“Monday’s child is bulked with beef,

Tuesday’s child is full of sweets,

Wednesday’s child is made of dough,

Thursday’s child has a belly to show,

Friday’s child is chubby and willing,

Saturday’s child eats hard for a living,

But the child that is born on Sabbath day,

Is fat as fuck like all good gays.”

Mikey lay on his bed in a post-hypnotic gainer haze. His muscular arms and legs, padded in an inch of fat, still ached from the match the previous day. His mountainous ball belly, swollen full of meats, strained the seams of his rugby shirt. Munchie Mondays was his favourite way to bulk. Always hungover from post-match beers, he awoke every Monday starving hungry. He would start the day with a shower, being sure to wash any leftover dirt or mud out of his folds before putting on a fresh pair of XXL pyjamas. Feeling clean he would go down to the kitchen where he would make himself a giant mug of chocolate cappuccino and fry a couple of packets of bacon. Next he would roll a huge spliff and relax in front of the TV while he ate his breakfast. Belly unsatisfied he would fetch a packet or three of Parma ham and snack on it until lunch. Burgers were the norm at midday. At least four ½ pounders with cheese melted under and on top of the patties. Feeling stretched he would scratch at his underbelly and roll another joint before heading back to bed for an afternoon kip. Waking at about four, he would return to the kitchen to cook his steaks. Medium rare with bearnaise sauce and pasta on the side. These he would consume at the kitchen table, watching his belly bloat further out with every bite. Heaving his heavy mass up, arse sticking out, he would open the fridge and every cupboard and raid them of every edible item. Thick arms full of pepperonis and cheese triangles he would slowly climb the stairs, empty his stash onto the bed, and head back down to make his protein shakes. Once prepared he would change into his match shirt. He loved feeling how tight it felt compared to the previous day. Bloated, belly hanging out of the bottom of his shirt, he would loosen the strings on his pyjama trousers, fluff up a pillow, and sit himself comfortably on his bed beside his evening feast. Opening his phone he would press play on the same hypnosis video on YouTube and begin to eat; “Coach is so proud of you. Look at you, bulking, getting bigger and bigger. So round and strong. Keep eating and you will always be the first name on the team sheet. Coach knows how hungry you are. Hungry to win, hungry to grow, hungry to succeed at all costs. Bigger is better and you are the best. The biggest player on the team, so swollen and round. Feel your stomach fill, feel your muscles grow, big and round like a tank. Don’t stop now. Full is good. Full needs more. You need more. More food, more size, more fat. Be a good boy and make coach happy.” Mikey would burp pure protein and press replay until he was so swollen that he would need to remove his pyjamas to allow for more growing space and self relief. Finally, he would groan loudly and lie swollen and bloated in a gainer daze, before rolling his bulk off the bed, checking his weight on the bathroom scales, rub his bulging bloated belly, smile, and go clean up before his Mum got home.

Tucker’s sweet tooth had always gotten him into trouble. In trouble with his friends, when he stole their treats from their school bags. In trouble with his teacher, when he would eat said stolen treats in class. In trouble with his parents, when he would ‘ruin his dinner.’ And in trouble with his sister, who always complained that he got more than his fair share. Tucker never cared for fair, and his share had long since started to show around his midriff. His stomach was soft and plump and protruded proudly over his belt. Tummy Tuesdays were his favourite day of the week. Tuesdays had always been pocket money day, hence the day when he was really able to fill his boots on sweets and treats. Now seventeen and with a part time job, he still received pocket money, even though he didn’t really require it. All of his income was disposable, so he disposed of it in the best way possible - by filling his fat face. Waking late he would miss breakfast at home and nip into the corner shop as he waddled hurriedly to school. Three Mars bars, some Doritos, and two cans of Coke helped soothe his morning hunger. The tuck shop opened at 10am. It sold chocolates, pops, and slices of pizza. Four slices, a king size Dairy Milk, and five Rola Colas made their way into Tucker’s tummy. His shirt, untucked, and feeling tight, told him that he had done well. Canteen at midday allowed for a real lunch, but he always ate that in a hurry so that he could get back to the corner shop and return in time for maths. He’d pop the Pringles, and could not stop. Six packs of Space Raiders only cost sixty pence. Plenty left for a Magnum or couple of Twister’s. Full of sugar he would bounce through maths and his remaining lessons, shirt half opened and strained, not caring for the looks from the others. The ice cream van was always parked up outside the gates after school. He’d lick his lips as he stood in line waiting for his Pound Tub, Screwball, and Zap. With melted ice cream running down his chin, he’d head back to the corner shop in order to stock up for the night. “You’ll ruin your dinner,” his Mum would say as he entered the house Twixes in hand. But, he never did. He ate the spaghetti bolognese anyway, and the bowl of ice cream, thanked his Mum and Dad and went to his room to play games. Belly aching he’d undo his trousers and plop himself in his gaming chair, snacks a plenty littering his desk. Now several pounds heavier than in the morning, he’d continue to consume despite the sick-ups. Wine gums he found were best for keeping these down. As his bedroom filled with stinky farts, he’d kill zombies and munch his way through everything he had until there was nothing left. Belly ready to explode he’d cock his leg and fart and burp and give himself plenty of tummy rubs until he fell peacefully asleep. Rounder, fatter, heavier, and full of sweets. Another perfect Tummy Tuesday.

William woke every Wednesday to the smell of freshly baked dough. His father had been up since 4 am doing the weekly bake. The smell of which wafted up the stairs and into the family's apartment above the shop. Wednesdays were William’s favourite day. He breathed in the sweet smell of fresh pan au chocolat as he clambered out of bed and into a pair of 38 inch shorts. He pulled on an XL plain white tee and admired himself in the mirror. The t-shirt hugged tight against his doughy form. Muffin top clearly visible, he salvated at his own reflection. Blonde hair, blue eyes, soft skin. He was the perfect human Pillsbury Doughboy. He shuffled his wide hips downstairs in keen anticipation of another Waistline Wednesday. His kind eyed father beckoned him to the large country kitchen table and presented his only son with a wide selection of newly baked pastries. William thanked his father and dug in. The thick slices of butter melted perfectly into the warm croissants. Six of them melted in William’s mouth before he moved onto the chocolate variety. His mother entered and presented him with a giant mug of warm coco and loaded the sourdough into the toaster. William consumed four thick rounds slathered in home made jam before washing it all down with a mug of tea with six sugars. His Dad presented him with a box of cakes and pastries to sell at school and William left for the bus feeling all warm and cosy and satisfied. His father was proud of his son for taking the initiative to sell the family produce at school. William would make a fine baker one day. Sat by himself on the second row of the top of the bus, William opened the box and helped himself to a chocolate eclair. He savoured its soft sweet textures and he peered out of the window into the gardens of the homes that they passed. In total the box contained eight eclairs and William devoured all of them by the time he reached the school gates. His first lesson was English, and as always he placed the box inside his desk so that it was out of sight of his teacher, thus allowing him to have a little nibble on a swiss roll or lemon tart as and when he pleased. At breaktime he sat outside on a bench and worked his way through a baker’s dozen bakewells. His friend Jonathan sat with him for a bit and jokingly asked if he could have one. He couldn’t. By lunch time the box was empty and William sat at the back of his class clasping on to his aching belly. His t-shirt now stained and littered with chocolate, cream, and pastry flakes. He was fooling no one when he put his hand up and told Ms MacGuffin that he had a stomach ache and needed to go home. All of the other students muttered and laughed as the Pillsbury Doughboy once again left the classroom groaning and moaning, cupping the straining underside of his soft doughy overhang, claiming that he was going to be sick. Back home by 1pm, William went to bed in order to sleep off the morning’s exhaustions. By dinner time he was right as rain and ready to go again. His parents set the dinner table and offered him fresh steak and ale pie with puff pastry and chips. William smothered this in gravy and wolfed it down like he hadn’t eaten in a week. Impressed by his quick recovery, his parents offered him apple crumble and custard for dessert. He filled himself with three portions and politely asked to be excused. Back in his room he removed a cake box from under the bed and began to film himself scoffing down the remains of an unsold cheesecake that he had nicked from the shop the two days earlier. He took photos of his newly bloated doughy belly and rolls with his phone and sent them to his secret friend before lying back on his bed. There he basked in the glow of his new found fat and waited desperately for a reply.

Taz loved to show off his lightly tanned skin. Originally from New Zealand he had picked up his nickname due to a misunderstanding about his origin. No one in the home counties could tell antipodean accents apart. A benefit of his early Southern upbringing was his dark good looks and golden skin. Maybe he had just got used to being able to walk around topless in his home climes where no one would have thought anything of it, but in Buckinghamshire it was definitely unusual. More so as he didn’t really have the type of body that most people would want to show off. Taz’s belly was like a balloon. A huge, fat, heavy, balloon of lard, with which he seemed to take pride in flaunting at anyone who happened to be looking his way. Every Thursday from May onwards he spent every free period out on the playing fields sunning his ball of fat. “Better fat and tan than fat and pasty,” he would say, as he spent yet another Tubby Thursday lying on the verge filling his face. Every so often, some innocent bystander would comment or tell him directly to cover up. This always resulted in the same retort, “Just ‘cos you ain’t full o’ crocodile burgers mate, it don’t mean you should get at me.” It was the same in the changing rooms before and after P.E. Taz would walk around in only his briefs banging on the side of his bloated drum shouting, “Cheers mate! I will ‘av another slice!” No one was sure who Taz was showing off to, but he was clearly showing off to someone. Body positivity is great, but is it really healthy to take such pride in being obese? Taz and his balloon belly defo thought so.

Freddy lived for Friday nights. Fat Boy Fridays meant the world to him. Always chubby since he was a bairn he had grown used to his body and the comments. Always keen to dress to impress, he would rush home from school at the end of the week in order to change out of his tight clingy uniform and into a crop top and bunny ears. A regular at the gay bar since he had turned eighteen, he had been turning older heads with his outlandishly tight pink short shorts and white crop. Whilst not as big as some of the other boys at school, Freddy was perfectly podgy. He’d get the bus by himself into town, head straight to McDonald’s and then to the Rainbow, where he would belly dance the night away with pints of lager and G and T’s until someone took him home. Freddy was always up for fun. Sometimes, when particularly drunk, he would even write ‘Chubby Funster’ across the curve of his belly in indelible marker and ‘Your Sausage Here’ with a downwards arrow in the small of his back pointing straight at his chubby crack. Sexually active since a young age he was always willing to try new things and nothing was out of bounds. Food play was his favourite. Whether it was stuffing others or having his own belly stuffed beyond capacity, Freddy was down for it. No kink was too much. He loved having his edible underwear torn from his undercarriage and he loved licking melted chocolate out of some random bear’s hairy crack. Maybe it was his Scottish heritage that made him wild? Or maybe it was just his unrelenting hunger and desire for bodily pleasures? But either way, there were very few Friday nights that didn’t end with him being drunk, bloated, and full of, or covered in, chocolate and cum.

Stuart was only five weeks into his first ever Saturday job but he knew that this was what he wanted to do for the rest of his life. ‘Junior Quality Control Operative’ was not a sexy job title but he thought that it was the sexiest job. Being naturally lazy he had been horrified when his Dad had told him that he’d gotten him a part time job at the sandwich factory. Working where his Dad worked would surely be the worst? But it turned out that his Dad knew him better than he thought. No production line for young Stuart. Quality control was where his skill set lay. Had they used normal English to write his job description then he would have known that he never had anything to worry about. All Stuart had to do was sit his lazy fat arse in a chair and taste test one in every hundred sandwiches that came off the line. Ham and mustard, Cheese and Onion, Tuna Mayo, Chicken BLT. The petrol station packaged flavours were nothing to savour but it was a constant supply of food, and it was free. Ten thousand industrially processed sandwiches came down the line every shift. If you are any good at maths then you will already know that that’s a hundred sandwiches every Saturday for Stuart to fill his fat lazy face on. At times they came at him so fast that he couldn’t swallow the previous one in time before they started piling up. For the first few shifts this was a problem and poor Stuart would end up working overtime just to clear the backlog. It only took him a few weeks, however, and a couple of stones, in order to develop the required rate of consumption. Once he had learnt to pace himself accordingly the job became a piece of cake. One bite from one sandwich, every five minutes, for eight hours, was all it took. Every sandwich was roughly 500 calories. If you're very good at maths you will know that that’s 48,000 calories per shift. Ridiculous? Yes. But he only took one bite per sandwich, so really that’s a much more manageable 8 to 10,000 calories. Just the right amount to make Stuart the most content ‘Junior Quality Control Operative’ in Buckinghamshire.

Sammy was the only openly homosexual boy at school. Hugely fat and effeminate from a young age there was no point in him trying to hide it. Now at sixteen he was one of the fattest boys in Buckinghamshire and widely rumoured to be the biggest slut. How anyone could know this for a fact is uncertain as there were no other outed gay boys around. Still, everyone knew in their hearts that it was true. Sammy’s favourite day of the week was Bum Fun Sundays. The other six days he would spend filling his fat face with as much junk food as humanly possible. At twenty two stone and sixteen years he was as round and wide as he was tall. His belly was one huge low hanging globule of fat, his tits were massive, and his thunderous thighs were caked in celluloid. He had the body that only a fetishist could love. He was a huge young God of fat, and as such he took Sundays off - as a day for fun and relaxation. Not wanting to embarrass his friendly lovers he would have them visit him on a rigid schedule, ensuring that they would never bump into each other and be forced to face the truth of their fat gay existence. The first to arrive every week was Mikey. The hugely rotund and muscular hooker would pop around at 11 am every Sunday morning in order to unload his balls deep into Sammy’s flabby arse. He needed the release to ease his pre-game nerves - or so he claimed. After that, at around midday, Tucker would show up, a huge bag of pic ‘n’ mix in hand. This he would kindly share with Sammy while they spoke softly to each other about the difficulties of growing up gay before licking each other’s buttons for at least an hour. William, a friend of the family, would often come over for Sunday lunch. He would partake in the massive roast dinner before bearing his offering of chocolate cheesecake with mascarpone and a healthy dose of raspberry compote. This him and Sammy would often take to Sammy’s room and lick out of each other’s navels before Tucker fucked Sammy in the belly button and came all over his gigantically flabby stomach. At around 4 pm Taz would show up, stuffed and tipsy from his own Sunday dinner. His tanned ballooned belly stuffed full of English roast beef and Turkey, he would force himself into Sammy’s mouth, bashing and bouncing his huge food balloon against his forehead. He would shout “Take that fat mate!” as he ejaculated his thick Kiwi cum like a fireman’s hose down into Sammy’s giant belly. About two hours later, Freddy would come around, tired and bedraggled after a weekend of alcohol and fiendish food fun. He would lie down on Sammy’s bed and present his arse to Sammy in a way that said ‘take me if you want but I’m not that bothered.’ Sammy always took him. Nothing felt better to Freddy than having his twenty two stone peer pound him in his gaping chubby hole. He loved feeling all of that  weight on top of him. He loved knowing that he could get some from people his own age. Finally Stuart would pay a visit at around ten o’clock. Tired after a weekend of gorging, him and Sammy would snack and whisper sweet nothings in each other’s ears. Telling the other about the events of the week, comparing bellies, and taking bets on who would grow to be the fattest boy at school. They never could agree. There was too much competition.