Weight Room Title Bar

A Fat Tuesday
(a Day in the Life of a Female Feeder and Friend)
by Makasumo

(Note: Is this weightgain fiction, or a restaurant guide to New Orleans? Both, in a way. The places exist, as do most of the dishes. The story is not autobiographical, but it sure was a lot of fun hitting up these places.)

The alarm went off just before 7:00 am. I was closest to the alarm clock, so I immediately reset it for an hour later. Jerry stirred. I kissed him and told him to snooze, that I'd return in less than an hour, so he should be ready. He smiled and turned his bulk over, drifting back to sleep. Today was a day I had in planning stages for nearly a year. This was the day that Jerry was going to feed himself to the max.

Jerry and I had been an item for nearly two years, and I'd known that he had potential for becoming a BHM (that's Big Handsome Man, for those of you who don't know the lingo of Fat Admiration). During most of our relationship, I'd taken up the reins of making Jerry just that, and his 5'10" frame had gone from a nondescript 180 to a chubby 240 or so. He'd plateaued at 240, and I was bound and determined to push him beyond that point.

Hence this visit to New Orleans, voted "The Fattest City in the United States." I figured that between seeing the local bigfolks and going through the day I had planned for him, his body would have no choice but to enter a gaining spurt.

I got dressed, dashed downstairs to the lobby of our hotel, and took a taxi to the French Market. Asking the cabbie to wait, I went into the Café du Monde to pick up a dozen beignets and two cafés au lait. Beignets are a donut of sorts, and one of New Orleans' official local foods. Deep-fried and loaded with confectioner's sugar, they are a joy to eat and a pleasurable way to fatness.

We returned to the hotel, and I tipped the cabbie well, to ensure his services later that day.


On my return, Jerry was dressed only in wind pants and a lightweight T-shirt. I led him down to the pool and had him get on the scale. A mere 240. Measuring his waist, he came out at 49 inches. "We'll see about that, lover," I said, nibbling his ear. "Let's go back to the room for an eye-opener."


I had Jerry eat five of the dozen, savoring each one, getting each bit of fallen sugar, and I watched, picking at one beignet. I was ravenous myself, but far too involved working on my bellyboy Jerry.

After this preliminary meal, Jerry showered, then returned to dress. Watching his belly shift as he walked, watching his bulk move about, I so wanted to take him right there. It would wait until tonight, though...another part of the plan.

He'd only recently begun shopping at big men's stores, and had exceptional luck finding relatively small clothing for him. He looked great in the long-sleeved dress shirt and dark slacks, all slightly big on him. Hehheh, that wouldn't last long.

"Are those stretch slacks, hon? You're really going to need them." Jerry looked at me oddly. You know, I don't think he thoroughly understood the battle plan for today, even though we discussed it, and he agreed to it. Men! Still, he removed the slacks and put on a pair of loose stretch slacks as requested.

While he changed pants, I called the front desk to arrange cabs for the day's outing. If you've never been to New Orleans, the French Quarter is fairly small and relatively easy walking. I had only one walk in mind for that day, however...muscle mass was the last thing I wanted increased on him.

Breakfast at Brennan's

The cab pulled up to Brennan's, for a breakfast about as far as one can get from Denny's. In fact, a breakfast check for two at Brennan's would probably cover a party of ten at Denny's. One pays for superb service, superb food (and lots of it), and atmosphere.

"Just let me order. Trust me on this."

"Okay, Hon. You're driving today." Jerry sat back and smiled, watching as I chatted with the tuxedoed servers. This would be his ultimate breakfast: Berries in double cream, one of Brennan's legendary andouille sausage and Swiss omelets, and a rousing round of Bananas Foster, all washed down with multiple Mimosas.

I watched, stunned, as Jerry hungrily downed everything before him. I marveled at his enjoyment and lavish effort of tasting every nuance of every bite. He drank far too much water-andouille sausage is quite spicy, after all-but I viewed the water as aiding to stretch his stomach in preparation for the rest of the day.

I wasn't the only one watching intently. Many of the servers stopped by, making small talk, but watching Jerry to see what was up. One waiter leaned over to me and whispered, "Raising some prime beef there, ma'am." He smiled and winked, then disappeared. At first I considered what he said rude, until I realized that the Mimosas were arriving in a pitcher, and a double order of Bananas Foster came from the kitchen for Jerry, where I had ordered but one. The same server stood with our table, watching in fascination as Jerry consumed every bit of the dessert.

Jerry sat for about two minutes after breakfast, apparently unable to see or hear...must have been digesting. The waiter again whispered to me.

"It's okay, honey, he'll come back soon. The others faded out like this."

"Sir, do you usually get-?"

"Gainers and encouragers? Feeders and feedees? Oh yes, ma'am, all the time. That gay couple over there, ma'am, this is their third time here in a week. We've had three other couples, gay and hetero, stop in this week. They come to our fine city to-er, expand their horizons, and Lord knows we enjoy having them."

I walked over to the seated and apparently unconscious Jerry, rubbed his belly gently, and said, "Hon, time to move on."

Jerry groaned and nodded. I was amazed that he could move under his own power, as he staggered out to the waiting cab. Paying the check, and leaving the server an extra-decent tip, we waved goodbye to the staff of Brennan's, and returned to the hotel.

More Beignets

Back in our hotel room, Jerry collapsed on the bed. I watched as his swollen belly jutted out and around. Wow. Pulling his shirttails out of his slacks, I took some lotion and began gently but firmly massaging his belly, loosening up the material for the next part of the feast. While I was down there, I played a bit with his cock, sucking just enough to get him erect, then stopping. He asked for more, but I said, "No...just going to keep you warmed up until tonight. You rest for a bit." He looked mildly disappointed, but a few minutes later I heard gentle snoring coming from the bed.

When he awoke, I was ready for him with three more beignets and some more café au lait. He blinked and smiled, the most recent meal apparently forgotten. Smiling, he went into the beignets with the same relish he'd reserved for the omelet.

He wasn't quite as careful with the sugar this time: His black stretch slacks were stained with confectioner's sugar-a badge worn by many a resident of New Orleans, I'm told. We cleaned him up, and once again, Jerry dozed off, sleeping the undisturbed sleep of the fat and happy for an hour or so.

Lunch at K-Paul's

At 11:30, I woke Jerry from his nap. We again hopped into a conveniently waiting cab, and made our way to K-Paul's, the restaurant owned by Chef Paul Prudhomme. The server sat us at a nice table next to the wall, and we explored the menus. I took great pleasure in noticing that most of the servers at K-Paul's varied in stature from chubby to plump and beyond. I ordered some gumbo, and for Jerry I ordered the oyster loaf and the Jambalaya, as well as lots of sweet, lemony iced tea to wash the hot food down. I again marveled at Jerry's ability to plug away at all this food, when he wasn't accustomed to it. After all, he was eating more andouille sausage at breakfast and lunch than he does in a year.

We again drew a crowd of servers, watching in fascination and appreciation as he ate for all the marbles. As before, a second order-this time, another oyster loaf-mysteriously appeared on the table. Again, I had nothing to do with this extra chow. Having consumed the first loaf and the jambalaya, Jerry stared at the second loaf for a full minute, then proceeded to eat the second, to the cheering of the entire restaurant. Chef Paul himself rode by on his scooter. Shaking my hand, we exchanged pleasantries. He smiled approvingly at Jerry, patting my lover's taut gut as he putted back toward the kitchen, gesturing to our server to follow. She returned with a huge slice of pecan sweet potato pie for Jerry. Handshakes from the servers, a note of greeting from Chef Prudhomme himself (inviting us back any time), and a bill not listing an item or two, followed. We departed, Jerry still able to move under his own power, but clearly slowing down.

Again, we returned to the hotel. Once back in the room, I massaged his huge belly, gave his manhood a good reminder of my existence below with a promise of great things to come, and permitted him an hour's nap before snack time.

Snacks at Johnny Po-Boy's

Time to wake Jerry for the next round of rounding. "Come on, honey...wake up. Snack time."

"Zzzz-huh? Please, Nora, not another round of beignets. Unnhh. So full-" "No beignets this time, I promise."

"But you said snack time. What do you have in mind?"

"You'll see."

Off to the cab. This same cabbie had recommended a great place to eat on St. Louis Street, known as Johnny' Po-Boys. Johnny's serves breakfast, lunch and dinner to the residents of New Orleans, and visitors in-the-know go there as well for good, inexpensive, large meals.

Johnny's was quiet this afternoon. I ordered a large roast beef po-boy (Bayou English for a submarine sandwich) and Johnny's signature hashbrowns for Jerry, as well as a couple of beers. The immense po-boy sat before Jerry, who stared at it as if willing it to go away. I stood, and walked behind my stuffed lover's chair.

"Jerry, honey, remember why we're here?" I rubbed Jerry's shoulders, and gradually worked my way across his slightly flabby chest, down to the object of contention here-his totally full stomach. Gently caressing his belly from behind, I moved to gentle massage to loosen up the taut gut. Closing his eyes and getting into the massage, I could feel his stomach preparing for the next round of food. As I rubbed, I whispered into his ear.

"Come on, honey. We're here to plump you up, aren't we? I want you so big that I can't reach around you to do this...and so do you. Eat for me, Jerry. Become my piggy."

After about five minutes of massage and whispers along that line, Jerry breathed deeply, whispered, "For you - oink," and plunged into the po-boy. It was a stretch for him to eat it--pun intended--but he tore into the sandwich and hashbrowns with a ferocity probably reserved for an animal bulking up for winter hibernation.

Fifteen minutes later, the sandwich, hashbrowns, and one beer had vanished into Jerry. He was now nursing his second beer, and had returned to the trance of the thoroughly stuffed. I'd need to stop in at Brennan's tomorrow and ask that nice server if the trance was a common occurrence. This time, I had to enlist the cabbie's help in getting Jerry into the taxi for the run back to the hotel. Still in a trance of sorts on reaching the hotel room, Jerry gurgled quietly as I undid his pants, and reminded him of the prize awaiting him after dinner. His manhood merrily stood to attention, and Jerry promptly fell asleep, stiff as the proverbial board.

Perhaps I'd overestimated his capacity, but we were going to see this through to the evening.

Dinner at Antoine's

When Jerry awoke, he found a new jacket, tie and dress shirt waiting on the other bed. I had deliberately bought these clothes a couple of sizes larger than he wore at the time. It was tempting to let him pop some buttons, but I decided against it. I guessed that he'd fill them out once dinner was over.

I'd been wet all day watching my lover stuff himself silly, but both of us would wait until after dinner. Jerry finished dressing, and looked great. He'll look just a bit greater soon enough, I mused.

Rather than take the cab out, I suggested that we walk. We wandered a couple of blocks from the hotel, side by side. The locals, who appreciate good food and good times, smiled at me, the beaming FFA, and my chubby escort.

Turning the corner, Jerry whistled as he realized where we were going for dinner: Antoine's. Antoine's is a place revered for its cuisine, and for the fact that it's one of New Orlor

Jerry, the chateaubriand for two. A superb, huge, succulent cut of beef, masterfully cooked. The green pea casserole, baked with ham. A nice bottle of red on the side.

Jerry watched in wonder as the servers swarmed to serve us, and as his dinner appeared on the table. His belly was making less-than-gentle rumbles of protest from far too much, far too quickly. His brain and the rest of him had other plans. He knew that this was the last meal of the day, and that a handsome reward was in sight for all this overindulgence. The swollen belly was overruled, and Jerry went after the chateaubriand as if he hadn't eaten all day.

Again, servers flew by during the meal, refilling the wine glasses, asking how everything was. Two servers winked knowingly at me, which may mean that those servers were appreciative of watching Jerry eat. Or perhaps our reputations preceded us. I guess that word spreads quickly among the locals in New Orleans.

Toward the end of the meal, Jerry sat back in triumph. While we're on the subject of spreading, I was stunned to see how much his belly had expanded over the course of this day. Jerry, feeling the full effects of the day, was massaging his bloated form, attempting to relieve some of the tightness. I was proud of this man, for working so hard to build himself up just for me.

I decided that dessert would be just too much for Jerry, so I started to ask for the check. Jerry himself stopped me, motioned me over to him (he was probably unable to bend), and in my ear he whispered, "B-b-baked Alaska, please."

I had trouble concealing the combined look of shock and pleasure from my face. We ordered the dish, and as we waited, I performed some belly massage to help Jerry prepare for the last dish of the day. A few upscale diners made disapproving noises, but the servers told us not to mind, and even blocked the view of us for a few minutes while I tended to Jerry's well-stuffed frame.

The Baked Alaska arrived. A dish about the size of a toy football, it is one of the Big Easy's most famed desserts. Jerry ate slowly, savoring every bite, and I dipped in for a few forkfuls myself, but concentrated on my man's final course for the day.

The check arrived, I paid, and the servers helped lug Jerry out to the cab for the ride home. Granted, Jerry was having trouble moving under his own power, but I was surprised he could move at all.

The cab ride home was almost uneventful. I whispered words of pride to Jerry, and when he inhaled to sigh at some point, two buttons popped from the dress shirt, ricocheting off the passenger side window. The poor cabbie thought someone was firing pellets at him, until we explained the source of the friendly fire.


Back to the room, where I had Jerry change into the togs he wore during morning weigh-in. He protested, with good reason, but I insisted that we see the fruits of our labors. Sooooo, down to the pool we went. He lumbered onto the scale, which groaned and settled on - 250 pounds!

I was thrilled. Jerry just stared at the scale, not really believing he'd put on ten pounds in a day. I mentioned that it was temporary, but that he'd clearly see some true gain in a few days. We went back to the room, he huffing from walking, I wet with anticipation.

I guessed that Jerry was too tired to be on top tonight, but I did want him to keep associating fullness with erotic pleasure. So, I planned to do some whale riding to - er - round out the evening. You don't need to hear those details, so I'll just end the tale here. I hope you understand. Perhaps we'll see you tomorrow. I've got a few different meals plotted: Mother's, Johnny's (again), Irene's Cuisine...and perhaps we'll see if those Hurricane drinks are fattening at all.