The Challenge

Chapter 1

Oliver felt the weight of his car dip down as he not-so-smoothly slipped inside. He hated driving, but that little moment was always fun. Feeling this heavy machine give a bit under the weight of his size, comparatively smaller and smaller as he grew bigger. He grunted as he pulled the door shut, the motion squeezing his gut a little, and struggled slightly to pull the seatbelt across his belly. It was tight and uncomfortable, the straps digging into the fat of his chest and waist.

“Safety first,” he muttered to himself. But really, he was just glad he could still fit. The seatbelt clicked, snug and annoying, but secure. His belly sat several inches from the steering wheel. Still a gap. For now.

Won’t be too long, he thought, glancing down at the swell of himself, before I’m rubbing up against it. He imagined it, that soft pressure of his gut pressing into the wheel, the tight squeeze of the car around him. Maybe one day he’d outgrow the whole thing, have to angle his body just to fit in, or better yet, not fit at all. The idea turned him on more than he’d care to admit. Embarrassing, but real. He shifted in the seat, feeling the under-curve of his belly settle against his lap.

Today would help with that.

He started the car. The A/C kicked on with a loud whir, and he sighed as the cold air blasted his face. He checked the time—12:50. Then his phone buzzed, a text from Elise. Exciting, elusive Elise.

His thumb moved before he could even think about it. The message preview made his stomach flip a little.

‘today the day?’

His heart thudded, stupidly eager. He typed out a reply quickly, faster than he probably should’ve, but he couldn’t help himself.

‘Yep, heading out now’

Three dots appeared, then another message.

‘dont forget to send pictures.’

No “good luck.” No “rooting for you.” Not even a minor indication of excitement.

Oliver smiled anyway. Elise was—well, he didn’t really know her, not like that. But he was determined to impress her, this distant, capable feeder he’d followed online for years. She wasn't a feeder anymore, not really, but she dabbled in it from time to time, as evidenced by the various stuffed, bloated, dominated bellies she’d post once in a blue moon.

He wanted that for himself. So bad. Her hands on him, nails digging in, voice in his ear. “Look at you. Look what you did to yourself.” That kind of thing. Even the idea of it made him fidget in his seat.

He could only dream of being so lucky. He and the thousands of other feedees who followed her and filled her comments with compliments. Other guys way bigger than he was. Most of them commented the second she posted anything. He didn’t stand out. Not really.

So when she actually replied to one of his messages a couple months ago, he thought it was a mistake. But she kept replying. She didn’t flirt, was never forward. Just short messages, little check-ins, like she was curious to see if he’d actually keep growing. He’d asked—twice—if she’d want to feed him. She’d shut that down. Said she wasn’t really into it anymore.

Then, out of nowhere, she gave him this challenge.

Five drive-thrus. Five hours. Five heavy meals. Said if he could actually do it, she’d “think about it.” Maybe make him her pig.

That was enough. That was more than enough.

Five meals, he thought to himself, running a hand over his stomach. Can’t be that bad.

He figured he could eat about three in that amount of time. So five was certainly pushing it. He’d have to time everything just right, not waste too much time. But the prize? Worth it. So worth it.

He rubbed at his belly, already starting to feel a flutter of hunger. Nothing serious, not yet, but enough to make him aware of it. His stomach let out a soft, low growl, like it had overheard his thoughts.

“Fuck, I’m starving,” he said, and shifted into gear. Time to go.

Chapter 2

Oliver pulled his car into the McDonald’s drive-thru, his turn signal clicking lazily as he turned the wheel. It wasn’t anything fancy, but he figured that was the point. No need to go balls-to-the-wall on the first stop. He had five hours, and a long way to go.

Still, the smell alone was enough to make his stomach growl loud enough for him to hear it over the hum of the car. He pressed a hand into the slope of his gut, feeling the thick slab of it shift under his fingers. “Easy,” he muttered, more to himself than anything. He was just getting started.

The menu loomed up outside his window, glowing slightly in the early afternoon sun. Everything looked good. Way too good. His eyes scanned the classics, the fried, the cheesy, the sugary, he could’ve easily cleared half the board. His stomach clenched again, eager and empty. Well, mostly empty. He had scarfed down a couple of danishes that morning, just enough to hold him until now. Not really breakfast, though. More of a teaser. Barely counted. And way less than what he was used to eating first thing in the morning.

The car in front of him pulled away, and he moved forward, the speaker crackling to life.

“Welcome to McDonald’s, go ahead with your order when you’re ready.”

“Yeah, uh…” he paused, mind briefly tempted by half the board again. “Can I get five cheeseburgers, a large fry, and a large chocolate shake?”

There was a short silence, the kind that always made him feel a little judged.

“That’ll be all,” he added quickly, wrapping his order up before he could add anything more. The cookies were tempting. He could almost taste them. But he had to be smart. You’ve got so much more than this to eat, he reminded himself, biting the inside of his cheek.

He went through the usual motions—paid at the first window, made some awkward small talk, then collected the heavy bag and thick shake at the second. The warmth of the bag settled nicely against his palm, the smell making his mouth water all over again.

He parked nearby, immediately unclicking his seatbelt out of habit. His belly shifted heavily as he leaned over to set everything up on the passenger seat. He lined the burgers up neatly, balanced the fries next to them, shake uncapped so the contents were visible. He made sure the receipt was visible in the corner of the frame as he snapped a photo of his meal. Proof.

Elise seemed pretty chill about the whole thing, Oliver wasn't even sure if she actually cared whether or not he failed. But he wanted to make sure she knew he wasn't cheating. Not that he would, he thought this was going to be enjoyable, to a degree. But he wanted to take every precaution. And because of that, he’d already decided he would send more than pictures today.

He clipped his phone into the vent mount, adjusting the angle. It took a few tries, the damn thing slipping slightly every time he reached across his belly. He shifted in his seat, pushing his hips forward, trying to slouch just right to make his gut spill toward the wheel, to make himself look as fat as possible. Which truly wasn't difficult. He was around 370 pounds the last time he weighed himself, probably closer to 375 now. No matter what he did or what he wore, he looked fat, completely unable to hide how massive he was getting. He desperately hoped Elise could be the one to push him to 400. The enclosed space alone made him look like a pig. But he wanted to make sure it showed. The way his shirt clung to the curve of his gut, how his sides bulged against the door. He wanted her to see all of it. Every pound. Every inch.

He looked at the setup again, then at his reflection in the rearview mirror. His face was already a little red from the heat of the car and the excitement of the meal, soft with a double chin that quivered slightly when he moved. He looked full before he’d even started.

Oliver’s heart thudded as he turned down the AC and opened the camera app. He hoped Elise would like this. He paused, his hands were actually shaking a little. He’d sent photos to feeders before. Even a few short clips here and there. But not a full stuffing. Not with someone like Elise watching. And definitely not when something real was on the line.

He hit record.

“Uhh…” He cleared his throat, voice low and awkward. “I got, uh… McDonald’s. Some cheeseburgers. I’ll send you a photo.”

He looked down at the phone. Only the bottom half of his face was visible—double chin, soft jaw, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. It’d have to do.

He grabbed the first burger, wrapper crinkling loudly, and tore it open. The smell was familiar, comforting, tempting.

He took a big bite, a third of it gone in a second. Hot, greasy, salty. It hit like a drug. He barely even chewed before going back for another bite. He groaned softly, almost forgetting the camera was on, he really had been starving.

Before he knew it, the first burger was gone. He barely tasted it. The second was already halfway unwrapped in his hands.

When that one was gone too, he paused to take a long sip from his shake—cool, creamy, sweet. His hunger was still alive, but now tamed. Barely. He looked at himself in the camera, unsure what to do next.

Would she want some belly play? Did she like messy eaters? Or clean ones?

He debated, then decided to just eat the way he usually did. Though that was easier said than done, knowing Elise was going to watch this. The thought made him self-conscious.

He shoved a fistful of fries into his mouth, salty and hot. God, McDonald’s has the best fries, he thought. Then, after a beat, he said aloud, “I love McDonald’s fries, they’re really good.”

Talking seemed to calm his nerves a little.

“The best, in my opinion,” he added. “I don’t know what they do to them exactly but… yeah. Really good.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and he winced, cheeks warming. Hopefully the video wouldn’t pick it up too clearly.

He reached for burger number three, feeling awkward again, suddenly too aware of the way he was sitting, the weight of his belly pressing into his lap. The shirt he’d chosen was already sticking a bit to his middle.

He stayed silent this time, working through the burger methodically. He hoped Elise would like his choice of a first meal. She’d told him he could eat anything. “Doesn’t matter,” she’d said—as long as the meals were “objectively big.” Whatever that meant.

To Oliver, that seemed pretty damn subjective. He’d seen her post about feedees both bigger and smaller than him, so he had no idea what counted in her mind. He supposed any meal that someone with a normal BMI might struggle to finish was a good enough gauge. And he had five meals to get through. Surely she didn’t expect him to gorge himself to the brim at every single stop.

Still, a few minutes later, he was down to half of his last burger and the bottom of his shake. He looked at both, hesitated for just a second, then shoved the rest of the burger into his mouth all at once. He let his arms fall to his sides as he chewed, his belly stretching heavy across his lap.

He gave it a slow, modest rub. He could’ve managed two or three more cheeseburgers, easy. But he was full, satisfied.

He finished off most of the shake, stopping only when the straw started to make noise. A small burp pushed up his throat, and he stifled it behind closed lips.

Turning his attention back to the camera, he muttered, “That’s it, I guess.” He paused, trying to think of something clever, and came up with nothing. “One meal down, haha.” A weak, unsure laugh escaped him, and then he hit stop.

He scrolled through the video quickly, just to make sure it all looked okay. The angle wasn’t great, but it got the job done. He snapped a couple of quick photos—his belly soft and still jiggly even after the meal—and sent them along with the earlier food pics and the video.

Then he just sat there, staring at his phone. Waiting. Nothing yet.

Well, of course not, he thought, sighing. He hadn’t really expected her to be glued to her phone waiting for updates. But he wasn’t sure what he had expected, either. Part of him had imagined something more... interactive. More feedback. More presence. So far, it was just him, eating alone in his car.

He checked the time: 1:33. He still had plenty of time. Technically, he could hit the next place now. But it was probably smarter to space it out a bit.

He scrolled through his socials for a while, zoning out on watching some reels, when a notification slid down across the top of his screen. A message from Elise.

His thumb clicked it quickly.

‘decent start, fatty’

Oliver grinned, face flushing instantly. His cheeks burned, just slightly, but he couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips. It wasn’t a full compliment, but it was definitely the closest she’d come.

He tossed his phone onto the passenger seat, shifted the car into drive, and pressed his foot to the gas.

Fuck a break, he thought. He was ready for the next meal.

Chapter 3

The colorful Sonic sign was just across the street. Oliver was more in the mood for a sandwich—a sub place, maybe. But how he could even crave anything right now was beyond him. Still, he wanted something close, something fast. He was excited to eat again. More than that, he was excited to eat for her. So he chose the closest place he could find. The sooner he ate again, the more impressed she’d be. Right?

He pulled into a parking stall, eyes flicking up to the menu board. His heart gave a small kick of anticipation. He always got excited when food was coming, but this was different. Knowing it was for someone else, for someone who wanted this, it made everything sharper. Hotter.

He stretched his arm out the window and pressed the button to order.

“Could I please get three footlong quarter-pound coneys,” he said, already hating himself a little. “And then an order each of mozzarella sticks, Ched ‘R’ Peppers, and onion rings. And a large cherry limeade.”

Even as he rattled it all off, part of him knew it was too much. He shouldn’t order that much. But it was like he couldn’t stop himself. Like not ordering enough would be worse.

He paid with his card and waited, the weight of his hunger replaced now with the weight of anticipation.

When the girl skated out with the food, arms overflowing, he felt his face flush. She didn’t look twice at him, but he still mumbled a quick thanks and kept his eyes low. He waited until she was gone before pulling everything out onto the passenger seat and starting the routine.

Photos first. Spread everything out, make sure the volume was obvious. All the grease-soaked wrappers and bright packaging. Then the video.

He set up his phone, hit record, and took a breath.

This time, he lifted his shirt right away, baring the curve of his belly where it bulged forward into his lap. He gave it a few firm pats, watching the slight jiggle through the camera. He shifted slightly, trying to make his belly look even rounder.

“I’m still pretty hungry,” he said, though he wasn’t. Not really. He could certainly eat, but he wanted her to think his appetite was bigger than it was.

He grabbed one of the footlongs and took a bite, groaning softly as the chili and cheese hit his tongue. Greasy, savory, and hot—it was perfect. His appetite expanded just slightly at the taste of it. He chewed slowly, letting his eyelids flutter a little, exaggerating his reaction just enough. He worked his way through the footlong with relative ease. When he swallowed the last bite, he made a point to exhale, like the meal was already taking something out of him.

By the time he finished the second hot dog, the moans had turned to grunts. The mozzarella sticks were heavy and chewy, and the oil sat like a film on his lips. His belly was firming up fast, stretching tight against the waistband of his sweatpants, but he didn’t stop. He sipped the limeade between bites, trying to make space.

He wondered what Elise would say. If her interest would mount or diminish as the day went on. He’d seen the guys she’d posted before, large men, even women sometimes, stuffed well past their limits. He had no idea where he ranked in that hierarchy. Was he just average to her? Did she even like his body type?

He glanced at the screen again. His belly looked big now, heavy and a little red from all the shifting. Good. It had to look like effort.

He pushed through the jalapeño poppers. They left a heat in his chest that layered weirdly with the sweetness of the limeade. Then the onion rings—greasy and limp by now, but still edible. Barely.

The last footlong sat like a dare in front of him. He didn’t want it. Not even a little. But he picked it up anyway.

He took a bite. Chili slipped out the side and hit his shirt.

“Shit,” he muttered, swiping it up with his finger and licking it without thinking. It left a stain on the front of his tee, right over where his gut pushed out the most.

He looked at himself again. The camera picked up everything. His flushed face, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the lazy way his belly rolled over his waistband. He looked like a pig. A proper, overfed pig. But wasn’t that the whole point?

A burp rolled out of him—loud, almost embarrassing. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, suddenly self-conscious again. He took another bite and let his head fall back onto the headrest. He needed a second.

Could he even finish five meals?

The question hit him hard. It seemed as though the excitement he’d felt had waned as his fullness increased. It wasn’t just that he was full, he was getting close to uncomfortable. The pressure in his gut was real now, unignorable. He could still eat more, technically. But he was starting to wonder if the challenge was even possible.

Maybe that was the real point. For Elise to give him the runaround, make him eat a ton all day without ever having to commit to being his feeder. He closed his eyes, breathing through his nose.

No. Even if that was the point, he wasn’t going to quit. The fullness was just getting in his head.

Oliver focused on finishing, eyes mostly on the food now, as he polished off the last of the hot dog and stuffed the remaining onion rings into his mouth. Everything tasted kind of the same at this point—greasy, salty, way too much—but he chewed and swallowed anyway. He glanced at the time on the dash just as it flipped to 2:25. Nearly an hour for one meal. Between waiting, ordering, and eating, it had dragged, and now his stomach felt tight and overloaded.

He leaned back slightly and looked at the phone again, still recording. Might as well show her. He lifted his shirt higher and exhaled through his nose, letting his belly fully spill into view. He gave it a few slow rubs, mostly toward the top, trying to manage the pressure.

“Two down, three to go,” he said, his voice a little hoarse as he patted the side of his stomach. He gave a small, uncomfortable smile to the camera and stopped the recording.

He stayed in place after that, slouched in the driver’s seat, the top of his belly pushing out uncomfortably. His whole body felt heavy. He grabbed his phone again, snapped one lazy photo of his belly from a low angle, and sent it along with the video and the usual food pics. Then he dropped the phone beside him and let out a quiet grunt.

He was tired. His stomach throbbed in pulses. Nothing sharp, just full and stubborn and in the way. The kind of full where it felt like the food was still moving around inside, settling into place. He shifted slightly to try and make room for his gut, but the seat was cramped, and it didn’t help much.

His phone buzzed maybe twenty minutes later, a little banner sliding down from the top of the screen. He opened it.

‘I bet ur full huh?’ Elise had written.

He didn’t hesitate. ‘Very, he typed back.

Her response came quicker than he expected.

‘dont tell me ur giving up.’

Oliver blinked. Was that concern? Teasing? A hint of interest maybe?

‘No of course not,’ he wrote.

‘good, bc im looking forward to seeing that belly at the end of it.’

His chest did a little flutter. He smiled. She was into it, at least a little. That was enough. That was everything. The effort, the discomfort, even the embarrassment, it was working.

He wanted to do more, keep pushing, but his body clearly disagreed. His gut felt tight and warm, the skin stretched, his muscles sore underneath. Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. The idea of her watching the videos, noticing the way he jiggled or the way his belly swelled under his shirt. He couldn’t deny how good that felt. Not just arousing, but satisfying. Like he was finally being seen.

Oliver tried adjusting his position again, but the seat just wasn’t cutting it. He needed more room. Somewhere he could really spread out and make space for the next round. The idea of stuffing himself in a cramped car again didn’t seem doable. His belly needed to breathe.

He sighed, deep and slow. The next place couldn’t be another drive-thru. He’d need to find somewhere better suited for this kind of overeating. Maybe a booth. Or even a big empty parking lot where he could recline with the door open, no one around to see.

But first, he had to rest. Just for a bit. Let some of it settle. He closed his eyes and let the heat of the sun soak through the windshield as his overfed body groaned quietly beneath him.

Chapter 4

Oliver pulled into the Chipotle parking lot and shut off the ignition with a heavy sigh, the quiet thrum of the engine clicking off into silence. A hiccup bubbled up in his throat, sharp and unexpected. He groaned a little, hand drifting to his belly, giving it a slow, half-aware rub. It felt heavier than before, more solid and dense. Like the food was compacting inside him, stacking itself into layers.

He glanced at the time again. 3:14. Shit.

He was lagging. The first two meals had gone down quick, and he’d been cocky about that, thinking he’d earned himself a buffer. But he’d already burned through it, and was only two stops down. He needed to pick up the pace, but his body clearly had other plans.

Oliver sighed through his nose and unclicked his seatbelt, the strap snapping away from his stomach with a little relief. He braced himself, inhaled deep, and finally opened the car door. The air outside was warm, so it didn’t help much. As soon as he stood, gravity yanked hard on his gut. It drooped low over his waistband, heavy and unrelenting, pulling him into a slight forward hunch. He let out a surprised grunt, hand flying to support the underside of his belly.

Jesus. He was stuffed. Way too stuffed to be doing this again.

He shuffled toward the entrance, slow and unsteady, every step jostling his stomach. What was he doing? A small part of his brain dared to ask. He should be home. Lying down. Sleeping this off with a fan on and a pillow under his belly. But no. Instead, he was waddling into a restaurant, gut already taut and distended, like a man on a mission.

The doors whooshed open as he stepped inside, and immediately his heart sank. A long-ass line. Figures.

Maybe another drive-thru would've been easier. Probably smarter. Less walking, less standing. But he’d thought Chipotle would be a decent change of pace. Lighter food, fresher, technically healthier. Some veggies. He could pretend it balanced things out.

The line crawled forward inch by inch. His feet started to ache. Then his calves. Then his lower back, a slow throb radiating up from where his belly tugged at him. When did just standing become uncomfortable? He wasn’t used to it. Most days he barely left the house, let alone stood around with a bloated gut dragging on his frame. He shifted from one foot to the other, arms crossed under his belly like a makeshift sling.

Finally, he made it to the front.

“What can I get started for you?” the kid behind the counter asked.

“A burrito,” Oliver said, trying not to sound winded. “Double wrapped. Extra rice. Double steak. Light on the fajitas…”

He kept going, layering his order in real-time. Pinto beans. Corn. Sour cream. Extra cheese. Lettuce for show. Even as he spoke, he could feel his stomach tighten in protest, but he kept ordering, voice steady, like he wasn’t already well past full.

It was hot. Not the food, the idea. To be this bloated, this full, and still pointing at toppings. Still asking for more. Still pretending he was hungry. It was ridiculous. It was humiliating. And it turned him on more than he could say.

When it came time to wrap the burrito, the employee tried—and failed—twice to get it closed. Oliver’s face started to burn. His arms were crossed again, half-hugging his belly, trying to appear casual, like this wasn’t his fault somehow.

“Hey Kate?” the kid called, glancing toward the back.

A woman emerged, already snapping on a pair of gloves as she walked up. She wore a nicer polo, an upgrade from the more casual tees the rest of the employees wore. Likely a manager.

“I’ve got it,” she said smoothly. She gave Oliver a quick, polite smile and got to work. Her hands moved fast, confident, folding the overstuffed tortilla like she’d done it a hundred times. Which she probably had, for people like him.

Oliver swallowed hard, catching a glimpse of the people in line behind him. Some were watching, some were pretending not to. All he could think about was how he looked. How obvious it was that this monster burrito was his. How they’d had to call in backup just to handle it. All because he couldn’t say no to more. More everything.

“Anything else?” Kate asked as she sealed the foil.

He hesitated. Then: “Um… two sides of queso?”

“Sure thing,” she said easily, and turned to fill two plastic cups with the hot, gooey cheese sauce.

He paid at the register—chips and a drink too—and made a beeline for the farthest booth he could find after filling his cup at the drink fountain. Way in the corner. He moved slowly, carrying the tray with both hands, feeling every inch of his body resist. His shirt clung to his back, slightly damp, and his belly swayed with each step, making his sweatpants dig deeper into his waist.

He plopped down into the booth with a soft grunt, letting the tray clatter down in front of him. The cushion creaked beneath his weight. For a second, he didn’t even touch the food. Just sat there, catching his breath, arms resting on either side of his belly like parentheses.

He stared at the burrito. It looked massive. Bigger than either of the first two meals somehow, or maybe that was just his body talking. His gut gurgled, already protesting what was about to happen.

Oliver shifted slightly, adjusting how he sat so his stomach could spread a little more. He was doing this for Elise. He reminded himself of that, even as he leaned back and gave his belly another slow rub. Even as he started to sweat again.

He picked up his phone and opened the camera. Time to film meal number three.

Oliver set his phone up on the seat beside him, leaning it at a slight angle against the brushed metal paneling of the wall. He eyed it carefully, making sure it was out of view from anyone passing by. As hot as it would’ve been to film himself openly—big, bloated, and eating like a maniac in public—he just wasn’t there yet. Not confident enough. Not brave enough.

He adjusted in the booth, tugging his shirt down and then up again, scooting his hips backward so his belly would slope out naturally. He leaned back, checking the frame. Wide. The low angle was doing him plenty of favors. He looked massive. Rounder than he’d realized. His belly filled nearly the whole bottom half of the screen, heavy and spreading like dough in his lap. He blinked, startled by the image. When had he gotten this wide?

Elise would like it. He hoped she’d like it.

He hit record, leaned forward, and grabbed the heavy, foil-wrapped burrito from the tray. With a little flourish, he ducked it beneath the table, angling it up into the frame, holding it beside his stomach like a trophy. His arm strained just slightly from the weight. It really was ridiculous, a massive, overstuffed brick of food, thick as his forearm. The kind of meal you shared, or saved half of for later. And he was about to eat the whole thing, solo, on top of everything else he’d already downed today.

The thought made him swallow hard. Arousing, sure. But also… kind of terrifying.

Carefully, he peeled back a section of the foil. He didn’t want it to look messy on camera, even though that was inevitable. He took a deep breath, and sunk his teeth into the burrito.

Hot steak, melty cheese, fluffy rice. It tasted good, but the moment it hit his stomach, he knew: there was no space for this. Not really. An hour hadn’t been long enough to digest the last round, and now he was piling on more. Oliver swallowed, suppressing a burp, and tried not to let the dread show on his face. The first few bites were fine, manageable even. But already, the pressure in his middle had returned. Fast.

He glanced around. Other people sat scattered at tables and booths, chatting, eating, checking their phones. He was just another guy grabbing lunch, he told himself. Albeit his third lunch, but no one knew that. Nothing to see here. Beneath the table, his hand slid down to his gut. He gave it a discreet pat, then a slow rub, fingers tracing the firm curve where fullness met resistance. He gave it a few gentle jiggles, imagining Elise watching. Elise would see this. Every bite, every movement. It helped. The thought of her watching, judging, deciding if he was worth it. It kept him going.

She’d be disappointed if he stopped. Worse, she’d be unimpressed. There were probably others vying for her attention, others trying to catch her eye. He had to stand out. He had to be more.

Oliver reached for a side of queso and poured it generously along the top of the burrito, letting it drip into the folds. It looked obscene, over-indulgent. He bit again, this time messier. A strand of cheese clung to his lip before he licked it off. He was done pretending to savor this. He just needed to get it down.

He chewed quickly, swallowed hard, pushing forward. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and kept going, trying to maintain some semblance of manners even as he was clearly speed-eating. He had to beat his stomach to the punch, get it down before it could resist.

But then… the wall.

It hit him just past halfway, like running full-speed into concrete. He leaned back with a quiet groan, hands instinctively bracing his belly. There was no more room. His stomach was packed again, stretched tight and pulsing with discomfort. He reached for a chip just to keep the momentum alive, nibbling slowly, telling himself he hadn’t given up. Not yet.

He glanced at the phone. Still recording. The angle caught everything: the slope of his gut, the flush in his cheeks, the way his shirt was clinging to the sweat forming on his chest and belly. He hesitated, then slipped a hand under the hem of his shirt, hiking it up slightly. Just a bit, just enough. The taut skin of his stomach caught the light. It looked swollen, obscene. Hot. But not enough. Elise didn’t want a show. She wanted results.

That’s not what she wants to see, he thought to himself. She wants to see you eat.

He groaned, deep and low, then forced himself upright again, feeling every inch of fullness shift inside him. The burrito sat heavy on the tray, a looming threat. He picked it up with both hands, stared at it, then took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed. And another. He could do this.

It was slow going. Each bite felt like a dare, each chew a battle. He breathed through his mouth, short pants between mouthfuls, one hand never leaving his belly now. He rubbed along the crest, trying to soothe the ache, trying to convince his body this was worth it. His eyes fluttered half-closed as he pushed through it, mind fuzzy with effort and need.

The final chunk sat in his hand for what felt like ages. He stared at it, every muscle in his face taut with indecision. He shifted, rocked slightly in the booth, stared at the food, then his gut, then back at the burrito.

You can do this.

He shoved it into his mouth.

Chewing was slow. Painfully slow, as if his mouth too was tired. His jaw worked while his body screamed. When he finally swallowed, he slumped back against the booth like he’d just finished a marathon. A low moan escaped him before he could stop it. He’d never been this full in his life.

Kate—the woman from earlier—passed by, wiping down a nearby table. She paused, concern flickering across her face.

“You okay?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Oliver managed, voice hoarse and breathless.

She nodded and turned away, but not before flicking a quick glance at the phone beside him. Still recording.

Fuck. He’d completely forgotten.

With a trembling hand, Oliver leaned over and stopped the video. He didn't even bother to check or review it, he just sent it. Straight to Elise.

Oliver sat slouched in the booth, head tilted back against the vinyl backrest, sipping the last of his soda through a limp straw. It made a hollow, gurgling noise as the ice shifted in the cup. He swallowed the final mouthful and let out a soft, low burp—just loud enough for the nearest table to pause and glance his way. He caught their eyes for half a second, but they looked away almost immediately, like they just wanted confirmation that yes, it had been the massively bloated, obese guy in the corner who’d done it. No surprise there. Fair enough, Oliver thought. He was visibly stuffed, shoulders slouched and belly ballooned out under the table like a taught, food-packed dome. No one was mistaking him for anything other than what he was right now: an overeater. A glutton.

He looked longingly at the drink fountain across the room. His whole body ached with fullness, but man, he was so thirsty. The salt from the burrito, the chips, along with everything else he’d eaten today—it all clung to the inside of his mouth, his body begging for hydration. But there was no way he could get up. Not yet. The idea of rising to his feet, of walking all the way to the machine and then standing there waiting for a refill, was laughable. His stomach felt like it was stacked to the brim with bricks.

Kate was still milling around nearby, wiping down tables that had already been wiped, tidying things that didn’t need tidying. Things a manager wouldn’t typically do. She was lingering. Oliver could feel her eyes drifting to him every so often. Probably wondering if he was going to keel over or throw up right there in the booth. He waited for the next time she glanced his way and then raised his hand, trying to look casual, beckoning her over with an apologetic little wave.

Her brows lifted slightly in mild surprise, but she came over quickly, all polite energy. “Hey! Need something?”

“Hey, sorry,” Oliver said, trying to smile through the dull pressure behind his eyes. He pressed a hand to his gut, letting it hang there for emphasis. “Would you mind grabbing me a quick refill? I’m... a little full.”

Understatement of the century. The words felt stupid even as he said them.

“Oh, sure! It was a Coke, right?” she asked, already taking the cup from his hand.

“Yeah. Thank you.” Oliver replied, not thinking too much on how she knew.

She took the empty cup and disappeared. Oliver exhaled slowly, careful not to jostle his belly too much. Every movement now had to be gentle.

Kate returned a moment later, handing over the brimming cup. “Here you go.” She flashed him a smile.

“Thanks,” he murmured again.

“Of course! Let me know if you need anything else.” She began gathering up the discarded foil and food remains onto his tray. Oliver noticed her glance back at him as she walked away with it, that same faint curiosity on her face. He couldn’t tell if she was intrigued or just... confused. Either way, he didn’t have the mental bandwidth to care. Not when his phone buzzed with a new message. He opened it immediately.

‘that was so hot’

A grin spread across his face despite the discomfort. He straightened a little, stomach protesting the change in posture, but he didn’t care. He typed back to Elise quickly.

‘I know, I legit can't believe I managed it’

Then, after hesitating a second:

‘I really don't know how much more I can eat tho.’

He hovered over the screen for a moment, then hit send. The doubt crept in immediately. Would that disappoint her? Would she think he was weak? Would she stop texting back? A full minute passed. Then another. Oliver started to sweat, this time from anxiety.

But then: buzz.

‘ur fine, big boy. you just need something sweet.’

He exhaled slowly in relief, a smile tugging at his lips. She wasn’t disappointed. She was guiding him. And she had a point. There was no way he could handle anything greasy or savory right now, but sweet? Maybe. The thought of something soft and sugary made his gut feel less like a bowling ball and more like a balloon. Painful, but stretchable.

Before he could even reply, another message lit up the screen.

‘why don't you go get urself some donuts for me?’

Oliver blinked. For me.

Those two little words paused all other thoughts for a moment. He read it again. For me. The implication of ownership. The suggestion that he was doing this for her, that it was part of earning his place with her. If he could just push through these last two meals, he’d get what he wanted. He had to. Only two more. One sweet, which barely counted. He could do that.

His phone buzzed again.

‘go now’

That one hit different. A shot of heat up his spine. Oliver bit his lip, arousal surging through his exhausted body. Now. That tiny flick of control in her message made something deep inside him snap to attention. His stuffed belly groaned in protest, but his mind was already obeying. He didn’t even hesitate, he just replied:

‘ok’

Then he set the phone in his pocket and braced himself. He shuffled slowly to the edge of the booth, arms splayed wide as leverage. He took a deep breath, rocked forward, and tried to lift himself to standing.

His legs barely straightened. For a moment, he hovered—half-sitting, half-standing—before plopping back down with a soft grunt, face flushing. Jesus. He hadn’t expected it to be that hard. He’d underestimated just how heavy and bloated he was. He adjusted his stance, leaned forward a little more, and tried again. This time he made it up with a wheeze, standing slightly off-kilter, leaning back instinctively to balance his distended gut.

His belly stuck out in front of him like a loaded beach ball, bouncing slightly with every breath. His t-shirt clung to it tightly, riding up just a bit over the lower curve. He felt massive. Hell, he was massive.

He waddled toward the door, soda still in hand, each step making his belly jiggle uncomfortably. Kate passed him again on her way to the back, and this time she smiled and waved. He could only manage a weak flick of his hand in return, too focused on getting outside. On sitting again.

The air outside hit him like a wet towel—warm, heavy, humid. The sun had turned the pavement into a griddle, and the extra warmth made his already-sweating body feel slick and sticky. He cursed himself for parking farther than he needed to. It hadn’t seemed far before, but now, every step felt like a mile.

By the time he reached the car and dropped himself into the driver’s seat, he was panting, sweat dotting his forehead and running down his back. His belly pressed painfully against the steering wheel until he adjusted the seat back. The moment the car started, he cranked the AC, letting the cold air blast his face and chest while he caught his breath.

Once he could breathe normally again, Oliver reached for his phone. His fingers trembled slightly as he opened the maps app. Where was the nearest Krispy Kreme?

Join Hunny Bun’s Patreon to read the rest of this story!