Stuffed for Thanksgiving (Story + Vid) (Patreon)

https://youtu.be/7_xwr0oGaUs

Happy Thanksgiving. I wanted to do something special. Enjoy a much longer fun vid and a story that was very fun to make 🥴.

Grant had only lived in Maple Hollow for three months, but the town already felt like it was molding itself around him. People noticed him everywhere he went—hard not to, considering he stood nearly a head taller than most men, sporting a heavy, dark beard in streaks of steel, and a chest and belly that filled out a sweater like it was one size too small. He walked with the steady confidence of a man who’d built cabins, chopped forests, and carried entire tree trunks on his shoulder without a grunt. And beneath that rough exterior, he had a gruff charm that made people want to linger near him.

By Thanksgiving, Grant had somehow done the impossible: befriended three guys who were not only locals, but willing to spend the holiday at his place. Miguel, a lanky guy with black hair; Owen, a stocky chatterbox with dimples; and Darren, the loudest and tallest of the trio—broad, athletic, chronic teaser. They’d all arrived arms full: casseroles, pies, a mountain of stuffing, mashed potatoes, and a beautifully roasted turkey that Miguel had babied for hours.

Grant had smoked a ham the size of a spare tire.

The dining table groaned under the weight of it all.

So did the men.

They dug in, plates disappearing under heaps of food, laughter rolling around the cabin’s timber beams. Grant seemed especially at ease tonight—maybe it was the warmth, maybe the beer, maybe just finally having people around his table. He ate with gusto, deep satisfied grunts rumbling out between mouthfuls. His friends were already loosening their belts by the time he refilled his own plate twice… then a third time.

Owen chuckled, watching Grant reach for a ladle dripping with gravy. “Man, where does all of that even go? You’re a machine.”

Miguel grinned. “I’m convinced he’s hollow inside.”

Grant shrugged, his beard brushing his collar as he dug into more stuffing. “Big man needs big fuel.”

But inside him—buried beneath the warmth, the fellowship, the feast—something else stirred.

A deep, old, feral hunger curled awake.

It started as a warm pressure in his gut… then spread, coiling into his chest, tightening behind his ribs. Grant sat back for a moment, feeling his stomach push subtly against his gray sweater. He took a breath, steady and slow, but the hunger unfurled wider, licking at him from the inside.

He reached for the turkey leg next—and tore it off with his teeth like it was nothing. The guys laughed, but Grant barely heard them. His body wanted more. His pulse kicked up. His throat felt too empty, too needy.

Darren, always the instigator, leaned forward with a grin.“Hey, Grant,” he said, smirking. “Think you could out-eat all of us put together? Bet you could. Hell, bet you could swallow half this table.”

Grant’s eyes flicked up.That was all the permission he needed.

He stood so suddenly his chair scraped back across the wood floor. His huge hand came down on the roasted turkey—Miguel barely had time to yelp before Grant lifted the whole bird to his mouth.

With a single deep, rolling gulp, Grant’s throat expanded.With another, the entire turkey vanished past his bearded jaw.

Owen froze, mouth open.Miguel dropped his fork.Darren blinked, stunned—but only for half a second.

Because Grant’s hand clamped onto his shoulder.

“Whoa—whoa, hey, h–hey—GRANT—wait—” Darren sputtered, stumbling as Grant pulled him in like a meal already claimed. His massive hands lifted the man with shocking ease, and Grant’s jaw stretched, beard brushing Darren’s chest as he shoved the struggling man inside.

Grant gulped. Hard.

Darren’s hips vanished.Another gulp—his legs slid in.One last deep, thunderous swallow—

Glrk.

Silence crashed over the table.

Grant stood there breathing heavily, the front of his thick gray sweater rocketing outward like a balloon stuffed to bursting. Darren’s outline pressed unmistakably against the stretched fabric—face, hands, even the kicks as he yelled muffled protests toward the remaining two friends.

The sweater was no match for the living imprint inside it. The shape of Darren’s head pushed out the knit fabric, turning Grant’s once-massive belly into a colossal, heaving mound that swayed with each breath.

Miguel and Owen stared, trembling.

Grant wiped his mouth with the back of his hand… satisfied, hungry eyes gleaming… and turned slowly toward them.

Before Miguel or Owen could even think to bolt, Grant lunged.

The cabin shook as the huge man charged across the wooden floor—gray sweater riding high over the massive, thrashing imprint of Darren still struggling inside him. His jeans strained with every pounding step.

Owen yelped.Miguel squeaked.Neither stood a chance.

Grant’s enormous arms hooked around both their necks, dragging them in tight under his pits, locking them there like trapped animals. His grip was iron, fueled now by something far older and hungrier than any Thanksgiving tradition. He wasn’t thinking—he was responding, his primal nature roaring to the surface.

“G-Grant—wait—P-please—” Owen whimpered, feet kicking.

“Man, c’mon! GRANT!” Miguel begged, voice shaking.

Grant’s only answer was a low rumble from deep in his chest… and the widening of his jaw.

He hauled Owen up first, tilting his head back as though Owen were nothing more than a dinner roll. The young man’s desperate hands pushed against Grant’s beard, his legs bicycling uselessly in the air as Grant’s throat expanded obscenely around him.

GULP.

Owen’s head vanished.

Miguel’s knees buckled as he watched—but Grant’s arm only tightened around his neck, refusing to let him fall. Grant swallowed again, faster, more eager—Owen’s torso sliding down, bulging his throat, then his belly… then disappearing entirely.

With a thick, wet glrrrnk, Grant pulled the last of Owen’s feet past his lips.

His belly surged outward, kicking violently.

Miguel sobbed. “Please, Grant… don’t… don’t…”

Grant turned his heavy-lidded, feral gaze on him.A single hand grabbed Miguel’s face.

“Th—Grant, please—!”

But Grant was beyond listening.

Miguel disappeared even faster.

His chest—glrk.His stomach—glrnnk.Hips—gulp.Legs—GULP.

A final, forceful swallow pulled Miguel’s shoes down Grant’s throat like cherries off a stem.

FWAP.

Grant’s jeans couldn’t take it anymore.

His button shot across the room like a bullet.The zipper blasted open, teeth snapping apart.His gray sweater rode so high that it bunched under his pecs, leaving his entire massive, wildly shifting gut exposed—round, stretched drum-tight, enormous beyond anything he’d ever carried.

Inside, the three friends pushed, yelled, begged—shapes showing clearly and violently beneath the taut skin. Grant swayed under the weight, his stomach so swollen it brushed the tops of his thighs.

And then—

BUOORRRRRAAAAAAAGHHH

The belch he released shook dust out of the ceiling beams.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, chest rising with deep, satisfied breaths. His belly gurgled loudly—dangerously—with heavy, wet churns as the feast and his friends all settled inside the cavern of his stomach.

“Heh… boys…” Grant rumbled, voice thick with exhaustion and triumph, one hand sliding over the massive swell. “Best… Thanksgiving… I ever had.”

His thick fingers pushed toward his deep, shadowed belly button—now stretched wide and round atop the mountain of his swollen gut. He pressed a finger into it and groaned with pleasure, the sensation sending fresh wobbles through the packed sphere.

He lumbered—slow, heavy, content—toward his recliner. Each step made the gigantically stuffed dome slosh and sway, the three friends’ muffled voices shifting with gravity.

Grant dropped into the recliner with an earthshaking WHUMP.

His belly surged upward onto his chest, settling like an enormous warm boulder. He sighed, deeply, the sound rolling out of him like thunder.

Then he grabbed the remote, clicked on the football game, and leaned back—both hands stroking and kneading the restless, swollen mound.

“Alright boys… hush in there,” he muttered, amused, smug, utterly comfortable. “Game’s on… digestion’s starting… and I’m not movin’ till this gut’s good an’ empty.”

The cabin filled with the sound of football commentators—and the deep, heavy gurgles of Grant’s Thanksgiving feast beginning to churn.

Video

Grant didn’t move for the rest of Thanksgiving Day.

Didn’t want to.Didn’t need to.

The recliner became his throne. His swollen gut—monstrous, round, impossibly full—rose and fell with deep, slow breaths as he lounged, half-asleep, half-dazed in a warm haze of satisfaction. Every once in a while, a muffled voice or a fading kick tried to protest inside him… each answered by a lazy, cavern-shaking belch that rolled up through his chest.

Day 2

By the next morning, Grant hadn’t budged an inch except to shift his weight and groan with pleasure. His beard was tangled from dozing, his eyes half-lidded, and his massive gut still filled the length of his recliner like a boulder dropped onto him.

He ran a slow palm across it, feeling the dense heaviness inside.

“Mmhh… boys are really settling in now,” he murmured, scratching just above his belly button.

His stomach did the work.Long, slow, steady.Its deep churns echoed like distant thunder.

Through the night, the shape of his belly began to change—round and taut at first, then slowly softening, sagging a little lower as the last struggles faded to weak shifts… then faint tremors… then nothing at all.

Grant woke to the smell of leftover ham he’d forgotten in the kitchen. He belched loudly, patting the great warm swell that still rested over him like a heavy blanket.

Inside, everything was becoming more fluid.More silent.More his.

His gut gurgled in approval as he scratched lazily at his stretched-out waistline that destroyed his jeans, the fly still hanging open permanently.

He didn’t bother getting up.Why would he?

This was his holiday tradition.

Day 3

By the next morning, his stomach had shrunk again—still big, still round, still heavy, but far from the massive mountainous size it had been. Now it was more like the relaxed, roomy belly he carried every day, just… fuller. Satisfied. Hanging a little lower as what had once been friends and a feast finished their slow journey through him.

His gut burbled thickly as he massaged it, drifting in and out of naps while football reruns played in the background.

He stretched, grunting, the recliner creaking under him.

“Hhhhnn… done already?” he muttered, giving his smaller—but still hefty—belly a disappointed jostle.

All that was left inside him now were soft remnants… tattered scraps of fabric… faint, unrecognizable traces slipping deeper through his system.

He slapped his gut proudly.“Damn good Thanksgiving,” he rumbled.

Grant finally stood sometime late on the third evening.

Three full days of lounging.Three days of burping, groaning, rubbing, dozing, digesting.And now? His belly was back to its usual large, burly size—satisfied, content, unmistakably heavier, but manageable.

He stretched his arms overhead and yawned.

“Third year in a row,” he said to himself, smirking. “Told myself I’d quit after last time.”

He rubbed his stomach with proud affection.

“Yeah… that ain’t happenin’.”

This “Thanksgiving stunt” had become his tradition.His indulgence.His treat to himself for surviving another year.

And he knew—deep in his gut, literally—that next Thanksgiving?

He’d do it again.Bigger.Better.Hungrier.

Grant cracked his neck, belched one last satisfied rumble, and wandered toward the kitchen for leftovers, scratching his beard and humming contentedly.

End (for now).