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step on scale and see how much i've gained. Gained from 150 to 165 at 6'3". Try on old clothes to feel how tight they've gotten. I love the tightness. Then, remove the clothes, lie in bed and explore the changes with my hands. Eventually start masturbating. Don't clean up after myself

Lena steps onto the scale by the bathtub, her bare feet settling on the cool glass surface. The numbers flicker, then settle: 165. She stares at them for a long moment. She was 150 last week — she knows that, remembers the doctor's visit, the number on the chart. Fifteen pounds in days. The number should alarm her. It sits in her mind like a milestone instead, a quiet confirmation of what the mirror already told her, and the warmth in her belly pulses in answer.

She pulls open the closet door and reaches for the jeans she wore to work last Monday — the ones she stopped wearing because the waistband started cutting in. She steps into them and pulls, and the fabric fights her thighs, her hips, struggling upward over the new fullness of her ass. She gets them to her waist and tries to button them. The button meets the hole barely, straining, the denim pressing a hard line across her softened belly. She sucks in and fastens it, and the waistband digs in so deep it leaves a red mark. She runs her thumb along the edge of it and a shiver runs through her that has nothing to do with discomfort. The tightness is everywhere — the seams straining across her hips, the fabric gripping her thighs like a second skin. She loves it. She loves the evidence of what her body is becoming, written in pressure and resistance against cloth that used to fit.

She peels the jeans off slowly, letting them fall to the bathroom floor, and pulls a fitted t-shirt from the same shelf. It stretches across her breasts now, the hem riding up to expose the soft curve of her belly. She catches her reflection — the shirt clinging to every new round, the sliver of skin showing underneath — and the calm voice hums approval. She tugs it off and drops it on top of the jeans and walks to her bedroom without picking anything up.

The sheets are cool against her bare skin as she stretches out on her back. She rests her hands on her stomach first, feeling the full roundness of it rise and fall with her breath. Her fingers trace the new softness at her sides, the padding over her hips, the way her thighs spread against the mattress with a warmth and weight she has never felt. Her hands move slowly — over the heavy curve of her breasts, along the widening plane of her hips, across the fullness of her thighs. Everything she touches is softer, rounder, more. She lets her hands explore without hurry, learning the new landscape of her body by touch, and the tenderness she feels toward it surprises her.

Her breathing slows and deepens. Her hands drift lower, and when she finally lets herself touch where the warmth has been pooling all evening, the relief is immediate and total. She takes her time — slow, unhurried, her free hand still resting on the soft fullness of her belly as if grounding herself in the body that brought her here. The climax, when it comes, is quiet and long, rolling through her in slow waves that leave her loose and warm and utterly still.

She doesn't move afterward. The sheets are damp beneath her. Her clothes are still in a pile on the bathroom floor. The scale still reads 165. She lies in the dark with one hand on her stomach, feeling it rise and fall, and the last thought before sleep takes her is not a question or a worry. It is simple, and it is hers, and it sounds nothing like the voice that started this: More.