Piglet

“Here you go!” I say, handing a funnel cake to the small child waiting patiently at the counter. The fried dough is still warm, powdered sugar melting slightly into its ridges. He grins wide as he takes it in both hands, bouncing on his toes like he can barely contain his excitement. Then he turns to look up at his mom with that proud little-kid expression, the kind that says look what I got.

“What do we say?” his mom prompts, voice sweet but practiced.

“Thank you,” the boy says, muffled a bit as he immediately takes a bite. A puff of sugar dusts his chin, and I catch the gap where one of his front teeth is missing.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, forcing a cheerful tone.

The mom gives me that classic smile, half genuine, half performative. The isn’t-my-kid-adorable kind. I return it with the best version of a customer-service smile I can muster, but the second they walk off, my face drops like a mask sliding off.

At least the kid wasn’t a little shit. Small wins.

Still, my head won’t stop pounding. A steady, dull ache pulses behind my temples. The blaring carnival music bleeds into the constant shrieks of children and the buzz of the crowd, all of it baking under the relentless assault of the afternoon sun. The hot, syrupy air clings to my skin, and I can feel sweat trickling down my back.

I want to end it all. But I guess I’ll settle for waiting out the rest of my shift.

“Fannie’s Funnel Cakes, we put the fun in funnel.” The line rolls off my tongue with all the enthusiasm of a corpse as the next customer steps up to the counter.

He’s young—college-aged, maybe—a mop of boyish hair flopping over his forehead, and a shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Would you like to try our churro funnel cake today?” I ask automatically, already knowing the answer. No one ever says yes. There’s a churro stand right across from us that actually knows what they’re doing, but I’m obligated to pitch ours anyway.

“Uhh, is it any good?” he asks, sounding genuinely uncertain.

His hands stay buried in the pockets of his shorts as he leans forward just a little, standing with the easy nonchalance of someone who’s not in any hurry. The hem of his relaxed t-shirt rests against a soft curve of belly. Not huge, just enough to notice, a gentle press against the cotton fabric when he shifts his weight from one leg to the other.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from sighing. “Yeah, it’s pretty good,” I reply flatly, keeping my expression as neutral as I can manage.

Truthfully, I’ve never tasted it. I haven’t tried anything on the menu besides the original, and even that was more out of obligation than desire. The smell of stale sugar that clings to my clothes by the end of every shift is enough to kill any lingering appetite.

He nods slowly, glancing at the tiny laminated menu taped to the side of the cart. I watch the way his eyes drift lazily from option to option, as if this is some sort of life-altering decision.

It truly cannot be this hard to pick a fucking funnel cake, I think, jaw tightening as I discreetly grind my teeth.

It might be the heat. Or the heavy, oppressive scent of overused fryer oil. Or maybe just the claustrophobic chaos of this tiny stand with its garish red-and-yellow paint job that’s slowly leeching the will to live out of me. Either way, my patience always drops to near zero whenever I’m here.

“What comes on the strawberry one?” he finally asks.

I blink at him, briefly wondering if he’s serious. His wide, expectant eyes are staring right at me, so full of innocent sincerity it actually stuns me for a second.

“Strawberries,” I say, letting the word sit heavy and deadpan.

His cheeks flush as he picks up on the dry bite in my voice. “Of course,” he laughs weakly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Um, I guess I’ll do whichever one is on the sign. That looks pretty good,” he says, nodding vaguely toward the front of the stand.

“What one?” I ask, trying not to sound too irritated. There are at least half a dozen signs and menu photos plastered around the booth, close-ups of powdered sugar, syrup drizzles, and whipped cream explosions.

“Uhh…” He trails off, stepping back a little to get a better look. His eyes flick around, hand rising hesitantly to point out the mystery funnel cake he apparently had in mind.

But just as he lifts his arm, two women pass behind him. He bumps into one of them by accident—barely, really—but it’s enough to make her stumble. Her cup of Dippin’ Dots jerks in her hand, teetering at the edge of a spill. She fumbles it for a second, fingers clutching at the plastic just in time to keep it from falling to the pavement.

“Ugh, watch it, fatass!” she snaps at him without missing a beat, her voice sharp and cutting.

She scowls at him, then turns right back to her conversation and walks off with her friend like nothing happened.

I scoff without meaning to. Partly from the sheer rudeness of it, and partly because I have to fight back a very ill-timed laugh. The kind that bubbles up when you know you’re not supposed to find something funny.

“S-sorry about that,” the man says after her, voice cracking with embarrassment. But she’s already gone, not even glancing back.

He turns to me again, his easy, unbothered energy suddenly gone. His eyes catch mine for a second, wounded and unsure, and his face is bright red. It’s the kind of expression that hits you in the gut a little, that involuntary recoil when someone’s pride takes a hit in public.

Most of the amusement drains out of me instantly. Most.

He steps back up to the counter with his head low. “I’ll just take a plain one,” he mutters.

“Sure,” I reply, my voice softer now, the edge dulled.

I turn and call to my coworker, who’s sitting behind the fryer in the sweltering gloom of the back corner. “One plain,” I say.

As I turn back around, I catch the guy tugging gently at the hem of his shirt, smoothing it down over his belly. His fingers fidget with the fabric like he’s trying to hide the slight curve there, like he’s suddenly hyper-aware of what made that woman call him a fatass in the first place.

“That’s $4,” I say, keeping my tone polite.

He pulls out his phone, tapping it to the reader without saying a word, his gaze still fixed firmly anywhere but my face.

It’s not entirely clear to me why he’s so ashamed. It was just a minor accident, and honestly, it wasn’t that embarrassing. A few people nearby might’ve seen, sure, but no one’s going to remember it five minutes from now. People don’t have the attention spans for that kind of thing.

I glance at him as he shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, waiting. His eyes stay low, his posture a little hunched, like he’s still trying to make himself smaller. Now that I’m really looking, I suppose he could maybe be considered chubby. Soft in the middle, especially around the belly, but only just. Barely. Certainly not by my standards.

No one’s looking at this guy and immediately thinking fat. And I would know. I’ve served, flirted with, fed, and—on more than a few occasions—fucked and funneled plenty of real fatties.

That woman was just being rude. Bitter and loud and entitled.

My coworker, half-asleep behind the fryer, drops the freshly fried funnel cake onto the counter next to me without so much as a word, already turning back to his corner. A second later, he’s glued to his phone again.

“Powdered sugar?” I ask, turning back to the guy.

He looks up, and something about his face seems a little calmer now. Not relaxed exactly, but less wounded. There’s a flicker of something else too. Curiosity, maybe?

“Yes, please,” he says softly.

I grab the sifter and give the cake a generous dusting, the powdered sugar falling like fresh snow over the ridges and folds of the still-steaming dough. The smell wafts up immediately, sweet and rich.

I hand it to him over the counter.

“Thanks,” he mutters, taking it with both hands. Then, without looking back, he scurries off into the crowd.

________________

I tap my phone to wake it. 8:51 PM.

Nine minutes until I can finally—finally—leave. Somehow, impossibly, it’s only been two minutes since the last time I checked. Time doesn’t just slow down in this labor prison, it stretches and warps like taffy, dragging every second out until it feels like punishment.

At least the rush has died down. The crowds always thin in the evenings for whatever reason. Maybe people only crave deep-fried sugar bombs earlier in the day, before the heat melts them into cranky, sweaty puddles. Either way, I haven’t had to talk to anyone in a few blessed minutes.

I use the lull to wipe down the counter, chocolate syrup smeared in lazy swirls, streaks of powdered sugar clinging to the edges. It’s a pointless gesture in a place this sticky, but it’ll save me a few minutes when we actually close.

Outside, the pathways are still alive with the low hum of carnival goers. Families and couples wander past in loose clusters, their voices overlapping in a background murmur. It’s finally starting to cool down, the sun just a memory now, and the air carries a faint breeze that brushes my skin every so often.

The crowds are more relaxed, fewer screaming children and chaotic stampedes. Just stragglers soaking in the final hours of fried food, rickety rides, and cheap thrills.

Then I see them—two preteens barreling down the path toward the stand, arms swinging, feet slapping against the pavement. Please don’t be headed here.

They are.

They ram into the counter with the kind of momentum that only kids with no regard for personal space or property can manage.

“You got any water?” one of them blurts, before I can even open my mouth.

“No,” I say flatly.

“Soda?” the other tries, eyes wide with false hope.

“We don’t sell any drinks,” I clarify, already exhausted by the interaction. “Try one of those vending machines.”

I point down the path to a row of glowing machines humming quietly beside a food stall.

The kids groan in unison, their whole bodies sagging with theatrical disappointment. They shuffle off in the direction I pointed, muttering back and forth.

“I don’t have any more money,” one of them says.

“Maybe there’s coins in that fountain,” the other replies, voice trailing into the night.

I don’t bother listening any further.

Back to cleaning. I gather up a handful of plastic bottles and half-empty containers of toppings—syrups, sprinkles, crushed Oreos with greasy fingerprints on the lids—and crouch beneath the counter to stash them in the cramped shelves and mini-fridge.

The cold air that spills out when I open the door is brief but glorious. I linger for a second longer than I need to, using the excuse of “organizing” the mess to steal a moment of peace.

If I’m going to be back here again tomorrow—and I will be, no matter how deeply I pretend otherwise—I might as well make it a little easier on myself.

“Hello?” a voice calls from above.

I close my eyes and sigh, crouched beneath the counter, one hand still gripping the fridge door. For a moment, I wonder what would happen if I just stayed quiet. Maybe they’d think we were closed. Maybe they’d leave. Maybe I’d get lucky.

“Are you guys still open?” the voice repeats.

So much for that.

I exhale through my nose and finally push myself up, knees popping slightly as I rise. “Yeah,” I say, straightening. “What can I get…you…”

The words trail off as soon as I register who’s standing at the counter.

It’s him. The fatass. The shy guy from earlier who got barked at by that woman with the Dippin’ Dots. But he looks different now. Fuller.

My eyes instinctively drop to his middle, to the soft curve of his belly pressing more noticeably against the fabric of his t-shirt. What had only hinted at chubbiness this afternoon has turned into something more substantial. Rounder, heavier, like it’s grown in just a matter of hours.

“Oh, uh… could I just get one regular funnel cake… and an Oreo crème one?” he asks, eyes flicking up to meet mine for only a second before darting away.

I blink, taking a moment before nodding and entering the order into the clunky POS system beside me.

It’s rare to see customers twice in a day. Even the true fatties who show up to the fair solely for the food usually make one gluttonous lap, grazing from cart to cart like oversized honeybees on a sugar mission. But this guy? He’s back. And judging by the way his shirt clings a little tighter around his belly, I’m guessing he didn’t spend the last few hours riding the Ferris wheel.

I steal another glance at his gut, watching the fabric gently pull across the rounded swell. Maybe it’s just the dim evening light, or maybe not. That soft starter belly is definitely more defined now, the kind that pushes out just far enough to announce itself, even if the rest of him tries to play it off. Just how much had he been eating since I last saw him?

“How are you liking the fair?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

He seems a little surprised, caught off guard by the question, clearly not expecting any conversation from me. His brows lift slightly, but then he gives a small, polite smile.

“Oh, it’s pretty cool. Lots to do and stuff,” he says.

I nod, returning the smile, though mine feels more automatic than his. “Lots to eat as well,” I add, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

His expression shifts again, this time more complicated. A faint flush rises in his cheeks, and there’s a flicker of something behind his eyes. Not quite shame, but not comfort either.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s all really good.”

His voice is steady, but there’s a nervousness in the way he answers. Like he knows what I’m thinking, or maybe he’s wondering the same thing himself.

I narrow my eyes at him, even as I keep a pleasant smile on my face.

Something doesn’t sit right, but not in a bad way. More like a strange itch at the back of my mind. It’s not that anything’s wrong, exactly… it’s that something doesn’t quite add up. Or maybe it does add up, and I’m just trying to decide whether I’m crazy for noticing. Whether I’m jumping to conclusions.

I mean, think about it.

He gets called a fatass in public—loudly, rudely, in front of strangers. Any normal person would’ve gone home after that, spiraled a little, overthought every second of it in the shower while eating nothing but guilt and air.

But instead, this guy sticks around. For hours. His shirt clings more now, belly rounded out in a way it wasn’t earlier. It presses forward when he breathes, softly but undeniably, having spent the past while eating enough carnival treats to look noticeably fuller than before.

Maybe I’m making a few assumptions here. But still, there’s really only one conclusion my brain jumps to, and it’s hard to ignore.

I turn and call over my shoulder to the fry kid in the back. “Three, please.”

Behind me, I hear the man speak up, uncertain. “I only ordered the two.”

“Yeah,” I say smoothly, still tapping at the register. “You get a free churro funnel cake when you buy two, “ I lie easily. “We’re trying to push those.”

He nods slowly, accepting it without question. “Oh, okay.”

I motion to the reader and he taps his phone to pay, still too polite—or too shy—to argue.

“Three’s a lot though,” I say with a light shrug, my voice casual. “But I’m sure you can find a friend to share them with.”

Another nod, slower this time.

“Or,” I add, letting the words hang just a second longer, “you could just eat them all yourself.”

That makes him freeze. Just for a moment. Then he laughs, soft and awkward, his eyes darting away again like it’s a nervous tic.

I don’t laugh with him. I just watch him squirm, gauging his reaction.

He clears his throat. “Nah… probably not,” he says after a beat. His effort to lighten the conversation clearly unsuccessful.

“Why not?” I ask, maybe a little too quickly. “Chubby guy like you could probably handle it.”

I might’ve crossed a line with that one.

His head snaps back toward me, eyes a little wide. Shocked, sure. But not angry. If anything, he just looks… thrown. I’m sure my instincts are right by the lack of offense in his expression.

“Ch-chubby? I—” he starts, voice stammering.

But he’s cut off by the sudden clack of the metal tray hitting the counter.

“Here.”

My coworker drops the three funnel cakes down in front of me like they personally insulted him, then gives the guy a pointed glare, making it clear he’s not thrilled about the last-minute order.

The man blinks at the stack of fried dough, then back up at me, still speechless.

I grab a set of tongs and lift one of the funnel cakes from the tray, dropping it into a shallow metal dish filled with cinnamon sugar. The warm dough hisses faintly as it touches the mix. I flip it over, then give the pan a few practiced shakes, making sure every ridge and crevice gets coated in a thick, even layer of grainy sweetness.

Reaching down, I pop open the mini-fridge and pull out the same toppings I’d just stashed away not five minutes ago. Bottles clink softly as I set them beside the cakes.

“These are so much better with chocolate,” I say, voice casual but deliberate.

Before he can protest, I set the churro funnel cake on its paper plate and drizzle a heavy, generous swirl of chocolate syrup across the top. It glistens as it melts slightly into the sugar coating, glossy and rich.

“There’s one,” I say in a sing-song tone, sliding it forward before moving on to the next.

I grab a handful of crushed Oreo pieces and scatter them over the second cake, letting them tumble into the folds. Then I take the whipped cream and go all in, the nozzle hisses to life as I cover nearly the entire thing in a billowy, messy cloud.

More chocolate drizzle, thick and slow. Then even more cookie crumbles, this time sticking to the whipped peaks. I finish it off with a snowstorm of powdered sugar that floats down in delicate puffs.

I nudge the plate toward him with a little smirk. “Oof. That one’ll set you back for sure,” I say, grinning.

He just stands there, hands at his sides, watching. Not moving, not speaking, frozen somewhere between stunned and mortified.

I lift the sifter again to dust the last funnel cake, but pause midway through the motion.

“Would you like any toppings on this one?” I ask, voice soft and almost innocent.

He shakes his head quickly, a little too quickly. “No, no thank you. That one’s okay plain.”

I tilt my head and scoff lightly. “Oh, come on, tubby,” I say, already reaching for the can of whipped cream again. “Big boy like you could use the extra calories.”

The nozzle hisses again as I swirl a large, pillowy ring across the center of the funnel cake—less than before, but still indulgent.

“You like strawberries, right?” I ask, grabbing a small container from the fridge before he can answer.

“Uh, I… W–Wh– I, um…” he stammers, words slipping uselessly from his mouth as he fumbles for a response.

I don’t wait. I scoop a generous spoonful of sliced strawberries onto the whipped cream, letting the syrupy juice soak into the cake. Then I add a pinch of toffee bits, a lazy zigzag of caramel, and just a little more chocolate to finish it off.

I hesitate for a split second, fingers itching to add more, but I rein it in.

With a final dusting of powdered sugar, I slide the plate across the counter, letting it join the other two sugar-laden behemoths in front of him.

“There you go,” I say with a grin, leaning forward on the heels of my hands against the counter. “Are you really gonna finish all that?” I tease, watching him closely.

He stands frozen for a moment, cheeks flushed deep red, eyes flicking from me to the daunting line-up of funnel cakes and back again. He seems to be considering something, a strange look behind his eyes. I can see the thrum of his heartbeat echoed in his neck.

“Should I?” he finally asks, voice barely above a whisper, thick with genuine curiosity.

There it is—my confirmation.

The grin slips from my face a bit as I catch the sincerity in that question, the frailty of his hesitation, the newly discovered potential.

I meet his gaze without blinking. “Yes, you should.”

He bites his lip, nods slowly, then carefully reaches for the plates. His hands balance the flimsy paper trays like they’re carrying something precious.

My eyes drift down to his belly as he steps back from the counter, noticing the soft curve pressing against his waistband. I let my gaze drop further, catching the subtle indentation of a chub at the front of his pants.

A soft laugh escapes me, quiet and knowing.

“Have a good night, fatass,” I call after him.

He glances back, cheeks blazing hotter now, eyes darting around awkwardly as he tries to disappear into the crowd.

I watch him go, really watch him for the first time, the tiny love handles that wobble with each step, the roundness of his ass shifting beneath his shorts.

And just like that, a piglet is born.

________________

“Unghh…” Caleb tried his hardest to keep his voice low as his hand moved rhythmically beneath the sheets. His parents were just down the hall, and it had been a while since he’d dared to rub one out at home.

But the swirling thoughts in his head made it nearly impossible not to lose himself.

His free hand slid up and rested over his modest belly—soft, domed out, and noticeably rounder after all the fair food he’d devoured, plus the heavy homemade dinner his mom made piled on top. He absentmindedly stroked the curve, the feeling of fullness sparking something deeper inside him.

The words echoed relentlessly in his mind. Chubby. Tubby. Fatass. That last one hit hardest.

Fatass.

He whispered it under his breath, the word raw and sharp, repeating it like a mantra.

“Fucking fatass…”

His breath hitched as his body tightened, the edge drawing nearer.

He imagined it again, the accusation, the blunt insult. Someone, anyone, calling him that while he stuffed his face with rich, fattening food. Someone who knew him, who knew how much weight he’d gained, who’d be surprised by it.

The idea of getting bigger, softer, more filled out wrapped itself tight in his mind.

With a few more strokes, he couldn’t hold back anymore.

His body convulsed in waves, stifled moans escaping as his small gut rose and fell with each heavy breath.

“Fuck…”

His whisper was barely audible as the last tremors passed through him.

Gradually, his breathing slowed. His muscles relaxed, sinking back into the pillows as the quiet of the night settled around him.

Despite being alone in the privacy of his room, Caleb felt a flush creep up his neck, warmth spreading rapidly across his face as the clarity of his thoughts settled over him like a weight. He still couldn’t quite pinpoint what was stirring inside, why those thoughts ignited something fierce and confusing, or why embarrassment curled so tightly in his gut along with desire.

He reached for the discarded t-shirt lying crumpled next to him and used it to clean himself up, the fabric rough and slightly damp against his skin. Then, with deliberate care, he pushed himself upright. The simple act of sitting made his stuffed belly squish and churn, a deep, uncomfortable fullness that pressed against his stomach muscles and sent faint waves of heaviness through his torso.

Grabbing his towel, he crept toward his bedroom door and peeked out cautiously. The hall was empty, silent except for the faint hum of the house settling. The coast was clear.

He slipped quickly into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him, then turned on the shower. Warm water began to flow, filling the room with steam and the scent of soap.

As the heat spread, Caleb caught his reflection in the mirror, eyes narrowing as he studied himself closely. His hand rose, fingers tracing the gentle curve of his belly, lingering on the soft swell that pushed out from his waist. A finger poked tentatively at the tightness near the top, where the skin felt taut from fullness.

More distracting still was the way his sides had softened. His fingers sank into the flesh of his love handles, pressing with just enough force to feel the pliant give of fat compressing under his touch.

Fat… the thought echoed in his mind, foreign and unfamiliar.

He shifted his gaze upward, resting his hands on his chest, where a new softness had quietly taken hold. The once flat, taut plane had given way to a subtle softness there, too.

Had he really gained weight?

The image reflected back at him made the answer quite obvious, but the entire concept was completely new to him. Well, somewhat new.

He’d had a feeling that he’d put on a few pounds this past year. But it was practically nothing, mostly invisible to everyone around him. No one at college, or even when he came home for the summer, had said a word.

Not until today.

He’d been so caught off guard by the ice cream woman’s insult that at first, he barely registered how deeply it had hit him. But then that familiar, electric stir of feeling began to rise. The same rush that came every time he was embarrassed or even just thought about anything similar.

That part was nothing new. The humiliation kink had always been there, well explored by Caleb. Especially in the freedom he’d found since starting university two years ago. What he hadn’t expected was how that particular word would cling to him, like a stubborn shadow. Fatass.

It was a new kind of embarrassment, one he’d never experienced before. One he tried hard to shake off in the hour after it was thrown at him, but couldn’t quite escape.

It was so utterly humiliating—that’s why he loved it.

So much so that instead of riding the carnival rides or even heading home, he found himself hopping from food booth to food booth, feeding the thought over and over. Wondering whether his small gain really was that noticeable.

He imagined the sting of running into an old high school friend while his mouth was full of overloaded funnel cakes, cheeks bulging, belly bloated with sugar.

Another wave of heat pulsed through him, deeper and thicker, as his mind drifted back to the funnel cake stand—the vendor, the looks exchanged, the way the world had suddenly seemed to narrow onto that moment.

He shook his head, chastising himself, reminding himself the shower was still running.

Stepping under the warm water, he tried to focus on his routine, scrubbing away the sticky, sweaty residue of the day without getting distracted by the new weight he was carrying.

It dawned on him that he couldn’t be the only one who felt this way. Surely, this was a thing. A hidden desire that others carried too. Everything was a thing these days.

He hurried through his shower, letting the water wash away this self-consciousness.

When he finally stepped out, wrapping the towel tight around his waist, he moved back to his bedroom with purpose. There, at his desk, he opened his laptop without hesitation.

‘Fat kink,’ Caleb typed carefully into an incognito tab, thinking it as good a place to start as any. His fingers hesitated for a moment before pressing enter, then the screen filled with countless search results, a flood of articles, forum posts, and dedicated websites. Far more than he was expecting.

He scrolled through pages about fat fetishism, stuffing kinks, and feederism, the words themselves feeling strange and thrilling as they sank in. He clicked open communities and forums, immersing himself in conversations where people shared the same revelations he’d just uncovered—some further down the path, some just beginning to explore.

Images appeared: people proudly sharing their growing bodies, bellies rounding out, rolls folding softly over jeans, thighs thickening in tight leggings. Clips of slow, indulgent eating, stretches of elastic waistbands expanding with each bite.

His heart thudded, mind reeling at the intimacy of it all.

But what pulled Caleb in the most weren’t just the pictures or videos. It was the comments.

Teasing, taunting, and sometimes outright insults, but always laced with affection. Feeders, he learned, were the ones encouraging these changes—the ones who celebrated every pound gained, every inch added.

Words like “chunky,” “pig,” and “fat fuck” were tossed around with pride and delight. Though the words weren’t directed at him, Caleb felt a strange warmth coil low in his belly as he read them, a spark of arousal flickering with each line.

Here was an entire universe devoted to exactly the thing he’d just stumbled upon, his fresh new secret and random desire, that he hadn’t even known existed.

And it seemed so easy, so accessible… so dangerous.

Could this new kink so easily satisfy the one he’d carried for years? It made sense now, if he let himself think it through.

He’d never imagined what it might actually feel like to be fat. Why would he? It was never something he struggled with, and the world made it a thing of shame and judgment, which he’d experienced only a taste of today. But never had he looked at it through the lens of a fat person themselves, how they might feel, how embarrassed they might be.

His mind wandered to all the ways obesity might make someone feel marked and exposed: running out of breath after just a few steps, struggling to button pants that no longer fit, the sharp sting of not fitting on amusement park rides.

He thought back to the carnival, to the funnel cake stand. The vendor who had served him had to have been a feeder, right? There was no other explanation for the teasing names, the overloaded toppings he hadn’t even asked for, the knowing look he received along with the words, “Yes, you should.”

His body stirred again, the memory setting fire to something deep inside. He was working himself up all over again.

Caleb found himself deep into YouTube, eyes glued to the screen as he scrolled and searched for feeder content, his heart pounding with a mix of curiosity and a little desperation to know, to experience, to feel more. He slipped on his headphones, too worried about anyone overhearing the sounds he was about to summon, and leaned back against his chair, the glow of the laptop casting pale light over his face in the dim room.

One video caught his attention: a faceless couple in a softly lit kitchen, the larger partner shoveling spoonfuls of creamy desserts into their mouth while the other gently rubbed their expanding belly, whispering encouragement in a low, teasing tone. The rhythm of the bites, the tender touch, the soft murmurs. It all felt intoxicating in its way, but not quite the pulse Caleb was chasing.

He leaned in closer, scrolling past similar clips, hunting for something more raw, more biting. Soon he stumbled upon a different kind of content—audio recordings where feeder voices commanded, coaxed, and praised. Telling you what to eat and how hungry you were. Each meant to coax you deeper into a haze of submission and craving.

This was closer.

He liked the encouragement, but what really stirred something wild inside was the teasing, the sharp edges of mockery and humiliation woven into every phrase.

He wanted to be told exactly how fat he was, wanted to hear the word fatass again, to be wrapped in that delicious shame that made his skin tingle and his breath hitch.

His hand crept beneath the towel wrapped loosely around his waist, fingers tracing over his growing erection as the voices filled his ears. His gaze drifted to a stray candy bar resting on the cluttered desk beside him. Milk chocolate, its wrapper slightly crinkled from earlier handling.

He wasn’t hungry, not in the slightest. But he wanted to eat it anyway.

He picked it up slowly, peeling back the foil with trembling fingers, the sweet, rich scent hitting him instantly.

A sharp bite, teeth sinking into the smooth chocolate, the sugar melting on his tongue as he clicked play on another video titled “Look at You — Teasing (Preview).”

The female voice came through crisp and clear, low and sultry.

“God, look at you,” she purred, each word dripping with mockery and amusement. “You’ve really let yourself go, huh?…”

Caleb’s hand returned instinctively to his erection, stroking faster as his eyes fluttered closed. He caught himself nodding quietly in agreement, swallowed hard around the chocolate lingering on his tongue.

He had let himself go. Not by much, but enough to notice. Enough to feel the new softness beneath his fingers, the way his clothes stretched tighter across his middle.

And maybe… just maybe… more could come. More weight. More fullness. More roundness.

How humiliating would it be to let go entirely? To surrender control. To get fat. To become “an obese, bloated mess…” The woman’s voice filled the silence in his mind, weaving a vivid picture. The words burned and caressed all at once, igniting a hunger he hadn’t known he craved.

He wanted that.

And as his hand moved faster, skin slick with sweat, heart racing, he felt he needed it. He would become that. A fatass.

A pig.

A hog.

Caleb’s full journey, from piglet to prized swine, is available on Patreon!