The Night Before:

It’s finally the night before my first day back at work after lockdown, and while I should probably be focused on something practical, my mind is c*mpletely wrapped up in seeing my dreamy boss again and figuring out how to make the strongest possible impression. I’m bent over my bed, digging through a pile of clothes in a pair of red stretch pants and a tiny top that used to fit me a whole lot better than they do now, with my backside swaying and bouncing while I search for the one piece I’m determined to wear back to the office tomorrow. When it becomes obvious the thing I’m looking for is not on the bed, I decide the only place left to check is underneath it, which turns into way more of an ordeal than it should be. I have to grunt and heave myself down to the floor, then wriggle my way under the bed in a mess of shifting hips, wiggling thighs, and a thong riding high while I fight for every extra inch. I do eventually find what I was after, but that quick l*ttle victory is immediately replaced by the much less glamorous problem of having to get myself back out again. I laugh, pant, and joke about needing a forklift to haul me free if I really get wedged down there, all while slowly working myself backward until I can finally pop out and heave myself upright.

Once I’m standing again, I turn around with the red miniskirt in my hand, and that is when the rest of me really comes into view. My top, which used to sit a lot more comfortably, is now pushing the girlies up into some seriously eye-catching cleavage while leaving my whole midriff exposed, and the waistband of those pants is digging in so hard that my belly is spilling over all around it. I look down and really take myself in for the first time, pressing both hands into my stomach, rubbing over the soft, bloated fullness, and laughing in disbelief at how fat I’ve gotten while I’ve been stuck at home. That only gets worse once I turn and start checking out my backside too, smacking, grabbing, and jiggling it while I joke about how my boss is probably going to have to order me a bigger chair before I’ve even made it through my first day back. The skirt I went hunting for suddenly looks a lot less like the perfect office outfit and a lot more like something that’s going to have to work overtime just to hold me together. By the time I give up on pretending those pants are remotely comfortable, I’m fighting to peel them down over my hips and thighs in a whole second struggle of bouncing, wiggling, and tugging until I can finally get them off.

Left in my top and a snug thong, I decide I need proof of just how much bigger my *ss has gotten, so I drag a clear acrylic chair into place and lower myself onto it. The second I sit, everything spreads wider than I expect, squashing across the full seat so c*mpletely that it is visible right through the chair while the rest spills over both sides, and I end up laughing, grabbing, pinching, smacking, and jiggling it in open-mouthed amazement. By the end of my l*ttle grope sesh, I’m still half shocked, half impressed, and fully aware that walking back into the office tomorrow is going to be one hell of an entrance.

The Next Morning:

By the time I make it back to the office the next day, I have squeezed myself into that tiny red miniskirt I was so determined to wear, with fishnet thigh highs and lace garter straps flashing underneath whenever the hem shifts just enough, along with a red-and-bl*ck fitted top that lifts and crowds my cleavage. You catch me bent over the shelving unit with paperwork and a clipboard tucked into one arm, rummaging around and c*mpletely focused on what I am doing while my skirt hugs every inch of my fuller shape. I stay like that long enough for my backside to do all the work of filling your view before I finally glance back over my shoulder and realize you have been standing there the whole time. The shock of it sends the papers tumbling everywhere, and in my fluster I drop down after them, apologizing so fast I can barely get the words out. I am so embarrassed I can hardly think straight, because the first thing you end up seeing on my first day back is me on all fours, scrambling after paperwork with my big fat *ss sticking right out at you.

Once I finally manage to stand again, I am still trying to fix my outfit, hide behind my clipboard, calm my nerves, and stop myself from sounding like a babbling mess all at once. I gush about how nice it is to see you, how happy I am to be back, and how ready I am to get down to business, only to keep talking because I cannot seem to stop myself once I get going. I offer to get coffee, help with anything, do absolutely anything at all, and then you go and compliment me, which only makes me more shy. I half hide behind the clipboard, smile like an idiot, and try to act normal while you ask how lockdown treated me. That gets me thanking you for keeping me on, for letting me work remotely when I could, and then, the second I remember the donuts, the whole truth starts bubbling right up. I tell you how grateful I was for them, how good they were, how I was easily putting away a dozen a day, sometimes before breakfast, sometimes for breakfast, and then still finding room to keep eating through the rest of the day. I go on and on about how fresh they were and how impossible they were to resist, then I h*t that l*ttle pause where it is obvious I want to say something more, and all it takes is the smallest gesture of encouragement from you to push me past my hesitation and into blurting out, “I got really fat!” The confession comes out in one rush, and the second it does, I let my stomach out with one long, relieved sigh, rubbing the soft l*ttle p*och that settles forward while I laugh in equal parts embarrassment and relief.

After that, there is no point pretending. I start explaining how I meant to eat right, meant to work out, meant to do all the good l*ttle lockdown things, but none of it stood a chance against a dozen fresh donuts a day and how impossible they were to resist. The more I admit, the more playful I get about it, smiling and giggling while I rub my belly, turn to one side and then the other to show off the poochie bulge from every angle, and then keep rotating until I can point out exactly where all that softness ended up. It all went here, I show off one spot, and it all went here too, with my hands moving from my belly to my butt while I make it very clear that your sweet l*ttle care packages did not just disappear into thin air. I turn in my tight l*ttle office outfit and make sure you get another proper look, grabbing and bouncing my skirt-clad backside before facing you again to remind you that your donuts really did help, and that this is exactly what all that sweetness turned into.

Feeling my boldness build, I decide that if I am already confessing, I might as well really let you look. I step in closer and present my stomach to you, tell you to look at this belly I have on me now, and make sure you know exactly whose fault it is before I turn and bend over again so you can get another proper look at the other half of the problem aka my big bouncing bottom, while in a teasing way, I encourage you to test it out with a l*ttle squeeze or smack. I laugh about how huge my *ss has gotten, how I am honestly scared to sit in my regular office chair because I might get stuck in it, and how on my very first day back you may need to order me a bigger one.

Standing again, I rub over my belly, remind you that this outfit absolutely did not fit like this before lockdown, and joke that it took forever to stuff myself into it and that I feel like a stuffed sausage already bursting at the seams. By then I am smiling wickedly, calling myself a naughty girl and a greedy l*ttle pig for stuffing myself into this shape, half apologizing and half showing off while I give you another fully bent-over tease and make it very clear that lockdown h*t me very, very well.

My playful mood shifts when you tell me the company is actually struggling because of how much money got poured into all those donut deliveries during lockdown. I stare at you in disbelief, feeling sorry for how sweet you were trying to be, just for me to practically eat the company out of business. Once you explain that you bought even more donuts for everyone’s first day back, but nobody is eating them and management cannot see them just sitting there untouched, I volunteer myself like this is some noble office rescue mission that only I can handle. I promise that I will eat every last one, even if I burst in the process or you end up having to roll me out afterward. I technically ate us into this mess and I am more than willing to eat us right back out of it. By the time I look up at you and promise that you can count on me, Bossman, I am fully committed.

Many Demolished Donuts Later:

I’m sprawled back in a chair beside my desk, where it’s clear I have already eaten a serious amount of donuts. My shirt has been pushed all the way up because my belly has grown too big and round to stay tucked beneath it, and now it sits fully exposed for you to see. I am panting through the fullness with the kind of proud, overstuffed smile that knows I have already put a real dent in that pastry pile, and the plate beside me, scattered with donut pieces and crumbs, only adds to the proof. Certain that I must be getting close to the end of them, I ask how many are there to go.

My confidence wobbles the second you tell me how many are actually left. Four dozen is enough to make me stop and stare. For a second, all I can really do is sit there with my stuffed belly pushed out in front of me and my breathing sounding heavier than I want it to. Then I pull myself back together, flash you a determined l*ttle smile, and insist that I have still got this. Every single one is as good as gone.

The truth is I am already so full that finishing the rest is not going to happen all on my own. Looking at me sprawled there, too stuffed to do much besides breathe, rub my belly, and work through the pressure of everything I have already eaten, you would probably think the same. My mind made up, I resolutely inform you that you may have to feed them to me. When you hesitate, I insist that I want you to. No matter what, no matter if I complain, I want you to keep stuffing donuts into me until every last one is gone.

Even though I already sound winded and overstuffed, I still manage a perky l*ttle smile, my attitude sharpening back into something bratty and determined. I remind you that you are The Boss, and I work myself into one more burst of confidence by calling myself your fat, greedy, l*ttle-piggy secretary. Then I look right at you and tell you to, “stuff me until I burst!”

Many Stuffed-In-My-Mouth Donuts Later:

After you finish stuffing every last one of those remaining four dozen donuts inside of me, I am left sitting there in nothing but my bl*ck bra, thong, and fishnets, staring down at the biggest belly I have ever had. It is fully exposed, pushed out as far as it can possibly go, and so huge that I cannot stop looking at it. I keep joking about how full I am, how I am stuffed to bursting, and how this thing looks like it is going to pop like a balloon at any second. That is what makes me hesitate when I bring my hands up toward it. I want to touch it, but I keep pulling them back away again because I joke that if I do, I might be the one to make it pop.

More than anything, I am impressed. I sit there panting through the effort of being that full, marveling at how much we actually managed to get into me. Then I proudly tell you that we really did it, that you actually stuffed every last one inside of me, and that I have never been this full in my life. I go on calling myself a blimp, joking that I am going to burst, and soaking in the sight of my own huge, overstuffed belly while I work to catch my breath. At one point, as I breathe through the fullness, a tiny belly noise starts low in my stomach and gurgles its way up and out of me, which only makes me more aware of how absurdly stuffed I have become and sets me off into another breathy l*ttle giggle.

Slumped there, weighed down by my belly and so overstuffed I can barely move after finishing all those donuts, I am in no shape to go anywhere. Then you suddenly drop the news that management is on the way and absolutely cannot see me like this. That means I have to get my stuffed self out of the office immediately, even though I am nowhere near ready to move. The first problem is simply getting out of the chair. I rock myself forward and try to push up, only to drop right back down again. I brace myself and try another way, and that fails too. Every attempt turns into its own l*ttle struggle, with me whining, joking at myself, and stopping to catch my breath before I can even think about trying again. The more I fight with it, the more ridiculous it feels that something as simple as standing up has become this much of an ordeal. Eventually I drag my desk closer for leverage, plant my hands where I need them, and give it one more determined try. After several failed attempts and a lot of noisy effort, I finally manage to heave myself upright into a shaky standing position.

After I finally get myself upright, staying that way turns into its own challenge. I wobble where I stand for a second, one hand finding the wall while the other slides under my belly to help support it. Only after I get my balance under control do I start trying to waddle across the room in tiny, careful steps. That alone feels absurd with how stuffed I am. I joke that what I really need is a wheelbarrow to haul my stomach out of there. I turn to you and ask if you happen to have one handy. No sooner do the words leave my mouth than I stumble under the heft of all that fullness and drop straight down onto all fours.

Down on the floor, you get that full profile of what all this donut stuffing has done to me. My belly hangs low beneath me while my *ss sticks up behind it, and the whole shape of me looks even bigger than before, while I steadily crawl my way out of the office. I pause long enough to laugh at how my stomach feels like it is nearly dragging on the floor. Then I start crawling again, still flirting through the strain of it. I tease that if I get stuck in the door frame, you are going to have to put those big, strong muscles to good use and give me a shove.

As I crawl toward the doorway, I offer up the slow, rear view of my giant *ss as I haul myself away one strained l*ttle crawl at a time. I am still grunting and groaning through the effort, playfully joking that if I do not make it in tomorrow, it is probably because this giant *ss got stuck somewhere along the way. Over my shoulder, I c*ll back a whole list of possible solutions, saying you can send a forklift, c*ll the fire brigade, or just bring those big, strong hands of yours and deal with it yourself. Once I reach the doorway ahead, I pause long enough to psych myself up before pushing onward again. Then I glance back over my shoulder and toss out one last l*ttle, “Good luck with management,” before continuing my slow, stuffed crawl out.

That Evening:

Later, I am back home and sprawled flat on my back in my pink bra and purple thong, so stuffed and swollen that I cannot even see up over my own belly. It pushes up so high in front of me that all I can really do is lie there beneath it, breathing, groaning, and throwing my arms around in frustration at how fat and full I have become. I whine that I feel like a beached whale, then decide that is not even big enough and complain that I feel as fat as a whole house, before laughing at myself and upgrading that to a fat house instead. Even then, I still cannot resist joking that at least my hunky boss seems to like what all this overeating has done to me, and if other girls do favors to get ahead, I am clearly going to eat my way to the top. My hands keep coming back to rest on my belly while I lie there giggling at my own blimpy state, still talking about how stuffed I am and how I really do think I might burst, until it all ends with one last shaky breath and me giving in to just how unbelievably full I am.

::Quick note from Alison - That's Me!::

Thank you so much for your patience on the whole video release. Life has been pure chaos lately, and I have very much been in my walking Chaos Queen era. On top of that, I put a ton of work into this video and really wanted every part of it, including the whole video version, to come out as polished and high quality as I could make it. That extra care definitely added to the delay, but I hope it was worth the wait. Enjoy!

Updated Previews are still to come. I've been learning to use a different system for releasing content, so my usual flow hasn't been as "in flow" as of late. Luckily I've made a very lengthy and detailed description, which should give you all the information you need to know about this video. Nummy nummy, enjoy!

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This Video Was Part Of A 5-PART Release

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Parts 1-4 have already previously been released.

TODAY (finally, amirite), I am releasing the WHOLE VIDEO, which has been discounted for your patience.

Muffin Top Big Butts Belly Button Fetish Boss Secretly Fattens Me Up During Lockdown - WHOLE VIDEO with C4s.com