Stuffies

All my life I’ve hated the idea of finding love on websites because I was afraid of branding myself as being socially inept. When I thought of looking for a girl/boy using a dating service I was faced with two images in my mind: that of a unwashed geek who spent five hours wanking in his basement hiding behind a computer screen or those dumpy conservative couples on eHarmony. I didn’t drag myself up from being a virginal high-school bookworm with no fashion sense just to be shoved right back into that closet, I vowed.

Then I discovered I had a fetish.

As feederism, Myspace porn, BBWs, BHMs, and the hidden uses of Mentos and Diet Coke all exploded into my consciousness I realized I was spending at least as much time on my computer in the dead of night as that stereotypical geek. I also realized two things simultaneously: (1) this wasn’t going to “just go away” and (2) it’s almost impossible to tell a stuffer boy by looking at him. Unless I found a bar where the patrons regularly competed by drinking gallons of beer or started frequenting the completive eating circuit my chances of meeting one would be few. With a sigh of relief I realized my time spent on the internet was a forced necessity, not an acknowledgment of my own insecurities, and I set about trying to find out if there even was such a thing even as my friends wondered why they never saw me any more after school.

As Violet Blue says in her podcast about fetishes, finding a fellow fetishist on the internet is “hit and miss”. Once I got over the sweaty palms and chair-rubbing reactions of simply being on such websites (hey, for a virgin feeder girl it doesn’t take much), I discovered their flaws: they are uniformly ugly and they all seem to be populated by men that are at least fifteen years older than I am, a native of India whose spelling and seduction techniques didn’t get far beyond fifth grade. “Ah”, said some of my college friends, “it’s the same level of people you meet in real life.”

Intellectual snobbery aside, it is sometimes quite difficult to find someone who shares your same tastes in bloating and stuffing as well as your level of vocabulary. As I tried to condense the essence of my desires into an easy to read paragraph that still allowed for those lovers I’d never imagined to slip through the loopholes, I reflected that this was why eHarmony’s elaborate screening process had been invented, never mind their inherent homophobia. I was wandering in the back alleys of the internet where transactions were shady and boys sometimes threw bottles to get your attention.

At the same time I posted this story in the forums, simply because I liked the idea that the most-read stories ended up on the front page of the website after the readers had voted for their favorites.

Without even knowing it, I had done the right thing. Before I posted “Water Bottles” I was having to comb my way through the archives looking for someone who might be what I wanted; after it appeared on the front page boys started messaging me. Even after it had disappeared into the archives I received e-mails from boys that were intelligent, articulate, and grammatically correct, saying that they’d always wanted to do that, that they wanted me to help them start stuffing or they looked like Mister Six or knew people that were like Rufus. I had stumbled on one of the truths of writing that happened way back when things were still written on paper: good writing calls out to good writers, and they will respond.

So this is my advice to people who are just starting dating on the internet: if you have a specific thing you want to do, a life-long fantasy, or are even looking for a specific body type, lock the bedroom door, get out a little lube, and spin a bit of smut. My dirty story in which I’d written out my main fantasy had attracted more like-minded people than my short “personality profile” or even my photographs ever did. For whatever reason, a little tale with characters gets deeper to the heart of most people and crosses more barriers than filling out pages of “likes” and “dislikes”. And, If you are at all good at writing (and most readers of sex blogs tend to be), people who also value the written word will be drawn to you: the creative geeky stuffer boys, in my case, who can make me melt with a well-written e-mail or whose wit can stand up to my own.

In this way, I realized, I was carrying out a fact of writing that was happening even when words were only written on paper. Anias Nin, who was sadly born too late for sex blogging and whose juicy private journals were published after her death, wrote to a friend that when one puts oneself out in wiritng, others will come bringing gifts. Among writers who are still alive, Jefferson is an excellent example of the power of smut to find you the kinky literate partner that you would never look twice at in real life. He meets women almost entirely through his blog, which details his exploits with sometimes dozens of men and women in a week. It would be easy to simply write him off as as a user, but the reason women seek him out is because his writing makes you trust him. He tells stories against himself as well as his experiences hosting the Bukakke Social Club, and his blog archives (going back three years) are so detailed that after reading them you feel you could walk through his apartment with your eyes shut. In being so explicit about so many things, from his relationship to his children to giving a woman her first orgasm, you forget you have never actually met him. You can fake a persona, of course, and there is always the danger that someone writing about him/herself will leave out their most glaring flaws, but I remain awed by the depth to which you can glimpse another human being’s mental world in such simple things as a choice of word or how they construct a sentence.

It’s so intimate talking to someone whose read my stuffer stories and really paid attention to them. If we haven’t met in real life before this, I can have the exquisite feeing of a partner having read my mind, coming to me already filled with the knowledge of what turns me on. Writing honestly is making your mind naked to another. In the act of writing, you have already taken the first step towards intimacy, opening yourself to anyone who’s listening.

MOLLY: have you always liked girls this way?

BERLIOZ: Well I really started noticing it in high school…..but I actually remember having fantasies about big women years and years ago when I was younger

MOLLY: so you knew right away

BERLIOZ: Basically I think I did

MOLLY: Took me a while to figure it out. stufferboys are a lot less visible than chubby chicks

BERLIOZ: Very true, lol

MOLLY: always had dreams about skinny guys drinking milk until their tummies bulged, though

BERLIOZ: Oh I’ve done that before

MOLLY: *happy daydream*

BERLIOZ: Really?

MOLLY: Can’t help it

BERLIOZ: lol….well I can do a half gallon easily…then it gets fun

MOLLY: fun how?

BERLIOZ: Because thats when my belly really starts getting hard of course

MOLLY: ooh

MOLLY: ahh

BERLIOZ: In your day dream, whats your favorite part may I ask?

MOLLY: I think you just mentioned it…

MOLLY: I also like the idea of just milk, for some reason
it’s such a sensual thing to drink

BERLIOZ: Very true
Thats actually the first thing I bloated with
I would go to my store on campus back at college and buy half gallons of whole milk and quarter gallons of chocolate milk…
It’s an awesome feeling. All nice and tight…..feeling a small skinny tummy get bigger and bigger…it’s quite intense…
What are you thinking about right now may I ask

MOLLY: stuffer boys!
drinking chocolate milk!

BERLIOZ: Like me?

MOLLY: you might be in there somewhere

MOLLY:deep in the chocolate milk guzzling orgy

BERLIOZ: Is it coming out of garden hoses into all of our mouths

MOLLY: it is now

In a nonstalgic moment I took down my big book of Surrealist porn from the top shelf and flipped through it. So many old and wonderful things in here: Man Ray’s photo of Barbette Dressing, Max Ernst’s erotic collages and The Story of the Eye.

The book also has crazy wide margins. I used to write in it, like a journal:

All the signs are there: the scattered clothes, shed in luxurious heaps to the floor; the shed jewelry making tantalyzing tips as it loops, thrown down… the smell of aloe cream, rum [cake] & lavender…



The desire is there, at times so strong that in anticipation I will shed all these things and then turn to the bed, faintly surprised there is nobody.

In the mornings Mister Six usually got up before her. The bedroom had two large doors that opened straight outside onto the patio, and thus to the pool—he often went out first thing in the morning, just as he was, to swim a few laps. Rihanna, waking a little later, would see him come up out of the pool and dash the water from his skin, glowing pink from the exertion and the shock of the cold. A few days after the first stuffing she woke up to see him standing in the doorway, squeezing the water from his hair.

“Christ,” he said, “I’m hungry!”

She laughed. “You’re usually not hungry in the morning.”

“I know,” he said.

“Your stomach stretched,” she said. “Means you’ll have to eat more.”

“I can believe that,” he said, but she wasn’t sure from his tone how he felt about it. During the days after that first, amazing stuffing he had eaten like a normal person—but still, for him, quite a lot. Nevertheless they hadn’t yet tried to burst his gut again, just gotten him regularly full. However, he seemed a lot easier with eating in general, and she sensed that he had been enjoying himself.

He was still standing there, thinking, so she went to get a towel from the bathroom. He smiled as she knelt to dry his legs, lingering over his tight ass and kissing him on the most sensitive area of skin, right where his legs joined his body. His skin, still damp, grew warm with the sudden rush of blood, and he leaned down to kiss her hard on the mouth, biting her lower lip.

Suddenly his stomach growled, startling them both. She laughed and caressed his empty belly. “Well,” she said, “let’s see what we can do to fix this.”

She fed him with gentle fingers from a big box of doughnuts, and he managed to drink about half a gallon of milk. When they were finished his tummy was fatter than before, but he seemed no more used to it than he had been the first time: he held his swollen tummy with both hands, rucking up the front of his shirt, as if constantly amazed at himself. Laughing a little, he told her that he wasn’t sure what they had done to him, and didn’t know if they shouldn’t feed him again, just so he could finally figure it out.

“That was just breakfast,” said Rihanna. ” You’ll get used to it soon enough: there’s still lunch, and dinner, and snacks…:

“Oh no,” he begged, leaning up against her as if the weight of his belly was exhausting him, “please Rihanna, no more today—I’ve never been this stuffed in my life before, and now you want me to do it twice in one day!”

“We’ll see,” she said, stroking his round tight belly—he belched, but tried to smother it into a more decorous hiccup. She was fairly sure if she waited long enough he would do it all over: he had discovered that he loved eating too much to pass up another chance at it. His utter gluttony shocked her, it was such a contrast to how she thought he had been, but it was also satisfying to her as she watched him fill himself up when he had been too skinny before: his tummy had already begun to relax and stretch out into the tight swell that she had been wanting. In a week or two he would begin to lose his face’s hollowness, she was sure, and at least partially fill up the gaps in his ribs.

At five-o-clock they did it all over again. He said he hadn’t meant to, but what she gave him was so delicious that he couldn’t help himself. Now his belly was bigger than ever, and he lay on the bed reading and smoking—only, though, as an excuse to look busy. After a little, when he thought she wasn’t watching, he rolled away from the book and ran his hand down his waistcoat in a long, slow stroke, moaning quietly to himself with one arm over his eyes.

She got in bed with him and nuzzled him, startling him out of his introspection. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

He took a long drag on his cigarette.

“I really can’t describe it,” he said. His white hand, against the dark purple of his straining waistcoat, caressed his belly in long slow strokes.

“Does it hurt?”

“Oh, no,” he said, levering himself up on the pillows a little, so as to be at least nominally sitting up. “Quite the opposite, it’s just…” He couldn’t think of the word and glanced involuntarily down at his solid, well-rounded belly.

“Stuffed,” she said.

“If you insist on using such an unromantic term for it,” he said, and blew a smoke ring at her.

“But do you like it?”

He looked up at the ceiling, smoking, but then he started to grin. “Yes,” he said. He stroked the swell of his tummy from where it began to where it ended just above his dick, and rested his hand there. “I like it very much.”

“That’s good,” she said, snuggling into his shoulder. Then she began to slowly undo his buttons.

“Oh no!” he said, pushing her away roughly, “no, no, no, I’m too fat for that—I’ll burst—”

She straddled him gently and continued to undo his shirt and pants over his protests. The skin on his belly had stretched out until it was as tight as a drum, heavy and round, but she was very gentle as she ran her tongue down it. He didn’t made a sound, but lay with his head to the side, breathing at the same time fast and very deeply…she would have thought he was merely indulging her until she realized his hips were straining upwards where they were trapped under hers.

Rihanna was awoken by a familiar, satisfied sigh.

Slowly, her body reminded her of where she was….her hair brushing her bare shoulders and back..wonderfully cool sheets against her bare skin…a hotel. She could feel a warm side pressed up against hers, and she grinned, pretending to still be asleep. When she was with Mister Six, there was no point in rushing things.

After a little while he stirred and stretched, rolling over. She heard it as he pushed the covers aside, careful not to wake her, and got out of bed. She opened her eyes just a bit, looking through her long lashes.

Mister Six was standing in front of the full-length mirror, caressing his rounded belly. Just in the few days they had been here, his belly had been filled to bursting and relaxed so many times that it had bloated out a couple more inches, swelling out of his slender, sharp hips. It was perfectly smooth, tight, and round, and had a small navel unhidden by softness. He caressed it, pressing on it gently where it began to swell out of his body, and rubbed its fullest part with a satisfied grin.

He looked quite different than when they had first met—he had been so skinny that Rihanna had been able to count the outline of each rib, and had often teased him about it. He had always had high cheekbones, large nipples, and a lovely round ass—his rump, Rihanna said, used to be the only part of him that stuck out. She had the idea that he had been unhappy before he had met her, and had neglected to eat or to swim simply because he did not care. He was famous for gunning his cars at breakneck speeds along the most dangerous roads like a stunt driver, and had once broken a rib and a collarbone in a bar fight that he had gotten mixed up in for no other reason than a kind of morbid curiosity. But then she had begun to soften him up, feeding him cake and champagne (and sometimes cheap fast food) until it was all he could do to rest his heavy stomach against her side and his head on her breast, belching contentedly and sighing with the Pleasure that filled him to bursting. He loved for her to massage his tight, swollen stomach more than anything: it was the pressure, they decided, the just-on-the-point-of-bursting, but never doing so, that made it so wonderful, his skin growing supersensitive as it stretched. She loved it too, and liked it best when he mounted her from behind, so that she could feel his stomach pressing against her back.

Now, several months later, he was nicely filled out, with hardly a rib to be seen…and he also had a lovely back and chest and nicely muscled arms, honed by hours and hours of work in between their weekly stuffings. His hips were sharp and narrow, his thighs strong and slightly rounded, like a woman’s. His had lost none of his grace and his face no longer had the tight look of near-emaciation but was still delicate, keeping his high cheekbones. His eyes were a strange, flat blue, often shining with wickedness and now sleepy with satisfied hunger and lust.

He turned in the mirror, caressing his belly and looking at it from the sides and the front. Then his eyes wandered to the side table where there were four water bottles laid out, put there by the maid. She shut her eyes as he came over to get them, heard him take off their plastic tops and start drinking. He opened her eyes again to see his smooth belly right on her eye level, growing bigger and bigger, rounder and rounder, with each heavy gulp. After three bottles he gave a big belch and rubbed his expanding tummy, sitting back down on the bed so he could lean back against her legs, then started on the last one.

She decided to “wake up” then. “Started without me?” she asked, pushing down the comforter to look at him with teasing eyes.

“Not really,” he said, swallowing and smiling. “Just water.”

“Just a bottle or two,” she said, sitting up and revealing her large, full breasts. “Stand up,” she said, and she pulled him closer until she could squeeze his hips between her plump thighs, adorned with wrinkled thigh-high stockings. He gave one her breasts and upward flip with his hand, smiling down at her tangled hair.

“Drink that,” she said, for he had forgotten the water bottle he still had in his hand. He chugged it obediently as she caressed the fullest part of his stomach in slow circles, and when he looked like he might have to stop pushed the end of the bottle up, making him finish it. He gasped when he was through, held his breath for a second, then belched again, looking quite pleased with himself. She fond herself squeezing him tighter, pressing an ear against his lightly distended belly so that she could listen to the tickings and purring of his insides. He laughed, rumpling her hair.

“You know what I could do to make it bigger?” he said, “I could get a bicycle pump, and put the tube up my ass, and—”

“Mister Six!” She took her head away. “That’s disgusting!”

“You think so?” he said, pushing out his gut and running a fingertip from his navel to his collarbones. She saw by the wicked look in his eyes that he was having fun pulling her chain. “Of course it’s disgusting—all sex is disgusting.” He rubbed the curve of his pushed-out belly. “But it’s fun and you like it, so who cares?” He pressed her down on the bed, kissing her breasts and tonguing her nipples and gently tickling her chubby sides.

“You’re a liar—YOU like it too,” she said.

“I do very much. But I think you’d like it if I was even fatter.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe I could work out like crazy until I was too thin and then we could start all over again, hmm?” He nuzzled her, then pressed his tight, sloshing stomach up against her so that she could feel the gathering heat lower down.

“Or you could just drink more water,” she said, rubbing his smooth side.

“That’s a thought,” he said, gently humping her through his clothes and the sheet.

“Or Coke and Mentos.”

The thought made him stop humping her. In the sudden silence she heard his tummy gurgle. “I can’t decide whether that would be awesome…or if it would make me actually explode.”

“It might,” she said, running a hand down the curve of his gut. “But then again, you’ve gotten pretty expandable. In fact,” she said, pressing on his swelling tummy so that he moaned a little, “I think we could fill you up with a lot more.”

“Mmm…You think so?”

“You might even be a little hungry.”

“A little bit.”

“Just a little?” She twisted his nipples, pinching his stomach just above the navel. “I think a lot.”

“Starving,” he agreed, his pupils large with the pleasure-pain.

“What would you like?”

* * *

Rhianna was always the one that stuffed him. She was the one who had gotten him to start, and was the one who decided how much he was eating and when she was going to let him stop. Outside of that, Mister Six always took the lead. He gave her the money for the pizza with very specific instructions, and she knew he wouldn’t brook any contradiction.

The boy with the pizza broke into a big grin when she opened the door to hand him the money. And his jaw nearly dropped when she opened the door the rest of the way to take the box from him. He looked hardly old enough to have seen many naked women before, and especially not one so generously endowed.

She could tell he was pleased with her by the way that he looked at her when she came back. He was lying on his side, and she set the box next to him. Both of them were growing excited, and she knew that this was one of the times when he was going to challenge himself. He pushed down the waistband of his briefs and jeans a little bit in preparation for his belly to expand, but didn’t undo the buttons and the zipper. Then, grinning at her, he took the first bite.

* * *

An hour later he had gorged himself until his stomach was ready to burst. He had devoured four slices within minutes, then a couple more, beginning to slow down and feel full. By then his stomach, already bloated by the water, was beginning to stick out quite a bit, and she massaged it, rubbing hard the way he liked. Then she coaxed him into eating two more…and, after a rest of twenty minutes, the very last. The box was empty, the entire pizza stuffed into his jutting stomach. He was laying on his back, trying to ease the pressure, when Rhianna poked him in the belly and told him that she wanted him to drink a few sodas.

Mister Six groaned happily. He ran his palms down his swelling sides and passed them over the front of his proud belly, which was starting to rumble in protest at having so much food crammed inside it. This was as stuffed as he’d ever been, and one could almost hear his skin straining across his enormous meal. “Nope,” he said, grinning, “tummy’s full.”

“Are you sure?” she said, and ran her hand over his belly, caressing it from nipples to its fullest part, then rubbing it in smooth circles. He shut his eyes with pleasure, and she slipped her fingers inside his briefs, gently arranging his penis so the tip peaked out of the top of his underwear. “If you drink them like I ask—” she began, and finished by kissing him on the very end of his dick, closing her pouting lips about the head and sucking.

He drank them very fast, punching a hole in the bottom of each and finishing them off in a matter of seconds. It was called shotgunning, he told her, and since the contents went straight from the can to his stomach the carbonation should make his stomach bulge out even more. It also made him burp, and she giggled when he started hiccuping. This annoyed him so that he crushed the last can in one hand and pressed her face down into his swollen tummy with the other, making her unzip his jeans with her teeth. “Oh,” he said, when she had at last undone the straining buttons, “oh.” He was so full he had difficulty breathing, and lay over on his side with his pants undone, his huge stomach curving out above the waistband of his briefs. The enormous weight of his swollen gut made him helpless, sprawled across the rumpled bed in his skinny black jeans, and his drugged look, pale skin, delicate wrists and mussed hair was so evocative that she said without thinking, “You look like a Versache model.”

He rolled his eyes at her, rubbing his huge, hard, tight belly, and gave an enormous, satisfied belch. “A binge-drinking Versache model.” She spooned up against his back, pillowing his head on one of her rounded arms. He moaned, and she wrapped her other arm around his heavy belly, trying to support it as it rumbled and growled.

“I’m so full,” he complained.

She snorted and gently slapped his tummy, making him hiccup. “You think?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so stuffed in my entire life before,” he said. “Never. My stomach’s throbbing…”

“Aww,” she said. She kissed him on the back of the neck, and suddenly realized that he was smiling. “What are you grinning about?” she asked, nipping him gently. “You look like you’ve swallowed a beach ball—you’re ready to explode!”

“Mmm,” he said. He painfully turned himself in her arms, his belly sloshing. He kissed her, snuggled his face into her shoulder, and gave a silly little hiccup, putting one of her hands on the curve of his stomach to make her caress him. In a little while he was asleep.

She laughed at him. As he drifted off to sleep she kissed him on the eyelids, on the nipples and the tight, tight skin of his belly. “Glutton,” she said.