Becoming Aaron 5/20: Trials in Texture

Aaron had a drawer now—not just the old sock one from his childhood, but a new one. Deeper. Organized.

Inside were folded boxer briefs, trimmed foam shapes, smooth fabric linings, and even a few makeshift molds he’d crafted out of polymer clay and silicone. His experiments had taken on a new seriousness. This wasn’t just a phase or a game anymore. It was becoming craft.

And Aaron wanted realism.

It wasn’t enough for his bulge to look present—it had to feel right too. It had to move, sit, and shift with the natural weight of his body, never giving itself away as something false. He didn’t want cartoonish exaggeration. He wanted the quiet believability of someone who simply happened to look that way.

His first real breakthrough came with materials.

After trial and error with stiff foam and shifting socks, he discovered that memory foam—cut thin and curved—could mimic softness while holding shape. He’d slice it into a crescent, layer it between two snug pairs of boxer briefs, and shape the sides so they blended naturally into his hips. At the base, he added a soft ridge, carefully sewn into a cotton lining, which added subtle structure where the bulge met his thighs.

Next came weight.

The bulge had to hang. Not heavily, but with the gentle pull of gravity. He began testing with small fabric pouches filled with gel beads, rice, or silicone pellets. Each had its pros and cons.

• Rice was lightweight and natural-feeling but absorbed sweat quickly.

• Silicone beads had a great drape but tended to shift around too much without stitching.

• Gel packs, wrapped in fabric, gave a shockingly real feeling—but only for short wears, as the gel would warm to body temperature and become too squishy.

Eventually, he settled on a hybrid: a layered pad with a firm foam core and a weighted base filled with silicone pellets. It pressed forward just right when he stood, and settled downward when he sat.

But comfort was a whole other beast.

The first time he wore it for more than an hour, walking around his room and even stepping out for a short stroll to the corner store, he came home sticky. Sweat pooled at the waistband and inner thighs, and his skin felt chafed where the edges rubbed raw. Worse, the bulge had shifted slightly—tilted just enough that it would’ve looked odd if anyone had really looked.

So he adapted again.

He lined the underside of his bulge pad with moisture-wicking fabric—cut from an old gym shirt. He reinforced the inner thigh edges with soft foam tape, stitched in so they wouldn't dig. He even installed a thin Velcro system inside a pair of his favorite briefs to keep the pad in place.

Soon, he could wear it for hours.

He paced. He sat. He bent forward. The curve held. The base compressed subtly against his thighs and bounced back. He checked himself constantly in mirrors and reflections—in car windows, shop fronts, even polished elevator doors. It was there. Not obvious. Just real.

Then came the moment he hadn’t dared dream of before.

He wore it to school.

It started with a grey jogger day. Comfortable, casual. He dressed carefully that morning—foam core, bead weight, snug boxer-briefs layered for stability. He picked a hoodie just loose enough to keep things from looking cocky, but not baggy. He looked in the mirror, took a breath, and walked out the door.

No one said a thing.

And that was exactly what he wanted.

It wasn’t about being noticed—it was about not being questioned. He moved through the day with a quiet satisfaction. He sat in class. He joined his friends for lunch. He walked across the gym floor. All with this subtle curve in place. It wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t about deception. It was about embodiment.

Aaron didn’t want to change who he was. He wanted to become more fully who he felt like inside.

And with every improvement, every adjustment, his body felt more like home.

The materials got better. The fits got smoother. The weight got just right.

And though no one ever said a word, Aaron walked a little taller.

He wasn’t just crafting a bulge.

He was crafting presence.

Bercoming Aaron 4/20: A Different Kind of Curve

 Puberty didn’t hit Aaron all at once. It arrived in waves—some soft, some jarring.

It started with a simple observation. One gym class, standing in line for stretches, he noticed the boy in front of him. Grey sweatpants. Loose shirt. But there it was: a subtle outline, a fullness beneath the waistband that curved forward with no effort at all. It wasn’t exaggerated. Just there. Natural.

Aaron blinked.

He wasn’t quite sure why he couldn’t look away. It wasn’t sexual, not exactly—not yet. It was something else. A kind of magnetism. Confidence, maybe. Or ownership. That boy wasn’t doing anything special, just existing—but his body took up space in a way that made Aaron feel… uncertain of his own.

He found himself glancing more often. In locker rooms. On the soccer field. Even in the hallways. There were some boys—older ones, mostly—who didn’t try to hide their bulges. In fact, it almost seemed like they wanted them to show. They wore their sweatpants low, shirts tight, boxers hiked just enough to frame what they had.

Aaron, by contrast, had started slouching. Pulling his hoodie down. Sitting with crossed legs. He didn’t know what he was trying to hide—but he knew he didn’t measure up.

At home, in the safety of his room, the mirror returned as a quiet confidant.

He stood in front of it in just his underwear, examining the flatness between his legs. Sometimes, when he adjusted himself just right, there was a small bulge. But it wasn’t like the others. It didn’t stand out. It didn’t push forward with pride.

So he began to experiment.

First, he folded a washcloth and slipped it into his briefs. Just a little thickness, enough to give him shape. He tugged on a pair of joggers and stood in front of the mirror. It was subtle, but different. He turned, checking every angle. There—something about the silhouette made his heart beat faster. Not because it looked real yet, but because it looked better.

He tried other methods. Socks, rolled tight. A pair of briefs worn over another. An old swim cup, though it felt stiff and wrong. He stuffed a pair of underwear with soft foam one night, but it shifted too much when he walked. Still, he kept refining.

Soon, he discovered that the best results came from layering boxer briefs over something shaped—not just bulk, but something with a defined curve. He carved foam from an old kneepad, smoothing it with sandpaper. The result: a gentle mound that sloped just like what he’d seen on the confident boys. He slipped it inside a double pair of underwear and stood again before the mirror.

There it was. A curve. His curve.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t obscene. But it was his design, and it felt right.

Over time, he wore it more often. At first only at night, walking around his room, admiring the way his pants sat lower now, the way his shirt draped over the bulge naturally. Eventually, he wore it during the day, especially on weekends, especially when no one was home. It gave him a strange kind of bravery, even if no one else saw.

But with regular wear came new sensations.

The padding, especially in summer, made him sweat. The heat would collect between his thighs and at the waistband. If the foam wasn’t breathable, it would get clammy fast. Once, he wore the same piece for two days in a row, and the smell startled him—musky, sour, real. It reminded him that padding had consequences. His underwear absorbed some of it, his inner thighs rubbed slightly raw where seams pressed too hard.

He began adapting again. He lined his padding with breathable fabric. Sometimes he’d air it out between uses. He grew aware of how much movement changed how things looked and felt. A good bulge couldn’t just sit—it had to move with him.

He tested it walking around the block, hoodie on, pants low. No one gave him a second glance. But he felt taller. Sharper. Visible.

For the first time, the confidence didn’t come from hiding. It came from adding. From building a body that better matched the version he saw in his head.

It was a different kind of curve than the belly he’d once worshipped. But it still felt familiar.

It still felt like his.

Becoming Aaron 3/20: Growing Out of It?

 There was a time when Aaron thought maybe he’d just grow out of it.

By the time he turned twelve, things began to shift. Not just in his body, though that was part of it. His limbs stretched longer. His voice started catching in his throat, teetering between boyish and something deeper. His friends at school talked more about sports, jokes that were somehow both loud and secretive, and girls—though none of them quite knew what they meant by it.

And Aaron? He still thought about softness.

But not as often.

Not because the urge was gone, but because it had gotten harder to make space for it. There were more expectations now: to change quickly in locker rooms, to be present at sleepovers, to be cool and casual. There wasn’t time to build a belly out of towels after school—not when he had math homework, and his parents asked him to “be more active,” and everything felt like it was speeding up.

He sometimes caught himself staring at the drawer, the one that still held all his padding pieces. He didn’t open it for weeks at a time. Sometimes months. And when he finally did, it was with a mix of longing and something that almost resembled shame. Why did it still matter so much?

One afternoon, while cleaning his room, he pulled out the drawer and stared at its contents. It all looked so childish now—wrinkled T-shirts, stretched-out pillowcases. He picked up a balled hoodie and held it to his chest, breathing in the faint scent of fabric softener and time. For a moment, he pressed it under his shirt again, just like he used to.

The mirror reflected someone different now.

Taller. Narrower. More angular. He turned sideways, seeing the makeshift belly bulge awkwardly. It didn’t look like it used to. Not as seamless. Not as easy to pretend. It hit him then—not with sadness, exactly, but with a kind of uncertainty: Do I still want this?

For a while, he didn’t know.

He tried to move on. He played more video games. He started skateboarding. He tried to laugh when other kids made jokes about weight or bodies. He focused on school. He got through the year without touching the drawer again.

But it never really went away.

Sometimes in class, he’d glance at the boys who walked with that natural confidence. The ones who didn’t try to hide their bodies. Some of them had rounder stomachs, but they didn’t seem to care. Others were tall and lean, but wore their clothes in a way that made them look filled out—full. There was something in the way they carried themselves that made Aaron ache, like they knew who they were, and it showed.

He didn’t want to stop being soft inside. But he didn’t yet know how to keep that part of himself while the rest of the world demanded he grow up.

So, for a while, he floated.

In between.

Not quite padded. Not quite free.

Just a boy with a full drawer and an emptier chest, waiting for something—he didn’t know what.

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Becoming Aaron 2/20: Hidden Habits

Aaron didn’t know the word for it, but he knew how it felt. That warm, slightly weighted feeling around his middle. That cozy tightness between his waistband and shirt hem. The way the padding settled against him like a gentle hug, like his body was more complete when something soft filled the space.

As he grew a little older—nine, ten, eleven—his need for secrecy deepened. The first few times were playful. He’d pad up quickly after school, giggling to himself in the mirror before changing back and pretending nothing had happened. But now, those moments started to feel more serious, almost ritualistic.

He developed a routine.

He’d wait until the house was quiet. Sometimes after dinner, sometimes on lazy weekends when his parents were napping. He’d go to his room, close the door carefully—never slamming it—and double check that no one was walking by in the hallway. Then he’d open his special drawer. It wasn’t labeled, and it didn’t look important. But inside, beneath a mess of socks and old birthday cards, he kept his collection: small towels, an old hoodie rolled tight, some crumpled T-shirts with just the right thickness, and a few mismatched pillowcases for layering.

Padding became a quiet craft. It wasn’t just stuffing anything under his shirt—it was art. Aaron experimented with combinations: how many towels made a good belly curve without making his shirt bulge too tightly; whether rolling the sleeves of a sweatshirt gave a better slope; how to anchor the stuffing so it didn’t shift when he walked. He became meticulous, smoothing out lumps and adjusting elastic waistbands to sit just right beneath the faux belly.

He didn’t need anyone to know. That wasn’t the point.

What mattered was the moment he stood in front of the mirror. There, he could breathe deeper. His reflection looked like someone solid, someone who took up space. It was calming. When he padded his belly, it quieted the fluttery, restless feelings he couldn’t quite name.

Sometimes, he’d pace the room slowly, belly swaying with each step, shirt stretched just slightly over the padding. He imagined being older, maybe a grown-up who wore his size with pride. A man who didn’t try to hide his belly—who liked that it bounced when he walked.

But for now, it had to remain hidden.

If someone knocked, his heart would lurch. In an instant, he’d strip the padding away, shove it back into the drawer, and yank on a loose hoodie. The risk was part of the thrill. But mostly, it was about preservation—keeping that part of himself safe.

Because he didn’t know yet if it was allowed. If boys could want to be softer, rounder. If it was okay to feel comfort in something so physical and unusual.

So he kept it private.

But he never stopped. Not for long.

Even on days when life distracted him—homework, sports, video games—his mind would wander. He’d feel the absence in his core, the hollow flatness of his body, and wish for that quiet padding once again.

And late at night, when the world had gone to sleep and the air felt still, Aaron would sometimes lie awake imagining it: the shape of his belly rising beneath the blanket, the gentle pressure around his waistband, and the weight of a secret that somehow made him feel more real. 

Becoming Aaron 1/20: The Soft Secret

It started with a pillow. Not the kind meant for sleep, but one he snuck off the couch when no one was watching. Aaron was barely seven, maybe eight. The memory is hazy, not marked by any major event—just an ordinary afternoon where the urge to feel big bubbled up from somewhere wordless and deep.

He brought the pillow into his bedroom, shut the door quietly, and locked it. That was part of the thrill: the secrecy, the privacy. He pulled off his shirt and slid the pillow under it, letting it sit snug against his belly. It looked silly at first—square and awkward—but once he held the corners down with his arms and shifted his hips forward just a little, something inside him clicked.

The weight. The curve. The shape that pushed his shirt forward.

He stared at himself in the mirror, squinting, tilting his head. The lump under his shirt didn’t look like a real belly—not yet—but it was close enough to awaken something tender and electric in his chest. He began experimenting. He folded towels, layered socks, even stuffed plush toys under his clothes, searching for that perfect dome-like swell that made him feel bigger, softer, somehow important.

Sometimes he would waddle around the room, imagining he was a heavyset uncle, a character in a cartoon, or just a version of himself who took up more space. His imagination wrapped around the idea of being soft and full—not fat exactly, not unhealthy, but confidently large. Comfortably big. When he sat down, the padded belly would press against his thighs, and that sensation—of contact, of fullness—sent shivers through his body.

But he never talked about it.

He instinctively knew this was a secret joy, something to be kept private. It wasn’t shame, not exactly. Just… something the world wouldn’t understand. So he became careful. He’d check the hallway before closing his door. He’d hide his padding materials in a backpack, buried under old toys. He developed a ritual: undressing, padding up, admiring himself in the mirror, then carefully returning everything as if nothing had happened.

Sometimes, after a particularly satisfying “session,” he’d lie back on his bed with the padding still on, both hands resting on his stuffed belly. He imagined what it would feel like if it were real. Would people treat him differently? Would they smile more, laugh at his jokes, offer him more food?

The thoughts drifted like clouds—never quite solid, never quite gone.

Years would pass before Aaron truly understood what those early moments meant. But even then, even in childhood, he knew one thing for certain:

Something about feeling big made him feel right.