BHM The Sake of Authenticity

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like the pancake
Dec 7, 2019
[Summary: a vain actor with a secret feedee side, who has been fat shaming his peers in the industry in order to maintain his cover, is taught a lesson in body acceptance when his new co-star turns out to be a practiced hypnotist. TWs for hypnotism, mind control, and degrading dirty talk. I'm writing this for a friend in the community who helped me out with a monetary donation so I could buy groceries when the covid-19 lockdown hit. Don't like don't read. Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction and does not reflect the views of the author. Please don't go around turning your colleagues into hypnoslaves.]

The Sake of Authenticity
by stevita


Kurt Casey would say he was having a pleasant week off from filming, even though it was concerning him a bit how out-of-character he was acting.

The previous night, he had gone out to dinner with his co-star, Moira Darling. He never ate late dinners, and he rarely drank, but the successful starlet had gone out of her way to procure a reservation at the poshest steakhouse in Los Angeles as a gesture of friendship now that they were working on the same project, so he thought it best not to be rude by refusing to eat, or refusing the two glasses she poured him from the bottle of Chilean pinot noir she ordered for the table.

Those two glasses of wine had been enough to get Kurt quite tipsy. Actually, more than tipsy. Upon waking in the morning, he barely remembered a word she had said at dinner, though he did recall laughing a lot and having a wonderful time. The steak had been excellent, and Moira was a jovial dining companion. Beautiful, too. Just a little shy of his own 5’10” frame, she had a slim, delicate build that gave way to a prominent, shapely derriere and cleavage for days that had been put on display by the dress she had worn, which draped off her toned shoulders and arms in delicate black chiffon. Her hair was as black as her dress and fell just short of her shoulders in glossy curls that Kurt had fantasized about touching all through dinner. Her pouty lips, seductively upturned brown eyes, and caramel latte complexion seemed to indicate a mixed background, despite the part she was playing in the miniseries they were shooting being originally written for a white actress--shit, if he’d been the casting director, he’d have given her the part, too.

It had been an entrancing evening. They had exchanged numbers, addresses, and even a few movie recommendations. But it was over now, and it was time for him to hit the gym and work off last night’s indulgences. But first he had to do something about this splitting headache.

Rolling out of bed, he grabbed his phone off the nightstand and found he had one new email.
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like the pancake
Dec 7, 2019

I had a great time with you!

Hope you don’t have a hangover in the morning, but if you do, here’s the recipe for my mom’s hangover smoothie that my whole family swears by.

1 frozen banana
1 whole avocado
1 handful raw spinach
2 tbsp cocoa powder
½ c coconut water
Honey to taste
1 LARGE scoop vanilla ice cream

I hope we can have dinner again sometime. Perhaps at my apartment? I’ve been told I’m a fantastic cook.



Well, that was nice of her!

Luckily, he had everything onhand except the ice cream, which he left out, and the honey, but he used liquid stevia in its place. Less calories, anyway. The smoothie was good, and it helped revive him. Well then, off to the gym it was!

Only, he never made it out of his high-rise apartment.

Ten minutes after he cleaned out the blender, he found himself toasting a bagel, which he smothered with some butter that he had impulse-bought earlier in the week when he went to the grocery store on an empty stomach. That had been a mistake.

He usually skipped breakfast, but he was quite hungry. Ordinarily, he found his hunger easy to ignore. After all, sacrifices had to be made to maintain one’s figure. But today it was too insistent, clawing at his insides until he was sure it would drive him nuts. A little fuel before the gym couldn’t hurt, right?

But then it started to rain. Not just rain; pour. It was coming down in sheets, and there was no way he could drive to the gym in this weather, let alone walk. The last thing he wanted to do was catch cold in the middle of a major project.
Maybe this was for the best. He could use the opportunity to study his script some more.

The series, Packingtown, was based on a novel of the same name. Kurt was to play a young Irish immigrant who, after procuring work in the meat packing sector of early 20th century Chicago, becomes smitten with the daughter of a wealthy nearby landlord, played by Moira. Over the course of the series, the immigrant was to fight his way up the chain of command at the plant where he worked, cleverly winning over his superiors and one by one, throwing them under the bus to take their place, to use his accruing power to win the heart of the heiress. But it ends up not being his power that endears her--as his wallet thickens, so does his waistline, and the heiress becomes enamoured with the now junior supervisor for his steadily fattening figure. There were even some scenes where she was going to feed him decadent treats by hand until he was glutted to the point of half-pained groans in the hopes of waking up to more of him to sink her hands into.

The idea turned Kurt on very much. Ever since he could remember, he had fantasized about being stuffed around the clock and growing tremendously fat.

Of course, such a fantasy was simply not practical. He’d been acting his whole life. He’d been in commercials when he was in diapers and in sitcoms since before he had a grasp on arithmetic. The screen was his livelihood, which meant maintaining his figure was imperative to his continued enjoyment of a lavish and comfortable lifestyle. This role was perfect, though, in that CGI would take care of the weight gain post-production, so once editing was all wrapped up, he’d be able to see himself bigger without actually gaining any weight. The series was perfect for the network, too: they were confident that something so bizarre was bound to hook throes of viewers out of morbid curiosity.

It was with a bit of horror that he snapped out of his contemplation and realized he had eaten through over half of a share-size bag of chips (another impulse buy) while curled up on the sofa studying.

When had he started eating those?

He slapped the rest of the bag off of the armrest of the sofa as if it were a cockroach.

He had to lock himself away from the kitchen somehow.

After a bit of pacing around the apartment, he decided to curl up in the bedroom closet and occupy himself with a movie Moira had recommended. He quickly found the movie online on his laptop and shelled out the $1.99 for a download. It was in the same vein as Packingtown, and in fact, he was pretty sure it was based on another book by the same author. It was slower than the miniseries, though, with far too much exposition in the beginning, and overall it was mostly an action movie thick with economic intrigue, although the feedee protagonist (yes, Kurt was familiar with the lingo after lurking for years on weight gain fetish websites) eventually put on quite a few pounds with the help of his adoring lady love. It was alright, Kurt decided, certainly alright. Why so much gunfire, though? There was probably more gunplay than belly play over the course of the film’s 180-minute runtime.

Towards the end credits, something gave him pause. He rewound the movie and examined the last few scenes. This was not a high budget film. Much to the contrary, it had been shot on a camcorder. The actors were probably all film students. How, then, had they been able to afford such flawless CGI?


Was it possible that the lead actor had put on what looked like almost a hundred pounds for real?

The thought made Kurt’s cock jump to attention. Could he possibly…?

No. It was out of the question. Even if he busted his ass to lose the weight after filming, he’d still have stretchmarks to worry about, not to mention his reputation. In the public eye, his secret was kept deep under wraps. So deep, in fact, that he often criticized other celebrities for their weight gain on social media in order to enhance his own cover. How would it look if he walked out into the street bloated with fat? All of Hollywood would laugh at him!

What he needed was to rub one out. That’s what he’d do: he’d find a porn story about some sexy young feederess stuffing her man and jack off into oblivion so he could stop thinking about all this. But before he could do that, the phone rang.


like the pancake
Dec 7, 2019
It was a torrentially rainy day. Moira hadn’t seen rain like this since she lived near the Gulf of Mexico. To her, it was the perfect weather to stay inside and drink.

Plodding to the kitchen in her fluffy pink bathrobe and slippers, she fixed herself a mojito before settling back into bed with her laptop to watch sitcoms.

Her apartment was not glamorous by any means, but the relatively low rent allowed her to keep a hefty sum of cash in savings while supporting her family. Her younger brother had recently come of legal age to serve alcohol, so their mom had decided to train him as a barback with the cruise liner with which she worked as a bartender, but that wouldn’t start until next summer. In the meantime, Moira sent him money so he could live in his own apartment and have privacy with his girlfriend. Mom refused to ever take a dime from her, reasoning that she’d need it for herself if the economy crashed--always prepared for the worst, Mom was. Dad had let her buy him a truck for his 48th, though, after she applied some pressure. He had tried to insist that he had a good job as a chef, and if he wanted something, he’d buy it himself. She had countered that she was an actress, and she refused to take no for an answer, until he finally caved.

While she was watching her shows, sipping her cocktail, and munching on crackers with cheese dip (which she would regret later--recently she had developed an unfortunate intolerance to lactose, but it’s not like she had anywhere to go today), she opened up the banking app on her phone and wired Ventura the money for his rent. Immediately, he called her up to thank her profusely and promise to pay her back once he was working.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times: it won’t be necessary,” she said. “Listen, I’m gonna let you go, I have Carmyn blowing up my phone.” She switched lines to answer the call from her older sister.

“Mercy! Enable video, girl! Let me see your pretty face!”

Moira sighed in irritation, but turned on her camera. “Carmyn, how many times do I have to tell you not to use my real name over the phone?”

“Oh, relax. This line’s encrypted.”

“And what if that encryption fails? You could get me arrested!”

“Fine, Moira,” said Carmyn.

“So, what’s new? You look well-kept.”

Carmyn had always been the curvier of the two sisters, but back in school, though early-developed, she had always been compact and muscular due to being on the girls’ wrestling team. Now, she was looking exceedingly plump. She was lighter-skinned than Moira, giving her round face a moon-like appearance. Like Moira, she was sitting in bed and snacking on call, her treat of choice being a banana creamsicle. Her ass spread out generously against the mattress. Her tits were looking gargantuan these days, threatening to pop out of her too-tight nightie. With her golden brown hair loosely braided to the middle of her back, her lips plump around the ice cream she was practically fellating, she was the wet dream of any admirer of BBWs.

“No thanks to the CEO. He’s been complaining constantly about my weight,” said Carmyn, but rather than put out, she looked excited.

Carmyn was married to one of the richest men in Texas, and miserable for it. He had twisted her arm into the marriage, and ever since she had said ‘I do,’ she had been trying her best to weasel her way out of it. Becoming excessively fat was her latest madcap scheme to get rid of him.

“What are we up to this week?”

“275!” It wasn’t the most impressive number, but you had to take into account that Carmyn wasn’t very tall. On her frame, 275 looked opulently fat.

“Holy shit, you beat out Dad’s record high. Big bet!” said Moira with a congratulatory fist-pump.

“Oh, believe you me, it was no easy feat. I’m having to keep myself stuffed to bursting twenty-five eight just to keep myself from losing any weight. It makes me kind of sad.”

“Sad how?”

“Well, once the CEO finally decides to let me go, I’ll have no reason to do this anymore, and half the weight will probably melt off...but I like it just where it is,” she whined, placing a hand on her belly almost protectively. “It’s tangible proof of my open defiance.”

“So, how long do you figure before the bastard decides to divorce you and leave you be?”

“Actually,” said Carmyn, “I was hoping he’d cheat on me. I might be entitled to more in the divorce settlement that way. That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Supposing, just supposing, that a pretty little skinny-mini with an impeccable set of acting skills were to lure you see where I’m going with this?”

Moira sighed. “I can’t fly down to Texas right now, boo, I’m in the middle of a big shoot. Besides, I kind of...took someone to dinner last night.”

“Really? Girl, spill the tea!”

“You know my co-star, Kurt Casey?”

Carmyn wrinkled her nose. “Eww, that guy who keeps fat-bashing actresses online?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Moira. She, too, had originally pegged Kurt for a selfish, arrogant shitstain. Another empty-headed, vapid, tight-bodied pretty boy. A regular blond-haired, blue-eyed, all-American douchebag, so shallow that if he had been a pothole, the city wouldn’t have even bothered to fix him. But after their conversation over wine last night...let’s just say she knew there was a reason why he’d taken the part in Packingtown.

“I may yet be able to change his mind about a few things.”

Carmyn’s cherubic face took on a worried expression. “Be careful, sis. You know how messy mind control can get.”

“And when have you ever known me to mess up?”

“Sis, you have warrants in seven states.”

“And yet here I am, free as a bird!”

About that time, Moira started to feel the Revenge of Dairy coming on. “Catch you later, sis, I need to take care of something real fast!”

“Oh God, you ate cheese again, didn’t you?”

Once she had, well, handled the situation at hand, she figured it was time to check in on her project. Settling back into bed, she phoned Kurt. The phone rang three times before he picked up.

“Kurt? It’s Moira. I just wanted to see how you were doing. If you responded to my email, I didn’t get it.”

“Sorry Moira. I got sucked into that movie you said I should see. Your smoothie worked like a charm, by the way. It got rid of my headache like magic.”

“Good, good! Oh, what did you think of the movie?”

“It was decent. Say, I wanted to ask you, was there a specific reason why you recommended that movie to me?”

“You just mentioned over dinner that you wanted to know if there were any films or shows similar to Packingtown,” Moira responded, figuring she could get away with a little white lie. If she told Kurt what he had really confessed while under the influence, he might be mortified. “Ooh, do I hear cooking over the line?”

“Just a light dinner. Lean sliced turkey warmed up in a pan with melted cheese and kale pesto that I made a few days ago.”

“So, a sandwich, just without the bread.”

“I guess you could call it that.”

She tsked softly. “You need to come over and let me cook for you. When can we do that?”

“One of these days.”

“Well, it has to be soon, because filming resumes on Monday, and we’ll be back on sixteen hour days or more!”

“How about Sunday, then?”

“Sunday it is! Oh, by the way, finish that wine, it won’t be good on the shelf for long!”

“What wine?”

“Don’t you remember? I sent you home with the rest of the second bottle.”

“Second bottle?”

“Oh, you incredible lightweight! I’m relieved now that I didn’t take you home and take advantage of you!”
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like the pancake
Dec 7, 2019
By the time he got off the phone with Moira, Kurt had finished his meager, carb-free supper, along with most of the wine. He figured he could afford the extra sugar, since he had foregone the bread in his sandwich, and the wine was so delicious, it would be a shame to waste it. At some point he had mindlessly started boiling pasta.

Fuck! Why was he making pasta?

There was no way he could eat this. He had already had many more calories than he usually allowed himself to eat. He could throw it away…

But he did need to use the last of that kale pesto before it spoiled.

So he finished cooking the pasta, rinsed it, and tossed it with the rest of the pesto, which became more of an aioli as he finished the wine and capriciously squirted mayonnaise into the mix (yet another thing he hadn’t meant to buy). Chopped bell peppers, red onions, and capers soon made their way into the zesty, creamy concoction. He portioned the pasta salad into three tupperware containers...but he had to sample his work, right? For quality control.

So he took a bite out of one container (delicious!) and then another bite out of each of the other two, just to even them out.

Before he knew it, he had finished every last piece of penne. He was now far, far beyond his daily calorie allowance, but he was too flushed and giddy with alcohol to care.

With his belly full, a sleepy haze overcame him. He hadn’t felt this satisfied since...well, ever in his life. In lieu of childhood friends, he’d grown up with all manner of agents and advisors, including personal trainers and dieticians who seemed hell bent on conditioning him to accept hunger as the standard. Even while secretly hating it, he complied. But as he settled into bed for the night, he felt himself surrendering to a new and unfamiliar bliss.

He was so thin that the act of finally satisfying his stomach left it rounded out. He rubbed the tiny dome of his full belly, unable to stifle a moan as his stretched, sensitive skin tingled with pleasure. Soon his hand was in his boxers, wrapped around his cock. He imagined it was Moira’s hand.

Moira, rehearsing her lines as she fed him some more.

Surely your appetite for food can match your appetite for power?

Roll on top of me so I can feel how heavy your new station has made you.

Moira’s head bobbing up and down on his cock, her full lips wet, her throat tight as he fisted the thick curls of her black hair.

Moira even turning a little mean, now, fucking his cock raw while stuffing him taut to the point of looking pregnant and in the same breath smacking his near-bursting gut with full force, taunting, ‘Look what you’ve let me do to you, you fucking fatty. Is this what you want? You’re just going to let me feed you until you’re obese, won’t you? Until your fat spills off the sides of the bed, won’t you? It’s not like you can stop me. You’re such a glutton, you can’t even control yourself anymore, can you? I could stop, but you’d just whine and whimper and beg me to keep feeding you, wouldn’t you? Now beg me, my helpless little fatty. Beg me for what you truly desire.’

The last thing he remembered before he passed out was his vision whiting out as he came violently inside his underwear.


like the pancake
Dec 7, 2019

It was over dinner that the CEO brought it up with Carmyn: “My dear, it seems you’ve been, ah, neglecting yourself as of late.”

Neglecting nothing; it had taken her a great amount of effort to gain over a hundred pounds in less than a year’s time. But she couldn’t deny, it felt kind of good. Glutting herself every moment she could manage it...loading up on creamy sauces and decadent milkshakes and starchy entrees that left her so full she was dizzy...rubbing down her swelling rolls of fat with lotion every night...if her husband felt like sleeping in a separate room, which he often did lately, she would sometimes get herself so worked up just feeling up her own fat, squeezing it and luxuriating in its new sensitivity, that she found herself desperately digging in her bedside drawer for her vibrator. Two nights ago, she had fucked herself to a shuddering climax while shoving a heaping spoonful of cake down her throat in bed, and the double-whammy of intensity that came from the orgasm hitting just as the cake arrived at her already overfull stomach, stretching it out just that much more, had her almost screaming in ecstasy. She would have to do that again. Then, last night, she had the bright idea to finger herself while using the vibrator to fuck her deepening belly button. The vibrations this act sent through all of her jiggling flesh coupled with her orgasm created the most exquisite experience she had ever felt.

“Are you upset with me, husband?” she asked across the dining room table, determined not to let it show that she was secretly pleased.

“On the contrary, I feel I must apologize. Clearly, your self-abuse is a result of me not giving you enough attention. That’s why I’ve decided to hire us some help around the house.”

“That sounds perfect!” Indeed, if they had a cute little housemaid to distract him...well, with how repulsed he had been with Carmyn these past several months, it wouldn’t take him long to succumb. And then?

Then the divorce would go through, and she’d stuff her pockets with millions of dollars without having ever done a day of work in her life.


Julian Wadsworth arrived early to his interview at the impressive estate of Bertrand Cunningham, III, resume in hand in case his potential employer didn’t have a copy with him. The fashion mogul greeted him at the door, all smiles. “Come in, my boy, come in! Please, join me in the office.”

Mr. Cunningham cut an impressive figure in a slim-cut suit. Had Julian been less secure in his own appearance, he might have been jealous. But he was good friends with his body.The little bit of extra squish he carried around the middle was simply an emergency reserve of energy, should he find himself fallen on hard times. His previous employer had been quite complimentary about his looks, too. Almost inappropriately so, the keyword being almost. She was old enough to be his mother, and married, but she never made any comments that were offensive, nor did she touch him in a way that was untoward.

He followed Mr. Cunningham into the home office and took the seat the man pulled for him, on the other side of a grand mahogany desk. Cunningham likewise sat down. “I see here you have a Master’s in Psychology from Rice University. Tell me, why have you not sought out work in your field?”

“Oh, I have,” said Julian. “But fresh out of school, it’s difficult to come by clients. Without clients, it’s difficult to come by a job at someone’s practice. And to open up my own practice, it would take rent money for an office space. So I sought out secretarial work. I can type up to 150 words per minute, and my last employer will tell you I have a fantastic manner over the phone.”

“Yes, Mrs. Kingston-Markham has written you a glowing letter of recommendation. So tell me, boy, why do you not still work for her?”

“To be honest, I never really worked for Madam Auralee officially. My family has been employed by the Kingstons for many generations, but I myself simply helped out my father to learn the trade before I left for college. But as my father is not yet retired, Madam Auralee has no need for two attendants.”

“I see. Now, I’m going to go ahead and offer you the position, but there’s something I need you to understand, Mr. Wadsworth. You will be responsible not only for secretarial work, but also for physical labor. I will need you to clean the house, attend to the yard and the pool, and cook meals for myself when I am home, as well as my wife. Accommodations will, of course, be provided.”

“That’s too generous of you, sir! It’s going to be a pleasure working for you!” He shook Mr. Cunningham’s hand vigorously.

“Oh, one other thing,” said Mr. Cunningham. “When attending to my wife, I need you to provide her with healthy meals. Leafy greens, avoid starches, and no white bread if you can manage it.”

“I see. Has she got a sensitivity to gluten?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that she has, shall we say, a weight problem? One that I would like to get under control.”

Damnation. He wished Mr. Cunningham had mentioned that before he hired him.

You see, Julian was a man of few vices. He didn’t smoke, drank in moderation, and didn’t use marijuana. He preferred an intimate dinner gathering to the bustle and noise of the club, he attended church for Christmas and Easter but wasn’t a zealot, he responded to the census, he gave money to the short, he was everything society said a promising young man should be, with one exception.

Ever since his teens, he had had a strong and exclusive preference for very corpulent women.

He just hoped he’d be able to stop himself from ogling the lady of the house.


Sunday rolled around, and Kurt, freshly showered and spritzed with cologne, dressed in the mirror to head to Moira’s. He looked like absolute dog crap and he knew it. He was pale and dehydrated, and even the bags under his eyes had bags.

After his rainy-day binge, he had awoken horrified with himself and practically killed himself at the gym, only to stop at a gas station on the way home and pick up armfuls of junk food for a late-night snacking frenzy. He ate almost mindlessly, and once he snapped out of it, he was so horrified that he forced himself to the ground for hundreds of crunches until it was almost three in the morning. Over the next few days it became a cycle: wake up early, go to the gym, content himself with a single protein bar or a smoothie for each meal, come home, stuff himself, punish himself with more exercise late into the wee hours, rinse and repeat.

He hoped the button-down and tie he wore would be enough to distract Moira when he arrived at her apartment…

And of course they weren’t. As soon as she opened the door, she gave a little gasp. “Are you sick? Kurt, if you need to see a doctor, I have a great one on speed dial. Lemme just get my phone and my pandemic mask!”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. I just haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Oh, alright.” Her shoulders relaxed as she led the way in. “I hope you haven’t been losing sleep over me.”

“Oh, trust me, it takes more than a beautiful woman to keep me awake at night--in fact, you’ve been the subject of one of my only sweet dreams this week.”

“I see they taught flattery as a class in acting school.”

Moira’s apartment was small compared to Kurt’s, but very clean. She had set the kitchen table with candles and a bottle of white wine chilling in a bucket. Moira had decided to wear baggy jeans and a T-shirt under a plain white cooking apron. She had on fuzzy pink house shoes. “Oh, where should I put my--?”

“You can leave your gun on the armoire by the door next to mine,” said Moira.

“--shoes. I was going to say shoes.”

Moira laughed musically. “Of course! After all these years I still forget sometimes that I’m not in Texas anymore. By the door is fine.”

She removed her apron and pulled out a seat for him at the table. Though her pants were roomy, her shirt was tight, and Kurt could see that she wasn’t as thin as she looked in her period-accurate, constricting costumes. Though her arms and shoulders were contoured with solid muscle, her stomach adorably rounded out just the slightest bit. He’d bet it was soft to the touch and very kissable. (Why did that please him all of the sudden? In all his darkest fantasies, it was an impossibly fit young deviant who forced him to eat nearly to bursting point. And there he went again with his feedee daydreams. That was probably the reason he was having so much trouble resisting his post-workout junk food run.)

“So you’re from Texas?” he asked as he sat down.

“Born and raised,” said Moira as she poured wine and set down two Caesar salads. He started in on his plate, avoiding the croutons. He wished she had left the dressing off to the side; his taste buds, however, did not share that sentiment. It was delicious. “Is this dressing homemade?”

“Mhmm. It’s my dad’s recipe.”

“If I recall correctly, you mentioned he was a chef?”

“That’s right, with the premier catering company in Houston!”

“And your mother is a bartender?”

“And a manager, but she prefers to bartend.”

“So, what brings the daughter of two foodservice workers from Texas all the way to Hollywood, apart from sheer talent?”

“Quite a wild series of events, actually,” said Moira. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Well now you have to tell me.”


like the pancake
Dec 7, 2019
“Are you familiar with the Economy Party?”

“I know they’re more of a domestic terrorist organization than a real political party. I know that they use fear tactics to shake people into voting conservative. And I know that the one time they got a candidate on the ballot, some sweat shop mogul, he got removed thanks to some meddling from a hacktivist.”

Moira smirked. “Hacktivist...I like that.”

Kurt’s eyes widened. “You?”

“I was fourteen at the time.”

“What happened after that?”

“The candidate’s son was livid. He tracked me down...he and three of his goons got the jump on me while I was walking home from school. They had me in a warehouse tied to a chair with a gun to my head for hours before my big sister used some tracking software to hone in on my location using my phone signal. And of course, she came strapped, but they had her outgunned…

“But the candidate’s son was instantly taken with her. He decided to let me go if she would cut him a deal.

“Not long after, he and Carmyn were married. But I knew she had only bought me time. So I went on the lam. I made a killing robbing banks. I also racked up warrants in seven states. Then, halfway through Nevada, a talent agent singled me out in a crowd. He said I had a ‘look’ he’d been searching for. I had to change my name, of course, to evade the law, but that’s how I took up acting.”

She seemed so hardened to it all now, but Kurt’s heart broke thinking of a teenage Moira in the captivity of a bunch of brutes, scared for her life.

“And what about you? What got you into acting?” she asked as she refilled her wine glass...and then his. He had been so engrossed in her story, he hadn’t even realized he had finished his wine...or his salad, croutons and all. She cleared the plates dutifully.

“Here, let me help--!”

“No, no, I’ve got this. You just answer my question!”

“I’ve been acting all my life.”

“And your parents? Are they actors, too?”

“Not successful ones.”

“But I’m sure you love them anyway, right?”

“Far from. I sued for emancipation at fifteen and won after it was discovered that they were stealing money from me.” That was all he really wanted to say about his parents.

“That’s too bad. But hey, you would like my parents!”

He flushed. It was only their second date, if he could assume she had more in mind than friendship. But she was already talking about introducing him to her parents! “Is that so?”

“Bet! They’re the nicest folks you’ll ever meet. And they’re even better cooks than me, and I think I’m pretty good!” With that, she set down plates of salmon over pasta in a sauce that looked to be comprised of olive oil and a mixture of lightly charred garlic and herbs. He caught a whiff of lemon, too, and...was that paprika? Blistered cherry tomatoes made the perfect garnish to the beautiful dish. He didn’t know there would be another course. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have scraped that salad plate clean. In the center of the table, Moira placed a basket of rolls. Their lumpy appearance told him she had made them herself, and the smell of them was overwhelming.

He took a few bites of (succulent, mid-rare, fatty) salmon before putting his fork down. “Is it not good?” asked Moira, her eyebrows knitted together with worry. “Dammit! I knew the sauce needed more lemon.”

“It’s not that! Your cooking is fantastic. I just need to watch my intake, if I’m to maintain my figure.”

“Do you?” asked Moira, working through the last quarter of her own plate between sips of wine. “I always eat like this.”


“Well, I try to. I don’t always have the excuse of company to cook this good. In a perfect world, I’d eat a salad course every night, followed by a nice home cooked dinner, some wine, and maybe a small dessert, but sometimes I get lazy on the way home from work and order a double decker burger and fries. Or sometimes I just make myself a couple packs of ramen noodles and a chocolate shake. Once, I ate a whole dozen donuts in a taxi and that was dinner. It’d been a long night of partying and I was stoned as fuck.”

“Jesus! How can you eat all that and stay the same size?” If Kurt ate that much, he’d blow up as big as a house, he was sure of it.

“I suspect it’s because I’m used to getting my fill. Both my parents have had their experiences with poverty. My dad, in particular, knew what it was like to starve. He didn’t want us to go through the same thing. He and my mom made sure that when they had children, they could afford us. And they made sure there was always enough food on the table to satisfy us. So my metabolism got accustomed to me eating whatever I wanted.”

“Great, so my metabolism is probably fucked,” said Kurt. “I’ve been so bad this week, too. If I hadn’t have worked out to the point of exhaustion I’m not sure these pants would have fit. Might have slept better, though.”

“Well, if that’s the case, you aren’t doing your metabolism any favors by losing sleep, either.”

“Fuck me.”

“Oh, honey.” Wait. Honey? Was that just a Texan thing, or was she being sweet with him? “You’ve been putting yourself through a tremendous amount of stress, haven’t you?”

She had finished most of her own plate and was now absentmindedly twirling her fork off to the side. Sleepless as he was, he became fixated on the movement of the tip of the tines as she continued to make little figure-eights in the air. “Do you find this relaxing, me doing this?” she asked.


“Good. Just keep watching the fork, then. Just like that...just like that.” The way she said the words, low and slow with her voice dropped an octave, he could have been making love to her. “You can feel the troubles start to leave your mind, can’t you?”


“Good. As you continue to watch, just keep letting all those pesky little troubles melt right away, okay? Just keep watching, and feeling yourself slipping deeper and deeper into a state of complete relaxation.”


“That’s it, deeper and deeper into blissful peace. Deeper and deeper...not thinking, just breathing, just feeling, nothing but good things…”

Suddenly, Moira snapped her fingers twice. Kurt wasn’t sure how long he had been spaced out, but he felt great now. “You alright, there?”

“Yeah, sorry, I must have lost focus. Terribly rude of me, I apologize.” He hadn't been able to help himself. Her voice was just so soothing.

“Don’t worry about it. You need your Z’s!” She cleared the empty dinner plates while Kurt leaned back in his seat, basking in the warm glow of satiety. “Are you feeling up for dessert?”

“What did you make?” He was pleasantly full, but confident he could make more room.

“Cinnamon bread pudding.”

“I’ve never had bread pudding.”

“What? Well, I’m sorry you’ve been subjected to such a horrible crime!” She came back to the table and set before him a thick slice of something warm and gooey-looking. “But never fear: justice is served!”

As she sat back down with her own plate of dessert, he took a bite, delighted at the dense texture and decadent sweetness. He didn’t think he had ever enjoyed eating anything this much. “Moira, you are amazing!”

She giggled. “Does that mean I can have you over again sometime soon?”

Before she sent him on his way, she said, “I almost forgot! I have some audio files that might help regulate your sleeping schedule. I can email them to you, if you want.”

“Sure, that would be great!”

She walked him to his car and left him with a chaste kiss on the cheek that made his insides do backflips in a way that had nothing to do with all the evening’s scrumptious fare stretching his belly out ever so slightly.
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like the pancake
Dec 7, 2019

Carmyn was surprised to hear that the CEO had hired a male attendant, but this wouldn’t put too much of a wrench in her plans. Now that he was to have more free time on his hands, she could easily insist on him taking her out downtown, where she could parade him in front of tons of fashionable young women. Surely, if she made enough of a slob of herself at some fancy restaurant, he might let his eyes wander to some pretty waitress who might end her shift with his personal cell number scribbled on a receipt in her pocket…

The boy took less than a day moving in his things--apparently, he hadn’t a lot of them--and prepared dinner while she and her husband watched TV, barely speaking. Her face lit up as a commercial aired for her sister’s new show, coming to the network this Fall.

“Something you look forward to watching?” asked the CEO.

She smirked. It astounded her that her husband never caught onto the resemblance between ‘Moira Darling’ and the girl he had held at gunpoint for costing his father a political campaign. What a dumb cad. “Yes, it's based on a book by an author I like. You wouldn’t like it, though. It’s one of those romances.”

Just then, the new manservant (secretary, schmeckretary; if Carmyn was to understand correctly, the CEO was having him clean the pool) rang the dinner bell (how quaint), and Carmyn eagerly headed to the dining room.

When she got there, the new guy was plating two portions of salad, with a pork roast accompanied by steamed vegetables in the center of the table, but she had suddenly become more interested in him than whatever was for dinner.

It had been a long time since they had seen each other, but she still recognized his cute round face. He’d cut his sandy blonde hair short and professional and switched from glasses to contacts, or else had had eye surgery, but despite the changes, it was him alright. “Jules?”

It took him a few seconds, but he eventually placed her name as well. “Carmyn?”

“You two know each other?” asked the CEO as he entered the room.

“Carmyn and I went to the same elementary school, and her mother is a longtime friend of Madam Aura’s, so naturally, we had a lot of play dates,” said Jules.

“Play dates? Is that what you call them? Gosh, I was such a bully!” Carmyn’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Mom and Dad had to put me on the wrestling team just so I wouldn’t have any energy left to beat up other kids!”

“Ah, c’mon, it wasn’t that bad. I think I secretly enjoyed it,” said Jules, pulling out a chair for her.

She sat down, her husband doing the same on the other side of the table, and finally examined the salad. “What do we have here?”

“A summer salad with mixed berries, romaine, and feta cheese, accompanied by a light white wine and garlic vinaigrette. Here, allow me.” Jules drizzled a truly pathetic amount of dressing onto her plate from a ladle. She looked up at him, scowling in disappointment.

“Well if it’s a light dressing, surely you can give me some more?” With that, she took his wrist and literally twisted his arm, forcing him to empty the ladle into her salad. Her husband scowled at her from across the table, but he hadn’t even seen the most scandalous part about the whole thing.

Carmyn’s own considerable girth shielded Jules from her husband’s view from the waist down, but as she glanced behind she saw that her action had caused him to pitch a tent in his slacks.


When she first learned she would be working with Kurt Casey, Moira had been less than pleased, and he hadn’t made a great first impression. He had come to her trailer to introduce himself just as her assistant was bringing her the tomato soup she had requested, and he took it upon himself to yell at the poor boy for neglecting to bring her a spoon. Moira, who had already begun drinking her soup from the rim of the to-go container, insisted to the assistant that it was alright, and to Kurt that the boy was still learning, to which Kurt had replied that ‘the fat little dimwit will never learn if you keep going easy on him.’

So, off the bat, the rumors were true. She had seen it said on social media that Kurt had a nasty habit of harassing people, from stagehands to other celebrities, about their weight, which was ironic, considering the CGI department of the project they were working on was going to be putting upwards of 50 pounds on him post-production. In any case, she didn’t see how she was going to make it through filming without catching an assault charge for smacking him for his sense of entitlement.

So, she decided to do something about it.

Neurolinguistic programming, or, in layman’s terms, ‘brainwashing,’ wasn’t a difficult concept to grasp. She had been using it for years, first in her criminal life, and then in her acting career to wind directors and producers around her fingers.

She started small with Kurt. She built a rapport with him, got him to enjoy her company, opened up about herself while feigning interest in his own dull celebrity life. Then, she started using nonverbal cues--subtle shifts in expression or posture--to modify his behavior. Whenever a heavier person was around the both of them, she conversed warmly with them, barely acknowledging Kurt, to make him want to win back her attention. Whenever he talked about his diet, she would go silent and act disinterested, maybe even a little displeased. Within weeks, she had him mindlessly snacking here and there, and he had been silent on social media regarding anyone else’s physique.

The plan was to fatten him up a bit, just enough that he couldn’t go attacking anyone else about their weight without looking like a hypocrite. Then, at the steakhouse, he had drunkenly confessed to her that he was secretly a wannabe feedee, and that all the nastiness was more or less a cover-up.

Well, that changed the game a little.

Armed with this new piece of information, she went harder. She tranced him. While he was under, she commanded him to forget his worries about his weight and not allow them to interfere with his enjoyment of food. Her trance was such that he would have no memory of the time he was under once she woke him up, but her suggestions would stick.

She sent him the audio files: binaural beats designed to relax him and open his mind up to suggestibility, with her voice recorded under the rhythmic hum, barely audible, feeding him instructions to let go, surrender to gluttony, food and fat are good and the fatter you get, the sexier you’ll feel…

He already enjoyed the fantasy of gaining weight. She knew if she gave him a push, in no time at all he would be enjoying the reality. He’d blow right up like an air mattress.

And if he ever came after anyone again, the media would crucify him.

Trouble was, she was actually starting to enjoy spending time with him.

A week after filming had resumed, she offered to pick Kurt up, as his apartment was on her way to the set. When he got in her car, the box of donuts she had sitting on the dashboard did not escape his notice. She had already eaten two of them; by the time they pulled up at the studio, the other ten were gone.

As they walked onto the set, the director met them halfway, walking with quick strides. “I have a problem.”

Leila Richards was not the sort of woman you wanted to cross, and right now, she seemed cross, but Moira was confident she could diffuse the situation. She’d done it before. “I might have a solution.”

“This is concerning Mr. Casey,” said Leila, before rounding on him. “I spoke to the costume department and they said you’ve had to have everything resized? The network isn’t going to like this. You know how they hate spending money. And who do you think they’re going to come down on?” She jabbed a thumb into her own chest.

“Isn’t the character supposed to be gaining weight, anyway?” Moira interjected.

“That’s what CGI is for!”

“Well,” Moira proposed, “what if we didn’t need CGI? I know what kind of negotiator you are, Leila. If you put it across as your idea, I bet you’d be able to talk them into a bonus for all of us.”

Leila was seeing dollar signs, and that was all it took for her to pull out her phone right then and there.

“Hello, Jimmy? Yeah. Yeah, I talked to costuming. Listen,, it’s all part of the plan! Me and the cast have an idea that’s gonna save you a buttload of money. Uh huh...uh huh...see? You already know where this is going! Alright, lemme find out.” She placed a hand over the receiver and looked up at Kurt. “What do the numbers look like, honey?”


“How much do you weigh?” Moira clarified.

He flushed. “145...up from 130.”

Leila repeated the numbers into the phone and covered the receiver again. “The network exec wants you to commit to another 50 pounds.”

Kurt looked excited and scared at the same time. 50 was a big number. But then Moira squeezed his hand and he said, “I’ll do it!”

Once filming had wrapped up for the day, Moira walked Kurt back to her car so she could drop him off. “ you’re really gonna do it, huh?”

“I am. Yeah, I am. But, uh, Moira...there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”


“If I’m gonna do this, I think I might like to have some help.”

She feigned a look of surprise. “You want me to be your feeder?”

“ know the lingo?”


like the pancake
Dec 7, 2019
“You forget, I grew up working class. We all know the lingo. In my neighborhood, it was more normal to be a feeder or a feedee than not to be.” Probably because of what a struggle it could be to keep food on the table. Being a little thicker meant you could afford to eat good, and feed your partner well in turn. Moira had figured that much out by the time she was eleven, just watching her parents use food to show each other affection. Carmyn had learned when Mom and Dad gave her ‘the talk,’ and Ventura...that poor weirdo. One day when he was seven, he hobbled into their parents room, having mummified himself from head to toe in electrical tape, to ask them if there was any more tape he could borrow, only to walk in on them doing something erotic involving a whole key lime pie.

“It’s really started picking up prevalence in the mid-2040s. I think the pandemic had something to do with it. Having to watch your friends wither and die, that changes you as a generation. I know you probably didn’t feel it up in your ivory tower, but we did, down below. Kind of shit makes you remember why it’s important to take care of one another. I’ve never actually been a feeder before...but I think I’d be good at it!”

“So, you’ll do it?” asked Kurt.

She popped open the car door for him and said, “Let’s hurry up and get going before the grocery store closes.”


If Kurt had any hesitations left about gaining weight, Moira all but blowtorched them into oblivion, just as she blowtorched the creme brulee intended for him after the latest big dinner she’d prepared him after filming: a double-bone-in porkchop, wrapped in bacon, with a huge serving of mashed potatoes and vegetables drenched in garlic butter. As she worked, she read over the back of the label on the family-size bag of chips he had plowed through while she was cooking. “Wow,” she said, “if my math is right, by the time you’re done with dessert you’ll be at over 10,000 calories for the day.”

“Hey, new record!” he noted, watching her from behind while she put the finishing touches on dessert.

“And you remember what tomorrow is, right?”

Three weeks into the start of their arrangement, they had fallen into a routine: Moira usually picked Kurt up for work, with some sort of sugary breakfast in the car along with a calorie-packed coffee drink. If they couldn’t take lunch at work, he’d take advantage of the eating scenes on set and just wouldn’t use a spit bucket like the rest of the cast. Sometimes he’d find himself messing up on purpose, or else Moira would, just so they would have to do another take. It was an efficient way to get stuffed on the company dime.

If she didn’t have anything to do after work, she’d come over and fix him a decadent dinner with a fattening snack in the meantime, and on Wednesday mornings, it was weigh-in day. Last week, he had weighed in at 155 and taped up at 32 around the waist, which he supposed still sounded pretty thin to the common man, but he’d worn 28s before, and they had had room. He was a little ahead of schedule, as his metabolism wasn’t accustomed to eating half this much, but he knew it would get harder to approach his network-mandated goal of 195 by the end of the season the longer he was at it, so he and Moira both figured it was never too soon to start pushing himself.

She was dusting powdered sugar on top of the creme brulee when suddenly she let out a surprised, “Ooh!”

Kurt realized too late that he had accidentally poked her in the back with the tip of his erection. “Sorry!”

“Hey, it’s ok,” said Moira. “Food can be very erotic. I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to pop a stiffy.”

It hadn’t; this was just the first time she had noticed.

Still embarrassed, he retreated to the couch, but she was close behind him with the finished creme brulee and a spoon. “Now eat,” she said, handing them to him.

He managed about half the dish before it set in just how unbearably full he was. “Oof, I don’t know if I can do this,” he said, one hand on his belly, which domed out tight as a drum from how packed full of food it was.

“Come on, you’re not going to get to 195 by giving up,” Moira said sternly. She sat down next to him and started massaging his abused stomach, first with one hand, then both, rubbing in circles on either side to help ease the pressure inside. Unexpectedly, he let out a deep belch.


“Stop apologizing for everything. It’s gonna happen when you eat this much,” she said. “Now let me help you. Only a few more bites to go.”

She took the dish from him and started spoon-feeding him. He moaned involuntarily, feeling each bite force his stomach to expand against his hands. He was surprised his pants hadn’t burst yet, they were cutting so deep into him. He was in pain, for sure, but with the pain came a sort of masochistic glee at being stuffed like in his wildest fantasies.

“There, see, all done!” said Moira. She placed the dish on the coffee table and returned to rubbing his belly. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m about to explode, but it’s good,” he said.

“Yes, you like it, don’t you?” she egged him on. “You can’t wait for all this food to turn into soft, warm, lovely fat, can you?”

“Oh god, Moira.” He had managed to stifle his boner from before, but now, it was back with a vengeance.

“You did so good today,” she said. “In fact, I think you deserve a reward. You know...we still have to rehearse for those naked scenes.”

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