Why I Get Fatter – And Why It Turns Me On So Damn Much

 

There’s something I need to say — and I’m saying it without shame, without filters.

Because this part of me? It’s real. It’s deep. And it’s intense.

Getting fat turns me on.

Not just a little. Not just sometimes.

It’s something that lives under my skin. That moves with me. That builds with every bite I take.

 

This isn’t just a kink.

It’s not a passing curiosity or some fantasy I dip into.

It’s my life. My goal.

And yes — my pleasure.

 

Even as a kid, I felt a strange kind of thrill about being soft.

I didn’t understand it back then. I just knew: having fat on me felt right.

It made me feel warm, grounded, safe — and, somehow, alive.

Years later, I realized what it actually was:

Desire.

A deep, visceral craving to feel more, to be more.

To carry more.

 

When I started gaining again, everything changed.

Each kilo wasn’t just mass — it was a new layer of satisfaction.

The way my belly began to hang. The way it pressed into my lap when I sat.

How my shirts rode up and exposed that soft undercurve.

God, I loved that. I still do.

And not in some abstract, aesthetic way.

No — it gets to me. Physically.

It arouses me.

 

I love watching myself grow.

I love the pressure in my clothes.

I love how my belly bounces slightly when I move, or how I can grab handfuls of it now.

The feeling of my thighs rubbing together with every step —

the sound, the resistance, the weight —

it drives me wild.

 

I get off on the idea of taking up more space.

Of becoming too much for seats.

Too wide for doors.

Too heavy for scales.

 

I crave stretchmarks like trophies.

I want them bold, raw, splitting across my skin like proof that my body is giving in to growth.

They’re not flaws — they’re the sexiest thing I can imagine.

Every line a record of indulgence.

Every streak a whispered “yes” from my body, begging for more.

 

My chest is rounding out.

My belly has begun to sag lower and lower.

My face is softening, filling, thickening.

Even my breathing is heavier now, and yes, I love that too.

Because every breath reminds me: I’m getting bigger.

And it turns me on.

 

There’s nothing fake about this.

No roleplay. No performance.

Just the raw, messy, beautiful reality of feeding a craving that most people will never understand —

but I do.

I feel it in my skin. In my cock. In my chest. In my smile.

 

When I see new dimples in my sides, when I feel my gut jiggle after a big meal,

when my underwear cuts in because my hips have widened —

that’s bliss.

 

And no, I don’t need anyone else to validate this.

I don’t need people to say “you look good” or “wow, that’s hot.”

I know it is.

Because I feel it in the way I get hard just from seeing myself grow.

Because my own reflection makes me moan sometimes.

 

One day, I’ll be so big that standing takes effort.

Maybe walking will slow down. Maybe stairs will be a challenge.

Maybe I’ll need help — not because I’m weak, but because I’ll be so gloriously massive.

And I’ll still want more.

Because I want to feel my body stretch, swell, strain.

I want to know what it’s like to live in a body that screams “I’ve given in — and I love it.”

 

This is my journey.

This is my kink.

This is my truth.

And every pound I gain, every bite I take, every tight breath I draw in —

is pleasure.

 

Not just physical.

Not just erotic.

But deep, satisfying, filthy, beautiful pleasure.

 

So yeah — I’m getting fatter.

On purpose.

With pride.

With hunger.

With need.

 

And I won’t stop.