Midnight Cakes

Is it even possible to eat that much?

To earn some extra money, you sign up for the Midnight Cakes program. Every night for one full year, you have to eat an entire sheetcake. If you skip even one day, you lose everything you’ve earned.

Your boyfriend has no idea you did this. Now he’s stuck as your feeder, ensuring that you finish 365 cakes. He’s not into it at first, but as you grow, he starts to go a little overboard. Maybe you can handle more than one a night. Maybe you can speed up your progress with some of Midnight Cakes’ other services.

And maybe, just maybe, he’ll join you.

Charlie Gyrth’s Midnight Cakes is an erotic novella about the joys and dangers of feeding. You’re the main character, and this year, you’re going to see some big changes.

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Here's a short excerpt from the seventh month of your boyfriend's gaining journey...

You sit on two chairs, one for each shapeless cheek, and slide your pudgy finger across the frosting. You suck it off, but the actual eating won’t start until I’m ready.

“Sorry,” I say. For months, I’ve gotten used to waiting for you to heft your fat body around, and now the tables are turned. You’re the fast one, and I’m holding you back.

You laugh. “Ready, little guy?”

You know I am.

I watch you spread out your arms and press the two cakes together into one messy pile. You give me a wink and then slam your face into the mess. You’ve never eaten this way before.

Like a pig at a trough.

The splatter.

The noises.

The… everything!

This is the most joyful display I’ve ever seen. I want to crouch under the table, dig through your rolls, and pleasure your little nub.

But that would mean missing the show.

Plus, I have zero energy for all that digging. And your apron has gotten dangerously heavy. I could get crushed down there. Suffocated.

And you don’t need any encouragement from me anymore. The act of eating is all it takes to get you going, and my mouth would be more of a distraction than anything.

So I just stand there as you bury your face in your goodies, let out your piggish snorts, and take in huge chunks at a superhuman pace.

You’re superhuman now. Bigger than any human I’ve ever seen but with the energy and stamina of an elite athlete.

I press my palms against the table to steady myself. I’m close enough for globs to pelt my face. I’ve never been happier.

Ten minutes later, you’re finished. This is the messiest you’ve ever been. A full quarter of your feast is scattered on the table, on your gasping face, on your gut, on me.

You look adorable, though since Midnight Cakes is paying you to eat everything, all this mess seems like a bit of a cheat. Now you need my help.

I grab a towel from the counter, scoop up the remnants from the table until they’re a lumpy mass, and help you eat it off the towel. Just pour it in.

Ten seconds.

Then you use your hands to wipe your face clean (more or less) and eat those bits, too.

“Nice,” you say proudly. You’re still full of energy. “Did you like my new… style?”

“Uh huh,” I say.

You think for a second. You’re clearly not ready to go back to bed. We have more cakes in the fridge. Do you want to keep going? You’ve only had two.

I wait for directions. You look at me, then at the fridge. You lick your lips.

But instead of asking for more, you slam your hands against the table and push yourself to your feet. Effortlessly. Hundreds of pounds of loose fat hang off you, and you move with total grace.

Well, not total grace. Your thighs slosh against each other and your hanging rolls act like they’re at war with each other (a bouncing little war) every time you move. But otherwise… You’re graceful.

You stroll toward me seductively. You grip your apron and flop it up and down (also seductively). Then, before I can react, you pin me against the wall, flatten me with your heft, and kiss me.

“Let’s dance,” you whisper.