Made a return to tubefeeding this week and realized it might be the thing I’ve made most images of next to slob/messy eating. I guess I can call it a favorite now? The Cheer Captain especially ends up doing it like this often. There are a good amount in that series that involve tubefeeding! Anyway, put all the stuff in one gallery so it’s easier to find for everyone that enjoys tubefeeding/funneling. Find it on my DA!
She’d done it again. Bree had barely made it to her bed before the weight had her collapsing in a panting heap, clutching her gut as she tried to catch her breath. There was no explaining it either, how she was never able to control herself. Bree didn’t even know why she just had to keep ordering so much food, when she knew she’d also just have to eat it all. Even if her belly was heavy and aching after. Even if the weight of her stuffed gut made walking almost impossible.
The silky sheets felt good on her fevered skin. She didn’t know when she’d started feeling so warm. Probably around the time she’d struggled out of her too tight shirt. Even then the memory of the moment made Bree moan. How her fat gut had sprung free of the shirt prison and plopped heavily on her plump thighs, jiggling as it settled between her spread legs. Bree moaned again and brought up a hand to rub her belly, squeezing where she felt softest. Her heart was racing. God she was fat. She couldn’t take her eyes off her gut, how even just her breaths caused it to bounce. With a groan, Bree gave her belly a slap, which made her groan even louder. She ground herself against the bed and watched breathlessly as her belly bounced and wobbled, huge and heavy against her legs. She might have overindulged but when it got her so hot over her fattened body, how could she help it?
Rex had planned it months in advance; a surprise trip to Paris. Lola didn’t even know where they were going until they were soaring over the Atlantic in first class, her plump body sinking luxuriously into the wide seat, already nibbling on a third warm croissant with clotted cream, her belly brushing the tray table.
They arrived at HĂ´tel du Marais Gourmand, a boutique hotel nestled between a centuries old patisserie and an award-winning fromagerie. Their first stop? A walking food tour of the Left Bank, which quickly devolved into a sit-and-devour tour. Lola waddled from stall to stall, barely able to finish swallowing a wheel of brie smeared on hot baguette before being handed a cone of duck-fat fries dusted with truffle salt.
Every bite made her swell. Her high-waisted black pants (new and allegedly “stretch-fit”) were pushed to their limits by early afternoon. The waistband carved a harsh line into her overfed middle, cutting her gut into two heavy tiers.
By the end of the day, she was too stuffed to stand on the metro without swaying. She clung to the pole, moaning softly with every turn, every jostle sending ripples through her bloated midsection. Rex could hardly breathe from how turned on he was.
The next day, Rex booked a reservation at La Ravissante, a tasting-menu-only restaurant that Michelin reviewers had claimed could “ruin all other food.” He made a special note to let them know Lola would be dining extensively.
Lola put on what was supposed to be a flowy floral sundress, though the fabric barely held over her belly. Rex watched her tug the hem down repeatedly on the way to the table, knowing it would be even tighter after the meal. Lola tried to cross her legs and failed, so she let her thighs spread, unapologetic, settling into her chair like a queen awaiting sacrifice.
Rex wasn’t hungry. Watching Lola eat was sustenance enough.
“More,” she whispered to him after the final dessert (a hazelnut mousse filled with liquid chocolate) had disappeared into her swollen gut. “I want more.”
Her belly was ballooning out then, skin stretched taut, folds fighting for space. Rex didn’t hesitate. He ordered the entire cheese trolley to their room…..
Read the rest and see more of the roommates on my DA
Rex had planned it months in advance; a surprise trip to Paris. Lola didn’t even know where they were going until they were soaring over the Atlantic in first class, her plump body sinking luxuriously into the wide seat, already nibbling on a third warm croissant with clotted cream, her belly brushing the tray table. They arrived at Hôtel du Marais Gourmand, a boutique hotel nestled between a centuries old patisserie and an award-winning fromagerie. Their first stop? A walking food tour of the Left Bank, which quickly devolved into a sit-and-devour tour. Lola waddled from stall to stall, barely able to finish swallowing a wheel of brie smeared on hot baguette before being handed a cone of duck-fat fries dusted with truffle salt.
Every bite made her swell. Her high-waisted black pants (new and allegedly “stretch-fit”) were pushed to their limits by early afternoon. The waistband carved a harsh line into her overfed middle, cutting her gut into two heavy tiers.
By the end of the day, she was too stuffed to stand on the metro without swaying. She clung to the pole, moaning softly with every turn, every jostle sending ripples through her bloated midsection. Rex could hardly breathe from how turned on he was.
The next day, Rex booked a reservation at La Ravissante, a tasting-menu-only restaurant that Michelin reviewers had claimed could “ruin all other food.” He made a special note to let them know Lola would be dining extensively.
Lola put on what was supposed to be a flowy floral sundress, though the fabric barely held over her belly. Rex watched her tug the hem down repeatedly on the way to the table, knowing it would be even tighter after the meal. Lola tried to cross her legs and failed, so she let her thighs spread, unapologetic, settling into her chair like a queen awaiting sacrifice.
Rex wasn’t hungry. Watching Lola eat was sustenance enough.
“More,” she whispered to him after the final dessert (a hazelnut mousse filled with liquid chocolate) had disappeared into her swollen gut. “I want more.”
Her belly was ballooning out then, skin stretched taut, folds fighting for space. Rex didn’t hesitate. He ordered the entire cheese trolley to their room.
Back at in the privacy of their suite, Rex laid her out on the bed like an offering. She groaned as he unzipped her dress, revealing an enormous orb of a belly, flushed pink from the strain. He ran both hands beneath her curve and heaved, lifting the weight and letting it fall heavily with a whomp. Lola whimpered and bit her lip.
“Too much,” she whispered.
“But not enough,” he replied, sinking to his knees.
Rex buried his face in the dense softness of her gut, nuzzling deep into her belly crease, inhaling the mix of floral lotion and sweat from exertion. He kissed along the underside, then gripped her hips as she lifted slightly, letting her belly smother him entirely. His cock throbbed just from the sheer pressure, the heaviness of her pressing into his face, the slick slide of her skin against his mouth.
Lola moaned, her hands gripping her mountainous sides. “You’re gonna drown in it…”
He didn’t care.
He lifted the lobe of her gut and began teasing her, sliding his tongue into the warm curve of her bellybutton, now wide and obscenely deep. She thrashed above him, stuffed and trembling, belly surging with every breath.
When he finally climbed atop her, pushing into her while cradling her gut between them, it was all flesh; soft, rippling, squeezing around him like a pillow made of pleasure. He thrust slow at first, but the sound of her heavy panting, the way her belly shook, sent him spiraling.
“Fatter,” she panted. “I want to be fatter than this. Too big to walk through the city. Too heavy for the bed.”
“You will be,” Rex growled into her mouth, picking up speed. “I’ll feed you so much Paris won’t know what hit it.”
By the end of the trip, Lola was a different woman. The flight home required a seatbelt extender. She’d outgrown three outfits and wore the only thing that would fit, an oversized hoodie over leggings that didn’t quite cover everything. Her belly had taken on a new curve, heavier and more pendulous, leading the way whenever she waddled forward.
Jenny never thought a DM would change her life. She’d just gotten back from vacation, her camera roll overflowing with greasy diner plates and pastry selfies. She hadn’t even posted the worst of them (like the one where her belly peeked out below her tank top as she licked ice cream from her own wrist) but the rep from AR World had somehow found her anyway.
They liked ten posts in a row, then slid into her DMs: “You’d be perfect for our Mess Maidens line. You have such a natural love for indulgence.”
She should have hesitated. She should have at least Googled them before replying. But she’d come back from vacation to a pink slip and with no severance. Rent was looming, and so was her next grocery trip. The offer said $500 for a shoot. Cash.
She’d done food challenges in college for laughs, scarfed down a pizza in five minutes after a bowl or two. She could handle this. Jenny had always been able to really put away a meal and there was little she liked better than eating something really tasty.
Of course, there was the concern of gaining weight. Jenny had always been soft. Chubby in high school, thicker in college, but never really fat. She’d kept an eye on her indulgences for the most part…
…until she started eating for the camera.
Her first few gigs were awkward. Staged overeating in crop tops. Pies. Cupcakes. Melted chocolate. “Get messy,” they told her, and Jenny tried. She allowed herself to cross an invisible line she hadn’t even known she was toeing, and once she was over it, there was no looking back.
Now at her fifteenth shoot, she didn’t even have to “try” to get messy, her growing appreciation for the total abandon of it all made it happen almost by default. She sat on the edge of a couch in the studio, white shirt clinging to the gentle slope of her belly, blue panties already swallowed up between the generous spread of her thighs. Her belly, so soft, pale, and jiggly, rested heavy against them, every breath making it rise and swell forward. She shifted, and it quivered like a bowl of pudding. The shirt rode higher. It was streaked with fudge from where she’d grabbed at her chest with chocolate fingers in the middle of the shoot, moaning breathily while the camera rolled.
The plate in her lap held four chocolate-frosted brownies, edges glistening, corners broken from where she'd already taken greedy bites. She was high, already flushed, mouth slick with melted fudge. And hungry.
She picked up a brownie and took a huge bite; no teasing, no nibbling. She bit deep, her cheeks bulging instantly, lips stretching wide. The flavor was rich, buttery, gooey, the kind of sweet that felt almost filthy to keep eating. But she did.
Crumbs rained down over her cleavage, caught in the sloppy valley between her breasts. She giggled. The studio mic picked up the squelch as she leaned forward to reach for another, and the heavy, sagging undercurve of her gut brushed the mess she’d already made: frosting, melted ice cream, trampled cookies. The sensation seemed to spur her to eat even sloppier, a sprinkle of crumbs joining the rest as she shoved the chocolate treat into her greedy mouth.
God, she must look disgusting, she thought. Her breath quickened. She picked up another brownie.
Jenny’s body shuddered with each bite. Not just from the eating, but from what the eating meant.
She felt her belly swell, hot and full beneath the curve of her shirt. It pressed against the fabric with growing insistence. Her waistband had already curled beneath the lowest roll—what used to be a modest pooch had become an overhang. She didn’t care. If anything, she loved it.
The AR World camera assistant gave her a cue but Jenny didn’t hear it. She was focused now on her own reflection in the nearby standing mirror, half accidental. She reached down and grabbed a roll of her belly, digging her nails in a little. She jiggled it. Slow. Deliberate. Watching it ripple. It hung off her like a curtain of pudding-soft flesh, dimpling, sagging, practically begging to be fed again.
Jenny shifted back on the couch, thighs spreading wider to make room for her swollen belly, just barely able to get back on track with the shoot. She sucked the last brownie down like it owed her something, licking chocolate off her fingers when it was all gone. Her breathing was heavier now, belly rising and falling like a slow tide. She knew she looked fucked-out and she hadn't even touched herself yet!
One hand slipped lower, stroking the line where her belly met her thighs. That deep crease, that sweat-slick fold where her fat clung to itself and stayed warm all day. She pressed into it and moaned softly.
The thought came unbidden, like it always did now:
 You’re getting so fucking fat.
Her gut dominated her lap, the weight of it turning her on like nothing else. Each bite added more to it. More jiggle. More sag. More meat to hold, to fuck, to feed. The thought caused a spike of arousal in her and she reached for another plate; eclairs this time. Cream-filled, heavy, decadent. She bit one, let the filling squirt into her mouth, then swallowed the rest in two chews. Her throat worked, muscles tightening to force it down, and her belly groaned for more.
Her panties were slick now; not with chocolate, but with arousal. She rocked her hips once, belly wobbling wildly, and imagined herself fatter. Even bigger. That belly overflowing her lap. Her thighs thick as couch cushions. Her breath coming harder just from walking, just from eating.
She ate another eclair, rubbing her belly with slow, reverent circles, watching it heave beneath her touch.
Another very interesting transformation. I never thought of how this might look in realistic form when I was drawing the base for the original but I like how it turned out. The cheer captain’s malice in this style is a bit of a different feeling!
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