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.
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