat more than I should. More than two people should. And even more still. I binged. Overindulged. Pigged out. Was gluttonous. All of that, and so much more.
My goal? If I had one, was to eat away my feelings of disgust and disappointment. Did it work? Of course not. Was it fun? Exciting? A turn on? Hell yes! Should I have done it? Nope. Am I disappointed that I spent $180 fattening myself up until I could get no bigger. Yes indeed. But I would do it again. Not soon. But I would.
Because it was amazing.
My body swelled up until my clothes became too tight. It was uncomfortable and yet somehow perfect. Hour after hour, meal after meal, my body struggling against zippers and buttons. I got full, waited a bit, got full again, took some time, and stuffed myself again. How many times? I'm not sure. Let's see. Hmmmm. Maybe eight times in 36 hours. Maybe.
It was ridiculous. It was way too much. It was AMAZING.
In the end what did I prove? Nothing? Maybe. That I am fat and gluttonous and lack control? Sure. That the sexual arousal of my fetish can overcome the limitations of my body? Yeah. That when in the mood I can eat enough for several people? Definitely. That I can eat more food than I can afford to buy? Yup.
I can't even begin to explain how it felt while I was doing it, how it felt when I was finally done. Bloated, swollen, stretched, huge. All good words. There was pain, burping, farting, and trips to the bathroom. My hands and feet were swollen, my belly hard and distended. My clothes were uncomfortable, my bra hurt it was so tight around me, my gut pushed against my jeans threatening to burst out, my tshirt stretching over every growing bulge.
I was a massive pig. As big as a cow, a whale, a house. Yup. I looked pregnant. With twins. Sure, if I wasn't so old. I waddled, grunted, groaned. I staggered, off balance and clumsy. My breathing was heavy. My giant hard belly swaying side to side when I walked and laying heavy in my lap when seated.
When finally done and home, and out of the restrictive clothing, everything was free to spill out and expand to it's full glory. I stared in disbelief at myself. Was that really me? Was that really the size of my belly? I stood as long as I could in front of the mirror. Eventually collapsing in defeat on the sofa. Unable to do anything more than caress my aching belly with love, lust, and twisted admiration.
I did this to myself. I did.
And here I am, 12 hours after the last bite passed my lips. Still swollen, still hard, still uncomfortable. Still big. Is big the right word? Huge. Massive. Giant. Enormous. Immense. Colossal. Mammoth. Monstrous. Fat.
Yes. Fat. FATTER! Yes. Fatter.
Now that it's over there comes the regret and self loathing. But mixed with lingering sexual arousal it's confusing. Thoughts of how to hide it dance around in my head with cravings for someone to witness it. Admire it. Desire it. Touch it. Talk about it.
I'm starting to feel the first signs of hunger again. I'm not sure when I'll give in to it. But I know it will be small amounts of food today. Maybe tomorrow. Something cleansing. Something to help the bloating, the gas, the exorbitant amount of waste that will sit in my intestines for another 36 hours. It took that long to fill, funny that it will take as long to empty it.
What goes in...you know.
Maybe, some of this will turn to actual fat. Will stay. Making me bigger than before I started. Maybe. Probably. That wasn't my intention. I wasn't trying to gain. Just to stuff myself. To be full, more full than ever before. And I did. I was.
It was awesome. It was work. Was it hard? Not really. No, no it wasn't hard. It was actually easy. Too easy. EASY. And honestly...that's a bit scary.