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.
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