Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Despite living a three hour car ride apart, the pandemic has put months between you. When the doorbell rang, it was the fastest you moved in weeks — not that you were able to speed around the house anymore. You were big, and with over a year of isolation and fast food: you've gotten much much bigger. 

Your wardrobe is in the 15XLs, your queen-size bed just manages to contain you, doorways are your natural enemy, and you have to eat meals either squeezed into the loveseat or squashed around the kitchen table with two or more chairs for your butt to rest on. 

Your family and friends watched as you eagerly ate your way to obesity, piling on the pounds as your already overweight body became laden with swathes and rolls of soft blubbery fat. 

You waddle to the porch, your partner's figure already visible through the dimples of the frosted glass, their silhouette glancing through the pane in equal joy. 

You struggle to reach across the slopes of your belly, spread further than your arms reach. You lean forward, rolls stack against each other as you plump fingertips fumble over the edge of the door handle. 

Your soft digits finally press down against the latch and release the door, but being this size has even a simple task like opening a door riddled with problems. 

With the door ajar you now must move your massive body to ensure it can open fully. Your belly rests against the wood as you shuffle back; still leaning forward, fighting to keep the door open against the force of your elephantine weight pressing up against it - urging it to close.

You whimper as finally the threshold opens, the heavy wooden door pushes against your fat as you manage to hinge the gate around your swollen circumference.

"Hey Skinny," they joke, smiling across the threshold. Your partner leans against the doorframe, their short stubby arm freely falls up against your belly and ruffles the light cotton shirt, pressing down against your soft paunch. 

"You ought to be careful or pretty soon you're going to get fat," they tease further. Climbing the doorstep their frame presses right up against you, leaning over the mountain of lard their lips scale your body to find your red chubby cheeks. Their arms can barely wrap around your thigh, let alone your whole body - but still they try. Sliding their arms into your deepest rolls, the warmth of your body envelopes them. 

You share a kiss, both of you heavily flustered already. 

"How many tape measures do you think I'm gonna need to measure all this ?" They say, shaking your body. You look like a big bowl of jelly, every inch of your enormous body wobbling and jiggling to the rhythm of your partner's whim. 

You have to express that you've already been standing up too long. The full weight of your body presses down on your feeble ankles. It grows too much to bear if you're on your feet for even a short amount of time. 

"Aw, don't worry, hippo, go back to your muddy lair. I'll follow after you," they kiss your cheek again, the sweat and warmth sticky against their lips as you awkwardly wade around your own mass, turning to face the right way as you lumber towards your room. 

The layout of the house had changed with your gains. Originally your family had hoped they could shame you away from this gluttonous path, but quickly found out that nothing was going to stop you gorge yourself into obesity. 

Originally your room was on the first floor, the flight of stairs becoming a challenge as your body grew. But everyone knew that as you continued to spiral towards blobhood, soon enough you might become too heavy for the house. The stairs already creaked when you were three-hundred pounds, at six-hundred they were begging for mercy. 

As your girth expanded further it became a serious worry; not only were you getting too big for doors, but it was a frequent talking point that you were getting to a weight where no one could be certain how long it would be before the stairs or floor collapsed under you - or they’d have to break down a wall and crane you out of your room. 

Hiding your excitement at the idea, you reluctantly agreed to move to the ground level. In the first few months you were on display amid the open-plan of the downstairs, with no cordoned off room for you to sleep in, though your parents quickly became averse to the idea of having their half-tonne baby elephant on display every time they wanted guests over. 

You moved into the lounge for a time while the back of the house was refurbished. A wall was set up between the kitchen and your soon-to-be bedroom, with the toilet door widened and some much-needed bariatric equipment purchased to help with your increasing encumbrance. 

Your partner was there through it all. From the late-night snacking to the mid-day binging, they’d watch quite contently as you greedily sought to gain weight. Now, several years later, with a belly covered in stretch marks and an appetite that could drive buffets out of business, you were both happier than ever. You’d been beside them as they transitioned, and they’d been pressed up against you as you bulked up. 

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” they say, as you plop down on the bed, “And it’s not food, greedy guts!” They add as they take a small pinch of your supple abdomen, looking at your dejected expression. 

They sit down on your heavy duty office chair, the seat wide enough to take two or three skinnier people, and begin to shuffle through their overnight bag. Your partner pulls out what looks at first like a blanket, but unfurling the fabric reveals a massive t-shirt. Heavily stained with barbeque sauce and covered in wrinkles, you recognise the tee as one you left up North last time you’d visited. 

“I didn’t want to clean it because it smells like you,” they smile, “grease, sweat, sauce, and all,” hugging the shirt like a blankie, they nuzzle against it before tossing the shirt in your direction. 

“Put it on, hippo. Let’s see just how fat you’ve gotten since we last got together, huh?” 

You blush heavily, not able to meet their eyes as they size up your pudge. They lean forward, their elbows against their knees as they rest their chin against their knuckles. You look back and are instantly hit with a sly wink. Flustered, you stammer out about needing some help taking your shirt off. Only too happy to oblige, they set about lifting your shirt - your squishy midsection exposed for all the world to see. It’s no time at all before they’ve lifted your belly out of your pants, letting your colossal gut hang out. It covers your thighs like a heavy winter blanket, pinning your legs down while eagerly reaching towards the bedroom floor. They pat your stomach thricely, “Big baby,” they mumble, dreamily staring towards your cavernous belly button. 

You struggle to get the shirt off, your big beefy biceps sagging down around your shoulders as your fat-laden forearms tug at the loose and excess fabric, trying to hoist the tent-like garment from your body. Your partner levies the additional fabric up and over your head, meeting you with their round beaming face. 

“Hey, hippo,” they tease, kissing you gently, their body once again angled over the hillside of your tummy. 

They love calling you “Hippo.” Of all the pet names they’ve given you over the course of your expansive journey, “Hippo,” had been the one they stuck with. It was cute; that you both agreed. Not as shameful as “Pig,” or as specific as “Cow;” it had the best ring to it. Even as you became a whale, “Hippo,” still stuck firmer than your gut in a restaurant booth. 

It’s accurate as well. You certainly look like one with your wide, wide figure. Maybe your belly isn’t the roundest, or your ass isn’t the most curvaceous, but one thing is for sure: you are wide as ‘wide’ can be. 

The tee grips your body, tilting your head several times over until the shirt sits across your shoulders - your arms being puppeteered by your partner as they stuff your doughy wings into the sleeves. It had that ‘worn’ quality to it, the fabric wasn’t moist and yet somehow it had retained the feeling of cool dampness. The smell is as described, following the history since its last wash: laundered with flowery detergent, dried on the washing line - looking like a ship’s sail caught in the wind - then it had been pulled tight over your obese body on a summer’s day over a year ago. How your sweat had soaked into the pits, the valleys of your rolls entrapping the fabric; how you both had lay on the grass in the park and grilled burgers on a throw-away barbeque - how the sauce ran down your chin and dribbled across this shirt.

The smell is as described: it smells like you. 

A tight fit then, drawing it over your belly now proved to be more of a challenge than anticipated. Expecting some pudge to hang from below, or the shirt to tightly wrap around you and maybe split a seam; the fabric ran short before it reached your belly button. Your lower roll and underbelly spill out over your lap, as you glance at their face - biting their lip to the point where you’re certain if they bite any harder they’ll be drawing blood. 

Quarantine has done a number on you and your waistline. You can see the anticipation on their face, looking forward to getting you on the scales and seeing just how greedy you’ve been. 

“When did you last weigh yourself, hippo?” They ask, failing to hide their excitement. 

You affirm their suspicion, “Not for a year now.” 

“Wow, I’m amazed,” they say, grabbing the tyre of fat that the tight, stained tee fails to encompass, “Haven’t your family tried to put you on a diet lately, fatass?” 

“You know they stopped trying a while ago…” 

“Can I… can I weigh you now , then? I wanna see how much you’ve grown. I’m honestly surprised you can still walk - if you can call it that, porkie,” they lean in and kiss you again, their hands playing with your belly fat, tracing over your new stretch marks as their lips trace yours. 

After some complaining and rearrangement of cellulite you manage to heave your big ass back onto your feet. The scales don’t have much use while they’re not with you. You haven’t been able to read them and are too interested in buying fast food than a set which reads the output aloud. Now with a second pair of eyes, the number was within sight. 

You step onto the cool metal plate, feeling the dust around your chubby toes as your calves sag around your ankles - thighs sagging around your calves - and your belly sagging everywhere else. You hear a faint beep and your partner looks down. They gasp and crawl down onto the floor, lying still they exhale sharply. Unable to see them from atop your mountain of fat, you call down to ask them what was wrong. The next thing you feel is two clammy hands massage their way up from your underbelly til your partner is once again lying across your belly - their hands ravenously squeeze your love handles.

“Oh, you naughty, greedy butterball. You have been gluttonous, huh? What a whopper!” Their eyes sparkle, as they look at you - their iris’ wide as lips curl, continuing to squish and play with your abundance of flesh. Obviously you’ve gained weight given their supportive reaction, but the question is on your lips…

“How much?” 

“How much?!” Your partner echoes enthusiastically, “I don’t know!” 

You stammer a response, “You don’t know?”

“Hippo!” They jump at you without thinking, loudly yelling the pet name that surely carries through the house. 

You feel their weight against yours and you stumble back as they sink into you. Your ass slaps against the bed thankfully, sliding down, you lie diagonally across the sheets as your partner giddily mounts your belly. Grinding their body  against you as you begin to wobble like a waterbed. 

“You broke the scale, baby!” They say between steamy lunges - making out with different parts of your body. “The weight limit was five-hundred kilograms; you weigh more than five-hundred kilos! That’s over eleven-hundred pounds!” 

“You’re not going to fit in my car,” they whisper softly - breaking away from their ecstasy. “Good thing that I bought a van,” you hear as their lips push against your blushing cheek. 

“Now, let’s get this hungry hippo something to eat…” 

Chapter Text

It has been so long since you’ve gotten out of the house. Dressed in a clean t-shirt and loose pair of shorts, your partner brings the van around while you slowly plod to the front door. With your massive belly leading the way, and your frumpy ass in tow, you're set to spend the next few weeks with them up North.

You take a look at the minivan for the first time. A Toyota Porte. Relatively small, your partner has already assured you that it can withstand your newly recorded mass.
“Try not to gain that much while you’re away, greedy guts. I really should’ve bought a bigger van, huh? You’re going to outgrow this baby in no time…”

The van looks stubby and fat, a trait you are sure is not lost on your partner as they size up your approach. Your partner begins to break down their choices in buying the vehicle; choices which become all the more apparent as you approach the passenger side. The sides of the van lie in asymmetry - on the driver’s side there are two doors, as one might expect. On the passenger side is but one large sliding door. They move the door aside to reveal there is no passenger seat, but instead a plentiful footwell that allows one to maneuver into the backseat.

“I got a model made for getting a wheelchair in there, but I don’t think we’d get your wide-ass wheelchair in. Sorry, babe.” They say, feigning apology as they gently pat you. “So I asked them to take it out, and now there’s enough room for you to wiggle into the back without having to wedge yourself into the van!”

You peer in to examine the upholstery. You sigh in relief as you see the seats are made of nylon and not leather.
Leather car seats are horrid. You have no problem against tanners or the work they do - and your diet is far from being vegetarian - but leather car seats are the devil’s doing. Boiling hot in the summer, freezing cold in the winter, and with the amount of skin you have (along with your wide surface area,) sitting on one at any time of year is hell.

“Try not to break a sweat while you’re popping my tyres, hippo, okay?” They smirk, rubbing the rolls of fat that cascade down your back.
They were right; getting you into the van was going to take some doing even with the side door and spacious footwell...

You rotate slowly around and lower your bowing butt onto the edge of the van. As you sit your apron of fat spreads out like dough - getting wider you feel as your shoulders, hips, and love handles cut into the sides of the open door.
“Do I need to ask for some butter?” Your partner sneers, wiggling their fingers between your belly and door, examining the seal you’ve created with your blubber, “To grease you up, not for you to eat, just to be clear... fatty.”

You pout as you wriggle backwards - your body rolls like an ocean as you scooch your corpulent caboose further back, squeezing into the back of the van, you try to ignore the fact that the whole vehicle rocks with each bountiful bounce. Your partner just grins; you can tell that they’re almost hoping you do pop a tyre so they can embarrass you in front of the whole street as they call roadside assistance to come replace the flat.

Finally you manage to edge your way up and onto the backseat of the van, your fat spilling around the edges of the driver’s seat as you do so. The backseat, meant to carry three normal-sized people, is instead filled by your singular hyper-obese arse.
Your partner examines you with a wicked smile. “Comfortable, hippo?”

Pathetically nodding, you exhale exhausted. As you close your eyes to catch your breath you feel the hands of your partner sliding under your belly towards your crotch, your face flushes red. Before you can protest about their actions, still parked right outside your house, you feel them tug free something from under your bum.
A set of seat belt extenders.

“Wouldn’t want you in any trouble now,” They say. “Really I should mount you down with ropes and belts made for oversized loads - but these extenders are going to have to do,” they explain as they pull each tongue to the buckles below your lap, securing you in place. As each belt runs over your shoulder, running down your chest and tummy towards your crotch, you feel like an astronaut buckled into a space capsule.

While you get yourself comfortable, your partner brings out your suitcase. Despite packing lightly, the case is full to the brim. Each piece of clothing you own requires more fabric than a small household’s daily dress -- the shirt you’re wearing could easily upholster a large armchair.
With their overnight bag over their shoulder they close the door to your porch and make their way to the van with the last of your belongings: a bag of snacks and a large, folded bariatric wheelchair. You look over your shoulder, a bead of concern gathers in your eyes. You haven’t had to use the wheelchair for all of the pandemic, spending your time inside the house, your mind flashes back to your new unknown weight - heavier than five-kilos, but too heavy for the wheelchair? You dread to think as you feel the boot slam shut behind you.

They climb into the driver’s seat, turning to face you before they buckle their own seatbelt. You’re already taking up so much space. Your belly is pressed against the back of the driver’s seat, your thighs locked together as you stretch your leg into the footwell of the absent passenger seat. You feel your love handles clogging the cup holsters built into the sides of the backseat. You’re not sure if you’re enamoured by your new size or worried by just how big you are. Maybe it’s somewhere in the middle.

“You comfy, hippo?” They say softly, looking at you with strong caring eyes. You hum in affirmation, letting them smile lovingly toward you. “Good! I just need to get some petrol but then we’ll be on our way. Here’s your phone if you want to add anything to the playlist - if you need to put it down: put it under one of your rolls so you don’t lose it,” they add with no sense of jest, strapping themselves in as the minivan splutters to life - and you’re off.

The ride starts slowly, as you settle into the new van smell, ready to pollute it with your own overworked musk. The drive to the petrol station takes all but twenty minutes, as you sit tightly (not that your body gives you much choice.) When your partner finally returns from paying they look back at you once more. They have a look in their eyes that you attribute to tricksters and lovers; they have proven themselves ample of each while you've dated.

They announce merrily, "Well, that's one tank full. Let's put some distance between us and see if we can't fill another on the way," they say as their left hand idling plays with your stomach that spills into the void of the passenger seat.

You have always liked car rides. As your body got bigger and more fat surrounded your skeleton, muscles, and organs, you began to feel trapped. The weight of your chest weighed down on your lungs, your ankles supporting the bulbous mass of your expanding body, even lifting your arms and turning your head became a challenge as lard built up around your joints. A portly prison you had fashioned from your gluttony.

But car rides? The feeling of your whole body moving without needing to lift a muscle was bliss. The shake and jolts of the chassis as it would maneuver over speed bumps, and pull up on curves, breaking at any distance having your rolls flow back and to; it just felt pleasant. You imagined the skinnier you, hundreds of pounds ago, surrounded by deliciously excessive blubber - shamelessly swaying on the backseat of a van covered by a single titanic ass… You watched the world go by. People on the streets, cars on the road, animals in fields, and the artifice of nature and mankind speeding past your window - a heavy blob straining their nonexistent neck to view the world from the backseat of this chariot.

With the radio playing, the sound of the tarmac beneath you, and your gut gently rocking, you find it easy to close your eyes and drift off…

You wake up to the sound of the car door slamming shut. You sleepily look around the cab, but your nose has your eyes jerk open wide as you whiff the scent of warm chips, burgers, and nuggets.

“Did you sleep well, Hippo?” Your partner asks as they place a carrier of drinks in the footwell away from your belly, lowering two or three paper bags closer to you. It was difficult to properly describe; the smell of fast food always managed to entice you. Whatever food it is, you always find your mouth greedily watering when food is in close proximity to you. It is a greasy, artificial, filling smell that has you ready to beg to eat.

“What did you get?” You mumble, weakly stretching within what little space you do not take up.

“Just woken up and already thinking about food, huh? Good fatty…” They leave the driver’s seat and sit down in front of your belly. You can barely see them as they vanish beyond the curvature of your gut. You hear the rustling of paper, seeing the bags and drinks moved to the driver’s seat. “Did you know your belly was grumbling in your sleep? I thought we better stop off and get this hippo something to eat before they starve.”

You smile sheepishly, but it’s no lie: you’ve woken up hungry. Watching as your partner shifts onto their knees, now able to see more of them over your capacious calorie-ridden corporation. Your stomach mumbles; your eyes swap between your partner’s face and the carseat where all your goodies lie.
They sink into you, your body accepts them like a memory-foam mattress as hands grope your hefty love handles. They look ready to nod off, blissfully sinking deeper into the ocean of blubber, but a rude rumble from your belly reminds them of their deeper desires.

So they begin the first step of feeding you: the foreplay. Since you got too big to consistently feed yourself without mess, they’ve taken to scolding you if you try to do so. Thus, as part of a back and to, a true testament to enabling your disabled ass, you’ve made simple eating a layered game of cat and mouse.
As such, they begin to list your meal, and as they do they stroke, rub, and play with your belly...
“Five burger meals, all of them large, each with a coke, two boxes of twenty nuggets, three chocolate milkshakes, and I picked up a little something for your dessert. A box of twelve donuts.”

Sliding their hands under your belly they pathetically lift the mountainous pile of dough, biting down on their lip once more as they are floored by the weight of it. The weight of you.

Your belly rumbles in excitement, swallowing back some drool you eagerly look to your partner. Now it’s your turn.
“Please,” you blub, “I’m so hungry.”
“Then come and get it,” they say, leaning back with a bag in one hand and a drink in the other.

“I can’t,” you say, embarrassingly disappointed.
“Why not?” They ask, verbally prodding you deeper into step two; hunger and admittance.

“Because…” you awkwardly look away, but your belly echoes it’s call of hunger, “Because I’m too fat to lean forward and get it from you. Could you feed it to me? My arms are so heavy and it’s so difficult trying to bring food up to my face.” You demonstrate your thick pillowy bicep, just as round and rolley as every other part of your body. Your wrist is nested in your forearm, making any precision movement of the hand just as cumbersome as waddling. Your arm is more of a stump, with your useless fat fingers greedily pawing outward.

Lifting your arm is indeed a workout in itself, each limb weighing a considerable amount, it felt more strenuous than lifting a dumbbell. Your partner looks sly as they place the bag onto your shelf of a belly and split open the paper to reveal several of the promised burger boxes.
They let you take a good long sip of the coke before placing it in the drive’s cup holster.
The coke sloshes down into your stomach, activating a renewed desire to stuff yourself silly.

They move up, leaning into you, with one arm going around the back of your wide neck for support, they bring up the first of the burgers up to your anticipating lips. Double bacon with cheese, you note as you see the multi-patty bun ascend. Without thinking you close your eyes and leave your jaw hanging open, feeling as the buns press up against your lips and the meat slides into your well-trained mouth.

Your big fat arms lay useless and still, your entire body lazily rests while your digestive system works away. Greedily filling your cheeks, noshing away at the first burger, taking a little time to savour the greasy patty before swallowing it down and taking another eager bite. The sauce smears against your lips as loose crumbs tumble down the slopes of your full chest.
The one “issue” with being fed is that your partner is relentless. They know how you eat. Piggishly devouring whatever is put in front of you; and so they do not hold back when it’s their turn to feed you. The food is always pushed right up against your lips, whether it’s dry as a cracker or moist as a cake, you are bombarded with sauces, fillings, crumbs, and run-off. They claim to prefer when you’re not covered in food, and yet they do their utmost to coat you in it.

Tenderly pursing your lips around their finger tips, you revel in the last mouthful of the first burger. They bring your drink up to you, letting you take a good sip to wash down the appetizer. You being to feel as the coke fills your gut with gas - but you keep the belch down, knowing you can do better.
"Another," you say, your eyes still closed as you feel the patties go down, resting in your spacious stomach, joining the amalgamation of meat, lard, and grease that makes up your insane amount of body fat.

You're a mammoth monument to your own consistent gluttony. As another burger is brought up to your welcoming maw, you feel your partner gently caressing your back. Whenever you see a picture of you two together you feel a rush of ecstasy as the size difference is demonstrated; their waist is as wide as your biceps. Your heads combined are smaller than one of your breasts. If they lay down your ass could smother them whole. Despite all this, sometimes it feels impossible to realise how big you've gotten. Your proportions are so ludicrous; your measurements so extortionate; your weight so morbidly substantial that it feels like your less human and more mattress…

"More," you slurry, another burger successfully down the hatch. Your hunger grows ravenously as you envision the feast ahead.

They break up the menu, shifting down in front of you. They peel up your shirt and look at your belly with longing before reaching for the box of nuggets.
"Open wide," they command. More than happy to obey, you tilt your head back once more, awaiting your meal.

"Good piggy," they say, "So well trained. So obedient. Is that nice?" They ask, dipping a nugget in an unhealthy amount of sauce as you wolf down the nugs offered before you. You hum in affirmation, sighing with docile pleasure while you eat. Satisfied hums and needy coos fill the backseat as you begin to properly enjoy this binge.

You finish the box of nuggets and guzzle down another burger, beginning to feel the bloat. But you still have so much room inside, you had a small breakfast and your belly is bigger than your eyes as it greedily moans for more.

As you chow down, your partner watches with delight as your lips begin to stain. Sauce dripping around your gaping mouth, grease soaking into your skin, crumbs gathering in your fat facial creases. You remain mindless to the goings on as you haplessly ask for another helping.

"More," you demand, your cheeks full. "More!" You yell, growing more demanding as your belly fills.

"It's okay, Hippo," your partner says, playfully patronising you. "The food isn't going anywhere, and neither are you," they add, jiggling your moored midsection.

You effortlessly finish burger after burger, guzzling coke and cramming down chips as you go.

"How are you feeling?" They ask, sizing up your belly.

There is only one answer for that; as your gut is churning, grumbles of digestion emanate from within your expanse, a low rumble begins to build…
Packed to the brim, the gas trapped deep within your stomach violently releases, like steam from a boiler. The bubbling coke and the packed carbs joining together in explosive unison as a blast of gas bursts out. Like a drum, your stomach beats out this percussive melody as you belch. It has depth, and as your body refuses to stop, it certainly has length. Rippling eagerly out from the back of your throat and fighting with the acoustics of the van…

As your lips loosely reseal, a sly smirk creeps out in the aftermath of the blast.

"Nine out of Ten," your partner tuts, "I know you can do better. I've heard you do deeper, juicier burps. So close to perfection…"

Your smirk vanishes as they bring forth a helping of chips, burger, and nuggets. You're about to ask for yet another before your gluttonous brain settles back into reality as you realise you've just finished every burger available, every morsel pleasingly pooled into your plentiful piggish physique. Even the chips are depleted as you look sadly over the crumb-covered shelf that situates your chest at the empty paper bags.

With all the fast food resting within your belly, audibly digesting the fattening junk food, you are feeling particularly full, sipping on a chocolate milkshake as your partner slurps on a coke they snuck for themselves. “You’ve done such a good job, hippo. There there,” they say, tenderly patting and rubbing your bloated belly. “Aw, listen to this baby purr;” and purr it does. Gentle you and it coo in unison as you settle across the three carseats, your own hands lightly massage the sides of your whopping, wobbling, belly.

When you shuffled into the van hours ago it felt a little roomy, moving your massive body into the vehicle as you squeezed your ass across the entirety of the back seats. Now, after having had a nap, after eating a meal that could easily have fed six or seven people, the van feels a lot smaller. Your love-handles clamped between either interior wall, your ass squashing the carseats, your belly pressing tightly against the driver’s seat. You are beginning to feel trapped by the van; and at your size, you were a little worried that maybe you won't be able to get out…

Nevertheless, as your partner continues to praise your appetite, the mention that you still have a box of donuts all to yourself stops your worrying in its tracks.
They take a napkin and start to delicately clean you up, wiping sauce and grease away from the creases in your chubby face, your cheeks just as fat and plump as the rest of you - so much so that it has started to affect how you pronounce words. Once perfect diction now sullied by unhealthy distributions of fat. Your chin was particularly prominent. While you did have a double chin, you only had the one extra, a full a rotund reservoir of fat that had long concealed your once-prominent jawline.

“You’re getting softer every day, baby. The more you eat the bigger and softer you get, and it’s so cute - you’re such a cute lil butterball…” They lean back to admire your clean face, smiling as they examine your stuffed expression, panting for air as you let your main course seep into your overladen body. “You still hungry, hippo? We have all these donuts left… you know I don’t like you rolling away without a clean plate, remember?”
They wipe a clean finger over one of the donuts. Gathering icing across their tip, a cool white vanilla with chocolate sprinkles and flecks of sugar; offering the digit for you to take a lick.

You proudly pat the top platform of your belly - the only part you can reach these days due to your massive swollen arms. “I think I’ve still got room,” you say with feigned confidence, breath shallow and words dense as you feel the stuffed state of your tummy.

“Oh I’ve seen you eat more than that… I know you still have room,” they say, dipping another finger against your belly. Their fingertips quickly sink deep into your soft and pliable fat. They take the box of donuts in one hand; resting the underside across their forearm they open the lid to the dozen delicious pastries. “What do you want first, fatty?”

Asking for ‘a surprise,’ they split an evil grin. Stacking a chocolate donut with cream on top of a plain donut with sprinkles, and adding a third donut filled with jam to the top of the pile, they hunch over you and force the three-pastry stack into your bemused but voracious maw.

“Are you looking… to save… time?” You mumble as you scoff down a quarter of your dessert in one mouthful.

“No, I just like seeing you with your mouth packed full of pudding. You’re such an obedient hippo; you can’t even look at food without thinking about eating it. That’s what makes you a perfect fatty…” They lean over and smooch your full, squishy cheek.

Seeing you swallow, they're quick to thrust another donut upon you. The rich, fluffy pastry barely touches the sides as you wolf it down, opening your jaw for another and another and another.

As you feel more and more full, you need to eat faster and faster. Filling your stomach's capacity before it has time to fully communicate to your brain just how stuffed you are.

You belch, letting air out of your churning gut, making sure that your stomach is going to be tight as a drum by the time you're both ready to head back on the road. You are incredibly lucky you don't get car sick.

Still, packed incredibly full, your belly filled like a balloon, you shift in the seats. You can tell your facial expression is growing more and more strained. There is a pain to eating so mucb; but as you always joked: "No pain, no gain." Nevertheless you can't help groaning as your gut crushes your lap. You feel the weight of your chest pinning down your lungs as you deeply breath, passing gas as your body tries to manage the intake you're forcing upon it.

You take another donut. Slowly chewing as you honestly feel you can't eat another bite. You had a safe word if ever you both needed it, but… as your eyes settle on the remaining donut your belly growls. Gluttony.
You say to your partner to bring the box to where you can reach it; your hands greedily diving into the mix. Heavy pillowy arms rock and wobble as you attempt to bend your fat rigid elbows and shove the donuts into your face. With your articulation impaired by your corpulent chassis, you manage to barely twist and turn your body where you can just about nibble on the edge of the donut. All the while, your partner watches intently as your uncontrollable urge to eat battles against the fat prison you've made for yourself. A hilarious and tragic outcome: eating so much that you lose the ability to bring food up to your mouth.

"Aww, does Hippo need someone to help feed their hungry belly?" They say, watching you fight against your fat in attempt to glut yourself even further.
You hear them, but you're relentless. Your forearm pressing against your flabby bicep, pushing down weakly as you narrowly manage to bend your elbow, finally succeeding in shovelling one of the donuts into your fat face - if only by a nose.

"I can… do it," you pant, face growing red as you get sweatier and sweatier from the accidental workout, managing to get another donut crammed into the same mouthful.
"I'm so full," you sob as you continued to eat, only a few donuts left. "I'm stuffed so much but… still… hungry." You're not even teasing as you speak. They're words straight from the heart… or more like the stomach. You can see your partner biting their lip in your peripheral, as they try to hold themselves back from helping you - wanting nothing more than to watch their morbidly obese butterball struggle.

"That's right…" they whisper, dropping one hand to caress your belly. "Eat up. Just eat and eat and never stop."

You can't stop. You're unable to stop. Even as you outgrew your clothes, as your weight and health became more of a risk, as you lost your mobility and your independence, you could never stop eating. You don't want to stop eating; you're a gluttonous fatass. Washing down the last of the chocolate milkshakes

The donuts are all gone. The McDonalds is all gone, all that remains is the potent smell of fast food and your body's loving response to stuffing yourself silly. You lean back - the wedge of fat on the back of your neck stops you from looking up, like a true pig. You feel your gut boiling, a large furnace burning the fattening fuel, the vapours working their way out of your body in loud proud belches - gas passing effortlessly as you pant and whine about the contents of your overcrowded stomach.

Your partner cuddles against your tummy, kneeling down in the footwell. Joyfully they address the state of your belly "Let's wait for your food go down before we start driving, huh hippo? Do you need the bathroom?"

"Fuck off," you mumble, too full to give a playful response, as your hands comfort your bursting doughy sides.

You were stuffed to the brim, and you hadn't even made it a whole day with them yet...