This one feels like someone took a comfy slice‑of‑life drama, locked it in a room, fed it way too much dessert, tied it up with a bunch of horny ideas about control, and then just let it slowly swell until nobody fits their old clothes anymore. You’re not just clicking through porn scenes here, you’re basically sliding into people’s lives and messing with the one thing they’re trying to keep steady: food, routine, and how much space their bodies are taking up. Girls start out “normal” chubby, then your choices quietly push them toward soft bellies, thicker thighs, boobs pressing against uniforms that really need new sizes. It’s not a sudden cartoon inflation, more like, one more snack, one more late-night delivery, one more “you look fine, trust me”, and you blink and go, ok, she actually grew a lot. The game leans hard into that mix of comfort and shame: they talk about being tired, about stress, about wanting to feel wanted, and you’re there like the little devil on their shoulder, handing them another plate and acting like it’s totally no big deal.

What makes it hit different is how slow and personal it feels. Conversations drag you in, they’re not just “click to fuck”. You’re asking about their day, about work, about why they always order the same greasy thing from that food app even when they swear they’re going to “eat better”. Then, little by little, they start trusting you. Letting you decide what they eat, how much, when they skip the gym. Sometimes it’s honestly sweet: you comfort a stressed girl with a big meal and she melts a bit, leans on you, tummy peeking when she slumps on the couch. Other times it’s darker, like when you nudge someone past the point she’s comfortable with and she still says yes because you’re the one paying attention to her. The control side sneaks in there: you choosing her portions, you telling her she looks beautiful tied to a chair, arms behind her, cheeks full of cake, belly pushing out, and she’s half embarrassed, half turned on. There is a harem structure going on, but it never feels like some clean checklist. It’s messy, like juggling chats, trying not to mix up who likes being praised for getting thicker and who is still pretending this is “temporary stress weight” while you’re literally the one making sure it isn’t. At some point you realize you’re basically running a quiet little cult of comfort eating and pretty captives, and the wild part is how normal it all felt on the way there.