Feedist Kinktober 06.2025: Insatiable Itch
Yes, I am well aware Kinktober has passed. I started this right as I went back to work and then had no energy to continue. Well, here it is. Once again, thank you to @fatguarddog for putting together the list.
You told yourself one stuffing would be enough. One day of debauchery and then you would put your life together. You would sober up, shape up, and live as a normal person.
You knew you were lying to yourself.
The drive to gain has been ingrained in you for as long as you can recall. Ever since you were a kid you were obsessed with fat. You would admire bigger people you would see on the street. You would fantasize about fantastical feasts that would leave you beached and rotund. When you envisioned your future, there wasn't a skinny version of you in your mind.
Once you started making your own money as a teen you could afford to indulge. Your metabolism was still young and fighting against your desires, but you managed to put on a bit of chub. You went up two clothing sizes at 16, which your highschool girlfriend noticed. She not-so-tactfully pointed out that you were getting fat, even though you weren't even overweight at the time. When you finally told her about your desires, she called you a freak and broke up with you. Afterwards, you tried to curb your eating for a while. She was right, it was weird. But every day, the itch to get bigger knawed at the back of your mind, tempting you every time you had to choose between a burger and a salad or say no to a second helping.
Your resolve waned as time went on and you forgot about your heartbreak. Indulging just felt so good. You eased up, and resumed enjoying food and your life.
The dam broke when you went to college. Suddenly you had complete freedom to choose all your meals at any time of day. The only activity you got was walking to and from classes. And then there was the introduction of booze and weed. Every weekend was spent hedonistically, whether you were going to parties and getting wasted before a late night fast food run, or smoking all day and gorging until you were couch-locked and listless. The consequences hit you hard, and you revelled in them. Your weight skyrocketed, making you size up your wardrobe every month. Your head was almost always fuzzy from a residual high or a hangover. The cost to your body was hot as hell, and you paid no mind to the cost on your grades or wallet.
You did your best to balance your lifestyle with your courses. Once or twice you tried to fix your finances by getting a part time job, but you couldn't swing it with your studies and dedicating a good amount of time to your favourite hobby. The guilt of your dropping grades and increasing credit card bills would knaw at your insides, but could easily be quieted with another toke, shot, or burger.
Academic probation in your 4th year of college snapped you to reality. If you wanted to graduate, get a job, and live in society, you needed to straighten out.
You would allow yourself one last feast. One more time to go hog wild, to get this out of your system, and then you would give it up for good. Or at least until you got your life back on track, and to a point where you couldn't derail like this again.
You set aside a weekend where you wouldn't have any obligations or responsibilities to distract you. You skipped class on Friday to start getting ready, making stops at the grocery store, liquor store, and dispensary. The anticipation gnawed at your insides, making your trip home nearly unbearable.
You set everything up once you got in, lining the coffee table with your snacks and imbibements. The frozen pastries and dinners got lined up for their turn in the oven. You made sure you had multiple timers and alarms set on your phone so nothing burned. Finally, you could dig in.
You plopped on the couch, flab already feeling constrained by clothes that should have been retired about 20lbs ago. This just excited you more.
Your first drink of choice was a cider which you drained in one go before letting out a long belch. You sip at another one while rolling a king-sized joint with a mix of death star and girl scout cookies, your favourite stuffing blend. Before lighting up you popped an edible, knowing a second surprise high is key to pushing your limits.
Your tummy was already growling as you smoke, starving from the restraint you had to show today (only one breakfast at home and a fast food combo for lunch), so you knew you'd be ravenous once the weed kicked in.
The THC quickly took hold, melting your soft body into the couch as your muscles relaxed and your brain slowed down. You weren't intending on smoking the whole thing in one go, but you absent-mindedly puffed away as you browsed your streaming services for something to watch. You settled on a comedy show with enough episodes to play non-stop all weekend, and took another big swig of cider before looking at your phone. The timer said the frozen pizza should be ready in 3 minutes, so you occupied your belly by drinking, trying to avoid looking at the snacks on the table in front of you.
The timer went off and you really felt the high when you stood up. Giggles bubbled up as you shuffled to the kitchen, the flab on your thighs jiggling like jelly. The pizza smelled intoxicating, but you knew from experience that you have to wait to slice it. Starting the weekend with a burnt tongue would be a total bummer.
While you waited, you lined a baking tray with a mixed box of frozen appetizers and popped it in the oven, starting the timer on your phone right away. Now it should be safe to hastily cut of the pizza and shuffle back to the couch.
You brought your first course back to the couch and dug in. That little pizza went fast, barely making a dent in your endless hunger. You drained another cider and belched, feeling heat eminate as your belly bubbled.
The timer on your phone went off again. Getting up is a little more difficult this time thanks to more alcohol, but you loved the added challenge.
You manage to get the appetizers out of the oven without burning yourself and stacked them high on a plate. You considered getting the next course in the oven, but you'd probably want something sweet after this, and you knew there were several pints of ice cream in the freezer just calling your name.
You loved that mixed appetizers box. You got spinach cheese puffs, tomato quiches, cream cheese wontons, mozzarella sticks, and onion rings. The TV droned on as you mindlessly laughed along with the stupid jokes, your hand moving food to your maw automatically, stopping only to take drinks of the tall can of beer you were working on. Being able to bounce between the flavours made it easy to demolish the whole plate in no time.
You sat back and rubbed the crest of your upper gut, massaging the stiffness that came with your overindulgence. This was just the beginning, though. You didn't get this big by stopping when you were stuffed.
You let your belly rest a little, taking sips of fizzy alcohol before burping into your fist. It didn't matter how full you actually were, you could always trick your belly into taking more after letting some air up.
You watched TV til the end of the episode and then hauled yourself back off the couch. Getting up that time was even more difficult. You staggered, the world tilting under your feet. It felt like your belly was pulling you down and forward, all of that dough getting heavier as it soaked up the beers and ciders.
You felt pleasure start to spark. You were getting close to the part you enjoyed most. Time to add more. You grab 2 pints of ice cream from the freezer, feeling the contents of your gut slosh with every unsteady step back.
The ice cream was a sweet compliment to the last 2 salty courses. The change in flavour renewed your vigor. With the tv playing to distract you and a new drive to eat, you ploughed through the first pint, surprised the sound of your spoon scraping the bottom. It brought you back to reality, suddenly feeling the weight of your belly bearing down on your plush lap. Every small sip of beer fizzed in your belly, the reaction bloating you further. Your sides ached as they stretched to accommodate your gluttony. There was no such thing as "enough" for you, though.
The plan had been to smoke another joint before continuing, but you were so rounded out there was no way you could lean forward to get it off the table. Any compression on your gut was agony, so you just had to sit there cradling your rotund gut. Each breath pushed a deep gurgle out from within, even though they were shallow and delicate. The vibrations from the gurgles would shiver across your taut skin, making you ache and itch at the same time. Sounds from your gut elicited pathetic mewls from your mouth, moans just falling out of you as you phased in and out of existence, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed.
You have no many idea how many episodes played. You don't know if or when you passed out, or when you came to. You just remember slowly becoming aware that your gut wasn't feeling horrendously stretched anymore. Which meant it was time to start again.
Leaning forward was still difficult, and your inebriation did not help. Your hand swayed as your reached for the prerolls and the lighter, your chubby fingers grasping at air a few times before you finally hit your mark.
Everything shifted inside you with a heavy glorp as you sat back. Each inhale of smoke put extra pressure on your poor belly, and several of your exhales ended in surprise burps. Your eyes rolled back as the thc took over, turning a wicked ache into twisted pleasure.
When you finished, you eyed up the second ice cream pint. It was now completely melted, but that was almost better for you. Now you didn't need to worry about being coordinated enough to use a spoon. It took you a long time to open it, as you were being extremely careful not to spill a drop, a task in which you somehow succeeded. You drank enough off the top to both prevent spilling and also leave enough room for something else.
Turning your head made the world tilt sideways and your vision glow like a dream sequence, but you still managed to locate and pick up a mickey of rum. Stirring the liquor into your ice cream slurry was going fine until you got too eager and moved too fast. Your drunk hand had no capability to make sure you didn't splash anything over the edge. Nervous about wasting calories and booze, you deemed your mixing job "good enough" and got back to drinking. The top of your mixture burned your lips and throat, but that was quickly soothed by the cooling effects of the melted dairy product.
Heat pulsated deep under your belly hang and fat folds, pushing your to keep taking sips despite the growing ache. Belches slipped through your lips every time you paused to take a breath. Moans became constant the more you drank, but you couldn't be sure if they were coming from your chest and voicebox or the depths of your belly.
With one last heavy gulp you finish the 2nd pint. You tried to drop the carton on the coffee table, but your arm swayed and you couldn't sit forward, so it ended up bouncing on the floor, leaving a trail of of sticky droplets as it rolled under the coffee table.
Oh, your belly ached so good. Everything was churning inside you, all the heavy carbs and sugar paired with copious amounts of booze making your stomach complain loudly. Most people would have stopped there (or really, long before this point), but you knew from experience you could still take more.
You had snacks and booze on the coffee table, but you wanted to test your walking ability. It would probably be the last time you'd be able to walk tonight.
Your underbelly rubbed against the couch as you rocked back and forth, trying to build enough momentum to get to your feet. The motion audibly sloshed everything inside your gut and you could feel the air shifting around. It took you 6 tries to get up. You stumbled and swayed, a little worried your knees would buckle. The endeavor had you so out of breath that you were actually wheezing. The constant stream of burps that were dislodged did nothing to help you catch your breath.
Your lower belly wobbled against your massive thighs, despite how spherical the rest of your gut was. Each stumble sent shockwaves rippling over your flab, but you barely noticed. You were too busy trying to stay upright, and your chances of success were dimishing by the second.
You managed to make it to the bathroom. The button on your pants was a struggle to undo with your gut in the way. When you sat, the toilet made an ominous creak, which you ignored. As you washed your hands after you stared at your reflection in the mirror. Your bloodshot eyes stared right back, your eyelids drooping low and making you squint. You had to lean against the basin to stay upright, and you were still wobbling slightly. Your jaw was slack as you panted from all the movement, ypur wheezing making your heart race faster. Stretchmarks always coated your body with how fast you blew up, but they were particularly red now. You grabbed your gut and hoisted it up. It dropped onto the counter with a few bounces and a couple wicked belches flew out of you. It took you a couple seconds for the eroticism of that action to fade away, your eyes rolling back as you swayed, but you couldn't pause for long. Your legs were starting to ache, and more importantly, you were getting hungry.
Your whole weekend went like this. You would smoke until your eyes would cross before rolling back into your head. Every drink zapped your coordination and ability to walk, stand, or even think. All of those empty calories piled onto your rotund body, accompanied by a plethora of meals and junky snacks.
By the end of Sunday your swollen gut constantly ached from the constant overfeeding. You had run out of supplies right on time, and had just finished the last of a pot of pasta. It hurt to breathe, your belly bobbing up and down with every hitched inhale. You leaned on the armrest and had to use your hand to hold your nodding head up, too trashed to do it automatically. The other hand rotated between lifting the last beer to your lips and rubbing your belly. Burps were constant and shallow. Patting your belly elicited a dull thump, every spare space completely used up, meaning there was no echo or bounce to your gut. Your gut was so rounded out there was no room for you to lean forward. You were completely pinned to your couch.
You finished the last beer and squirmed as the alcohol started to hit your bloodstream. You couldn't recall ever being this fucked up. It was the perfect 'last hurrah' for your hedonistic habits. This would have to be enough to satisfy you for the rest of your life.
But as you flitted in and out of consciousness, that deep, insatiable itch started gnawing at you. An itch that would only get worse as the week wore on. How long could you go before scratching?
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