Chapter Text
“That’s great— sit up a little higher so everyone can see how big you look right now.”
You did as you were told; sat up high on your knees, and pushed your belly out as far as it would go. You weren’t used to looking or feeling quite this way; it was awkward, and slightly embarrassing. You knew, however, that you would be well-compensated for your efforts... and besides that, the man pointing the camera at you happened to be very easy on your eyes. Tall, fit, and blonde; with broad shoulders and a very handsome face, it was not too challenging to focus on him, as opposed to how ridiculously full you felt right now.
“Like this?” you asked, to which he responded by snapping a few more photos of you and your protruding stomach.
“Exactly like that,” he grinned once the camera stopped clicking. “You’re a fucking natural, you know that?”
You sank down heavily, then, onto the mattress. You were in a hotel room— a nice one, graciously— and the man taking pictures of you right now was a self-described fetish photographer whose primary source of income was generated through the production and distribution of weight gain-themed pornography.
You were here simply because you’d answered an ad online in the hope of making some extra cash.
“I didn’t expect this to be so... ah!” You’d moved the wrong way, and you were so full, it seemed, that doing so had caused you pain. You repositioned yourself on the bed; sat with your legs straight out in front of you, because you were beyond the point of caring about the way you looked right now. (Anyhow, somebody must have found your current state attractive: Again, you were being paid generously for this evening’s performance.)
You really had thought that this would be easier than it actually was.
“It’s alright; you were fantastic,” the photographer said, as he set down his camera and approached you, perching on the edge of the bed. It was a very big bed, and it matched the room in that it was both comfortable and fancy. The entire hotel was quite fancy, really; you supposed that meant the income generated from the kinds of photos this man liked to take was anything but meagre. "Anyway," he added, "you’ll get used to it— you are coming back to do this again, aren’t you?”
You looked at the empty box of doughnuts sitting next to you on the bed. You had finished each and every one of the dozen he’d presented you, and a full two litres of the richest, heaviest cream you’d ever consumed on top of that. They hadn't been coffee-shop doughnuts; in fact, they'd been a lot nicer than those: Each of them had seemed to be its own miniature work of art, with an exquisite variety of toppings and fillings. Opening the box had been a pleasant surprise; they'd been so pretty that you almost hadn't wanted to ruin their aesthetic by eating any of them.
You had eaten all of them, though... and until you'd started to feel altogether too full, to do so had been a treat. By now, however, you were so stuffed that you barely recognized your own body. You couldn't stop yourself from wondering what you might end up looking like if you made a habit out of this.
Shifting your gaze from the box, you peered down at yourself instead— you were wearing a silky, lace-trimmed black bra and panties to match, but otherwise you had completely disrobed. Aside from being smeared with custard and chocolate, your stomach seemed enormous to you. You’d never in your life eaten as much food all at once as you had in the past hour or so, and you were quite unused to any part of you looking so swollen. Everything felt so tight... and you weren't sure just how you were going to get the stains from the doughnut toppings out of what you were still wearing. You raised a hand, touched your belly gingerly, and were astonished by how taut, round, and sensitive it was.
“I don’t know,” you told him, in response to his invitation to come and do this again. “I’ve never— I mean, this is—”
“It’s beautiful,” he finished for you, and as he scooted closer to you on the bed; reached out with his own hand to rub your desperately overfilled, stretched-out little gut. “This is okay, isn’t it?” he asked kindly, even though he’d already started.
You groaned; you couldn’t help it. Anyway, the warmth of his palm atop your bulging midsection was satisfying; helpful— the little circles he was rubbing into you with his hand really did make you feel better, seeming to lessen the discomfort of being so very full. “It’s fine,” you said, and you let your eyes start to close. You began to feel almost as if you were going to fall asleep.
“Lie back,” the photographer told you, as if on cue.
“Huh? Oh— ‘Anakin’, was it?” You remembered his name because it was unique, like he seemed to be. He nodded in confirmation as you fought to open your eyes back up wide. He really was lovely, you thought, as you told him in spite of his appearance, “I don’t think I should lie down.” You didn’t— whatever he looked like, you’d only known him in person for an hour. What you should have been doing right then was thanking him, and getting dressed again to go home.
...Would your clothes even fit, though, if you tried to put them back on?
“It’s okay if you don’t want to stay," he said, “but you also don’t exactly look ready to leave.” He finished with another grin, and a shrug that you could only have described as charming.
You didn’t say anything to that; just looked between Anakin and your own bloated body.
”Anyway,” he continued suggestively in response to your silence, “I can pay you a little bit more if you let me film my hand rubbing your belly for a little while. People like to see the... well, the ‘aftermath’ of these shoots, if you know what I mean.”
You did know what he meant, because you were living it right now. What you didn’t understand was why anyone would ever pay to watch it (not, you supposed, that it really mattered whether you ‘understood’ or not). You contemplated his offer— you’d already stripped to your underwear for him and allowed him to document the process of you eating yourself into what felt like near-oblivion. Sitting atop a hotel bed for him, you had groaned wantonly as you tried with all of your might to finish what he’d put in front of you. As he'd photographed the endeavour, he had not been shy about telling you what a good girl you were; how proud of you he was for being able to eat so much all at once (you loved the way he spoke, and his voice, too, even if you hadn't said so). After all of that, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to let him film himself rubbing you for a little while, would it?
You hadn’t expected to be touched, no— but, you also hadn’t expected Anakin to be so attractive, or for his attention to feel so good after what you’d just forced your stomach to endure.
“...Alright,” you agreed, not without some trepidation. “Just don’t try anything weird, okay?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he assured you, perhaps not realizing the irony inherent in his own statement— his entire profession was weird, as far as you were concerned. Still, although you were wary, you didn’t outright distrust him; not necessarily.
Outside of... well, this, he seemed as if he might just be a fairly decent person.
...Or maybe he was just pretty. It was difficult to tell right now, and— surprisingly— even more difficult to care. You’d never been packed so outrageously full of sugar, fat, and dough before; hadn't realized the effect this was going to have on you prior to beginning to do it. Before you could say anything else, though, he’d already retrieved his camera, adjusted its settings, and placed it back down on a nearby table so that he could capture his hand’s enjoyment of your belly.
“You really are good at this,” he reiterated as he settled beside you once more and started to rub.
“Thanks,” you said simply, and followed his previous instruction to recline on the mattress. You couldn’t believe how far your stomach stuck up into the air; if you didn’t know better, you’d have thought you were pregnant. He seemed to marvel at it too as he began to let his fingers trail over the drum-tight skin around your bellybutton. That made you moan.
”Perfect,” he purred. “Just perfect.”
After that, he trained his attention entirely on your midsection: He stuck his index finger in your bellybutton and wiggled it around, patted you gently where you were most round, and traced lines all over your skin. He seemed to be enjoying himself very much, and in spite of your initial anxiety, you had to admit that so were you. Again, you didn't say a word about it, but you could even feel yourself beginning to throb between your legs. You were certain that if you were to reach down to check, you'd find yourself getting slick, and wet. By the time he took his hand away and moved to shut off the camera, you were moaning and writhing as though this were something in which you took pleasure often. Your eyes opened when you felt his weight come off of the bed.
“See?” he asked, looking down at you admiringly. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“...No,” you admitted, pressing your thighs together. “It wasn’t.”
“I’ll make sure to stick a few extra bills in that envelope of yours before you go,” he assured you. “I know this is hard work, and I’m not about to underpay you for it.”
That made you laugh, but you couldn’t seem to muster any more words. Despite your fresh arousal, you felt your eyes start to close yet again.
“Do you need to rest for a while?” he asked gently, already knowing that the answer to his question was a firm ‘yes’. “It’s alright; I’ll leave you alone for now. It takes a bit of time to put these shoots together, anyway— I’ll just be over at the desk, working on making you a star.” He grinned again when he finished telling you that; through your half-open lids, you realized that you liked his smile a lot.
“Okay,” you murmured, absentmindedly poking your own stomach at the same time as you began to slip into unconsciousness.
Before you did, you heard him say, “Consider what I said about coming back to do this again sometime. It’s like I told you— you’re a fucking natural.” He sounded genuinely impressed.
Those admiring words were the last ones you heard from him before you fell fast asleep, and he went off to edit and share the content you’d helped him to create. Maybe, you thought, coming back once or twice for some more cash (and another belly-rub from your disarmingly enrapturing photographer) wouldn’t be so bad...
...As long, of course, as he didn’t try to get you to take things altogether too far.