Just some A.I artwork i was working on today when i got home from work. Happy to receive any suggestions and make some more if people would like to give me a scenario etc. Thank you. Hope its ok to post this :)
The theatre was nearly empty.
She sat close enough that the heavy, soft curve of her hip rested against mine the entire second half of the film. Thick. Warm. The black jeans did nothing to hide how plush she was—every small shift of her weight pressed that fat, yielding flesh more firmly against my thigh and the side of my dicklet. I could feel the slow give of it, the heat seeping through the denim.
Halfway through she leaned in a little, voice low.
“Sorry… I’ve put on a bit of weight lately. These jeans are getting too tight. I keep having to pull them up.”
As if to prove it, she shifted in the seat, reached back, and tugged the waistband of the black jeans higher. The heavy weight of her ass had already started dragging them down, the fabric stretched so tight across her cheeks that the waistband sat lower than it should. She had to dig her fingers into the denim and haul it back up with a small, embarrassed little wiggle.
I was fully hard before the next scene even started.
No hand. No deliberate tease. Just the steady pressure of her thick hip and the faint scent of her skin rising every time she leaned forward. My pulse hammered in my throat. I kept my eyes on the screen, jaw locked, but every tiny movement she made sent another heavy throb through me. By the time the credits rolled I was already leaking, the front of my underwear damp and sticky.
We stood.
She walked ahead of me down the aisle, out through the lobby, and into the cool night air. I stayed three steps behind on purpose.
And that was the end of me.
Those black jeans stretched obscenely across the biggest, roundest, softest ass I had ever seen—high, full, and heavy, the kind that sits out in a perfect, thick shelf. Each step made it roll and bounce: the deep cleft between her cheeks clearly outlined, the lower curve of each cheek jiggling with a slow, liquid weight. The waistband had already slipped down again from the sheer weight of her ass, exposing a soft strip of skin above it. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a high ponytail that swayed with every movement. The white top had ridden up just enough to show more of her lower back.
I couldn’t look away.
My dicklet jerked hard against the tight fabric. One more heavy sway of that massive, soft booty as she stepped off the curb and the pressure snapped.
I came right there on the sidewalk, still walking.
A sudden, helpless spurt soaked through my underwear and left a dark, spreading wet patch across the front of my jeans. My hips stuttered once. My knees almost gave. A quiet, choked sound escaped before I could stop it. The climax was sharp and short and completely out of my control—just the sight of her ass moving in those too-tight black jeans had finished me.
She glanced back over her shoulder, ponytail sliding across one cheek, that small soft smile already there.
“You okay back there?”
She slowed her pace so I could catch up a little, eyes dropping briefly to the front of my jeans before meeting mine again, gentle and a little shy.
“Hey… you’re shaking. Did my ass really do that to you?” She reached back once more, tugging the waistband of her jeans up again with a quiet, self-conscious little huff. “I keep telling myself these are fine, but they’re not. They keep sliding down because… well. There’s just more of me back there now. I’m sorry if it’s too much.”
Her voice stayed soft, almost apologetic, even as she gave her hips one small, careful sway and kept walking.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed. I kind of like that you couldn’t help it… just from watching me walk.”
Later that evening I sat on the edge of my bed, still replaying every second, and finally texted her.
Me: Hey… I’m really sorry about earlier. That was so embarrassing. I didn’t mean to finish like that just from looking at you. I feel like an idiot. And I’m honestly sorry I wasn’t brave enough to just make a proper move. I really wanted to give that gorgeous booty of yours a proper slap while we were walking… I just stuffed it up. Sorry :/
The message showed as delivered. Then read.
I stared at the screen for a long time. No reply.
Ten minutes. Twenty. Almost an hour.
Every time my phone lit up with some other notification my stomach twisted, hoping it was her. It never was. She had seen it… and just left me sitting there with the embarrassment and the wanting.
Finally, well past when I’d given up, her reply came through.
Her: Don’t apologise 😊 I meant what I said. I kind of liked it. The fact you couldn’t help it. It’s actually pretty hot knowing my ass (even with the extra weight) can do that to you so easily. You’re into bigger girls… I can tell. And honestly? I’m not complaining. For the record… you should’ve just slapped it. Next time don’t overthink it. Just maybe warn me before you make a mess in public 😉😊
I typed back immediately.
Me: Well if you’d given me even the slightest green light instead of acting all shy about the weight, I would have slapped it. Next time don’t make it feel like I’m the one who has to guess. And thanks for pretending not to mind that I finished so fast 😆 You have no idea how good that soft doughy fat heavy ass looked in those too tight jeans 😏
The message was delivered. Then read.
And that was it.
No reply. No typing bubbles. Nothing.
She left me on read again. The soft teasing words from her earlier message still sat there on the screen while I waited, phone in hand. I was already desperately hard from the memory of her walking ahead of me, that heavy soft ass swaying in the too-tight jeans.
I pushed my pants down and wrapped my hand around my dicklet, stroking slowly at first, replaying the way it had bounced with every step. But the longer the silence stretched, the more the regret crept in. The gaslighting lines I’d sent started to feel stupid and mean. I should’ve just owned the embarrassment instead of trying to twist it back on her.
Still, I kept going—faster now—eyes locked on the unread chat, wishing I’d never hit send, wishing she’d reply, wishing I could take the words back while I stroked myself to the thought of the very ass I’d just blamed her for.
The theatre was nearly empty.
She sat close enough that the heavy, soft curve of her hip rested against mine the entire second half of the film. Thick. Warm. The black jeans did nothing to hide how plush she was—every small shift of her weight pressed that fat, yielding flesh more firmly against my thigh and the side of my dicklet. I could feel the slow give of it, the heat seeping through the denim.
Halfway through she leaned in a little, voice low.
“Sorry… I’ve put on a bit of weight lately. These jeans are getting too tight. I keep having to pull them up.”
As if to prove it, she shifted in the seat, reached back, and tugged the waistband of the black jeans higher. The heavy weight of her ass had already started dragging them down, the fabric stretched so tight across her cheeks that the waistband sat lower than it should. She had to dig her fingers into the denim and haul it back up with a small, embarrassed little wiggle.
I was fully hard before the next scene even started.
No hand. No deliberate tease. Just the steady pressure of her thick hip and the faint scent of her skin rising every time she leaned forward. My pulse hammered in my throat. I kept my eyes on the screen, jaw locked, but every tiny movement she made sent another heavy throb through me. By the time the credits rolled I was already leaking, the front of my underwear damp and sticky.
We stood.
She walked ahead of me down the aisle, out through the lobby, and into the cool night air. I stayed three steps behind on purpose.
And that was the end of me.
Those black jeans stretched obscenely across the biggest, roundest, softest ass I had ever seen—high, full, and heavy, the kind that sits out in a perfect, thick shelf. Each step made it roll and bounce: the deep cleft between her cheeks clearly outlined, the lower curve of each cheek jiggling with a slow, liquid weight. The waistband had already slipped down again from the sheer weight of her ass, exposing a soft strip of skin above it. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a high ponytail that swayed with every movement. The white top had ridden up just enough to show more of her lower back.
I couldn’t look away.
My dicklet jerked hard against the tight fabric. One more heavy sway of that massive, soft booty as she stepped off the curb and the pressure snapped.
I came right there on the sidewalk, still walking.
A sudden, helpless spurt soaked through my underwear and left a dark, spreading wet patch across the front of my jeans. My hips stuttered once. My knees almost gave. A quiet, choked sound escaped before I could stop it. The climax was sharp and short and completely out of my control—just the sight of her ass moving in those too-tight black jeans had finished me.
She glanced back over her shoulder, ponytail sliding across one cheek, that small soft smile already there.
“You okay back there?”
She slowed her pace so I could catch up a little, eyes dropping briefly to the front of my jeans before meeting mine again, gentle and a little shy.
“Hey… you’re shaking. Did my ass really do that to you?” She reached back once more, tugging the waistband of her jeans up again with a quiet, self-conscious little huff. “I keep telling myself these are fine, but they’re not. They keep sliding down because… well. There’s just more of me back there now. I’m sorry if it’s too much.”
Her voice stayed soft, almost apologetic, even as she gave her hips one small, careful sway and kept walking.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed. I kind of like that you couldn’t help it… just from watching me walk.”
Later that evening I sat on the edge of my bed, still replaying every second, and finally texted her.
Me: Hey… I’m really sorry about earlier. That was so embarrassing. I didn’t mean to finish like that just from looking at you. I feel like an idiot. And I’m honestly sorry I wasn’t brave enough to just make a proper move. I really wanted to give that gorgeous booty of yours a proper slap while we were walking… I just stuffed it up. Sorry :/
The message showed as delivered. Then read.
I stared at the screen for a long time. No reply.
Ten minutes. Twenty. Almost an hour.
Every time my phone lit up with some other notification my stomach twisted, hoping it was her. It never was. She had seen it… and just left me sitting there with the embarrassment and the wanting.
Finally, well past when I’d given up, her reply came through.
Her: Don’t apologise 😊 I meant what I said. I kind of liked it. The fact you couldn’t help it. It’s actually pretty hot knowing my ass (even with the extra weight) can do that to you so easily. You’re into bigger girls… I can tell. And honestly? I’m not complaining. For the record… you should’ve just slapped it. Next time don’t overthink it. Just maybe warn me before you make a mess in public 😉😊
I typed back immediately.
Me: Well if you’d given me even the slightest green light instead of acting all shy about the weight, I would have slapped it. Next time don’t make it feel like I’m the one who has to guess. And thanks for pretending not to mind that I finished so fast 😆 You have no idea how good that soft doughy fat heavy ass looked in those too tight jeans 😏
The message was delivered. Then read.
And that was it.
No reply. No typing bubbles. Nothing.
She left me on read again. The soft teasing words from her earlier message still sat there on the screen while I waited, phone in hand. I was already desperately hard from the memory of her walking ahead of me, that heavy soft ass swaying in the too-tight jeans.
I pushed my pants down and wrapped my hand around my dicklet, stroking slowly at first, replaying the way it had bounced with every step. But the longer the silence stretched, the more the regret crept in. The gaslighting lines I’d sent started to feel stupid and mean. I should’ve just owned the embarrassment instead of trying to twist it back on her.
Still, I kept going—faster now—eyes locked on the unread chat, wishing I’d never hit send, wishing she’d reply, wishing I could take the words back while I stroked myself to the thought of the very ass I’d just blamed her for.
Only thing I’ve been crushing lately is the couch cushions and an entire family-sized bag of chips, this is the inevitable result: a soft, jiggly monument to pure beta energy. No six-pack, no V-taper, just a proud, pillowy belly that shows up to the gym only to take selfies and leave. Absolute softboy supremacy.
I checked my watch again. Fifty-three minutes late.
The bouquet of roses in front of me drooped under the restaurant’s dim lighting. The air smelled of fresh pasta and overpriced wine, but all I could focus on was the ache in my stomach—both from hunger and nerves. She always had me shook.
The restaurant was too nice for lunch, but I had wanted today to be special. For her.
Because deep down, I knew.
I knew what I was to Chloe.
And yet, here I was.
Then, finally, she arrived. For me it seemed like time stood still when I saw her.
She walked in like she owned the place, her long, bare, tanned legs glistening slightly from the rain. Tiny denim shorts clung to her hips, barely covering anything, and her low-cut white top left little to the imagination.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
The fabric strained over her chest, her pumped up, enhanced cleavage on full display. She didn’t need to try—attention found her effortlessly.
The moment she stepped inside, I saw it. Other guys looking. Staring.
I swallowed hard as she finally reached our table, sliding into the seat across from me.
The neckline plunged, showcasing the implants she had “gotten for herself” but made sure everyone noticed. I struggled to keep eye contact whilst feeling myself begin to stiffen.
She slid into the seat across from me, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Hey, you!”
No apology. No explanation. Just that.
I cleared my throat and pushed the roses toward her. “I, uh… I got these for you.”
She barely looked at them, giving a quick, dismissive smile. “Aww, that’s so cringe.” She chuckled picking them up for maybe a second, gave a single sniff, then set them aside. “You really didn’t have to.” She emphasised.
The waiter appeared, and without even glancing at the menu, she ordered.
“Lobster ravioli and a glass of Chardonnay.”
I swallowed hard. That was… expensive. My tiny hard-on now pressing against my pants zipper.
I hesitated, then ordered something cheaper—a simple pasta dish. Despite the fact my appetite was in overdrive yet again.
Chloe leaned back in her chair, stretching just enough to push her full chest forward, then tilted her head at me with a little smirk.
“How have you been anyway? Your looking fantastic by the way” I stammered. Awkwardly trying to give her a compliment which she ignored.
“So,” she said, eyes scanning me up and down, “when did you get so um… soft?”
My stomach twisted. “H-huh?”
She gestured vaguely at me, her manicured nails glinting under the restaurant lights. “I swear, last year you weren’t this, um… cuddly.”
She giggled, sipping her water.
I laughed weakly, shifting in my chair as my belly pressed against the table. My shirt felt too tight around my blossoming moobs, the fabric straining slightly over my bloated stomach. I had noticed it, of course—I knew I had gained weight. But hearing her say it?
It burned. My cheeks flushed red.
“I guess I’ve been eating out a lot,” I mumbled.
She smirked, tilting her head. “Yeah, I can tell. You’re totally giving teddy bear now.” She reached across the table and poked my stomach, giggling again. “Aww, it’s cute though! Like, in a little brother way.”
I wanted to sink through the floor.
The food arrived, and Chloe picked at her plate lazily while I forced myself to eat, despite the stone-cold lump in my stomach. I tried to steer the conversation to something safe, anything that wouldn’t make me feel like a pathetic joke.
But then, mid-bite, she suddenly gasped in excitement.
“Oh my God, Brad just texted me!”
I froze.
Brad. That Brad.
The ripped, arrogant jerk who treated her like an option. The one she obsessed over while I sat here paying for her lunch.
She giggled as she typed something back, completely ignoring me for a full minute before finally glancing up.
“Sorry, what were you saying?”
I cleared my throat. “Uh, just… wondering if you’re enjoying yourself.”
She stretched again, pushing her chest forward deliberately, then sighed dramatically.
“Yeah, this is nice. It’s good to catch up.”
Catch up.
Like I was just an old friend.
Then, as if this meal wasn’t already humiliating, she suddenly clapped her hands together.
“Oh! I almost forgot—I gotta go after this.”
I blinked. “Oh… already?”
“Yeah,” she sighed dramatically. “I need to buy a dress for tonight. Brad’s taking me out for a real Valentine’s date, and I want to look amazing.”
My stomach churned.
A real Valentine’s date.
With Brad.
And not me.
The waiter placed the check down in front of us, and Chloe, without hesitation, slid it toward me.
“Thanks for lunch,” she said, flashing me a bright, dazzling smile. “You’re the best.”
I stared at the triple-digit total on the bill, the number burning into my brain like a branding iron.
I reached for my wallet.
She was already texting Brad as I paid.
The Aftermath
I got home feeling like garbage due to stopping at McDonalds on my way home.
The first thing I did though? Raid the fridge.
I didn’t even think—I just grabbed anything and everything. A leftover pizza, a tub of ice cream, a bag of chips. I sank onto my couch, stuffing my face like it would make me forget how pathetic I felt whilst reading for my shrimp dick.
Each bite felt good for a second. Whilst I tugged away. Desperate to get hard again.
I caught my reflection in the TV screen.
I looked disgusting.
My belly was huge, stretched tight over my too-small shirt, my posture slouched as I shoved another slice of pizza into my mouth with one hand the other struggling with the effort to reach and continue tugging on myself. Grease smeared my fingers, crumbs covered my lap.
I looked like a bloated cow.
And yet, I kept eating and jerking.
Because what else was there to do?
I grabbed my phone. Opened Instagram.
I knew what I was about to do. I knew it would make me feel worse.
But I did it anyway.
Chloe’s stories were at the top of my feed. I clicked. Finaly beginning to get a little hard.
The first clip was a mirror selfie in a tiny, black dress—short, tight, with a neckline so low it was practically criminal.
The next one? A boomerang of two cocktails, the caption reading:
“Best Valentine’s ever 😍❤️”
And then, finally…
A blurry, dimly lit photo of Brad’s hand on her thigh.
My stomach twisted as I came in my pants.
I put my phone down, staring blankly at the half-eaten pizza in my lap.
I knew what I was to her.
A wallet. A filler. A pathetic, overweight jerk-off loser who bought her expensive meals while she saved her real affection for someone else.
And yet…
I knew I’d do it all over again.
Who Am I?
☆ A hopelessly desperate, insecure, needy, weak little beta gooner first and foremost.
♡ Former wanna-be alpha gym rat who completely failed and turned into a soft, dad-bod fin-cuck / paypig. Now just a submissive, weak-willed gainer with zero discipline left.
What Are My Main Kinks/Fetishes?
☆ Financial Domination
☆ Obedience training
☆ SPH
☆ Feminization #bustyboi
☆ Chastity
☆ Tease and Denial
☆ Edging
☆ Humiliation & Tasks
☆ Cucking / Cuck roleplay
☆ Weight gain Humiliation
☆ Growing weaker
☆ Body Contrast
☆ Female Superiority (Body & Mind)
☆ Unhealthy lifestyle (body / mind / wallet)
Hoping to find my Queen to worship as a pathetic Co-op Player 🎮 (please don’t make me run… I’ll just get winded and cry).
Used to lift. Now I’m just an embarrassingly unfit loser sporting an emasculated, prego-sized ball gut and a set of soft, swollen beta-boi bitch tits that refuse to go away no matter how hard I try to hide them under baggy shirts. Every mirror is a humiliation session at this point.
I’ve always been completely drawn to strong, confident, intelligent women. Their beauty and power short-circuit my brain. I get overwhelmed, anxious, and immediately shrink into this quiet, passive little simp who can only stare and feel how small and worthless he is next to them.
Over time that turned into full paypig addiction. I get off on financially supporting dominant, beautiful women I know I’ll never have a real chance with. Just sending, serving, and staying in my place.
I’ve been an online fincuck / paypig for almost 2.5 years now. Small gifts, daily tributes, and helping with boring tasks (graphic design, excel, typing, organising) so my Queen doesn’t have to waste her precious time on menial shit. That’s the only useful thing a gooner like me is good for.
Years ago I even got to live it IRL a few times… friend-zoned paypig cucky for gorgeous work colleagues. Always friend-zoned, of course. Paying for their lunches, drinks, dinners, movie tickets… just happy to be allowed near them while they treated me like the soft, forgettable beta I am.
Despite having limited money and constant doubts, I keep coming back and relapsing. My wallet and my waistline are both a mess, bouncing up and down while my self-esteem stays permanently in the gutter.
Every day is the same cycle: jerking, sending, overeating, getting softer and weaker… while whatever Goddess I’m feeding grows stronger, hotter, and more powerful.
Just a pathetic, gooned-out little loser who can’t stop.