just filled to the brim with good food, endorphins beaming from your little piggy brain and dopamine rewarding you for engorging and gobbling on anything edible within a radius of 2 meters from you... wondering what's for dinner.
you wake up at improbable hours, and then you eat, you hit up the pc and devote your hours to videogames, streamings, and food until you go to bed.
i don't even have to encourage you by now...
you're digging your own grave a bite after another.
you know, i see the posts you publish on your kinky socials.
you almost always say that it's me filling that ball of lard you have as a gut...
...but in reality, if I make you stuff once a week it's a lot. After all, I work full time and I'm often too tired to do much but cook for you a filling meal and then going to bed listening to some ASMR to fall asleep...
but you... you love to appoint the entire guilt on me.
you love to tell everyone that it's me rendering you so obese that you can't even walk anymore.
you love to make everyone think "boo hoo poor feedee, her wife is fattening her up!"...
...while in reality you panic if you don't eat for even an hour.
the other day you literally had a meltdown because we didn't have anymore cookies.
and two days before that, you begged me to find another job just so that you could order mcdonalds more often.
(i'm searching for it, of course...)
i'm watching your puffy body sink in the mattress and i can hardly recognize each body part as a human one...
you're deforming your meat vessel by adding so much lard it's becoming unrecognizable.
you're digging your own grave a bite after another...
i'll sleep all night, like always...
...and instead you, like every night, will wake up around 5 am and eat whatever you can fit in your mouth without having to cook it.
oh, my dear hog...
you are so lost in the folds of your own obesity...
so much lost that you fail to notice that, at this point, your own greatest feeder... is yourself.
The fattest guy in the office, or anywhere really, is used to being called “big guy” and being cast a double glance when someone first sees him. He takes it in stride—says he loves to eat—but knows he’s not anyone’s type.
So he never goes for the plunge. He never picks up any signs – not that he thinks there’s ever been any.
He’s used to girls befriending him and he expects nothing more. He has a lot of female friends.
A new worker in the office befriends him, he thinks little of it. She’s a few years younger than him, a little less experienced in this field, so she’s always turning to him for help.
Little does he know she’s obsessed with him. She sees him across the room, shimmying between desks or struggling to grab something from the floor and she’s drooling around her pen.
She unbuttons her shirt when she goes to see him. She sits on his desk as she talks with him, a shoe off when no one’s around, to run a foot up his thigh and under his massive gut.
Trying to stave off his embarrassment, he asks, “Are your feet cold?”
“So cold,” she insists and does the same with her other foot. She tries to aim for his crotch, but he corrects her direction, thinking it’s an accident.
She brings him massive drive-thru breakfast orders, and lunches and she made herself. Invites him out for drinks and even invites him back to hers on several occasions as her apartment is closer to the place they drink at.
He doesn’t make a move because he thinks all of this is innocent, even when she tries offering her bed because the couch is no place for a guy like him to crash.
She finally gets him in bed when the elevators at her apartment complex are out of order. She stays with him as he’s dangerously out of breath and sweating like crazy up the five flights of stairs, and dotes on him with such care after guiding him to the couch. She helps him unbuckle, unzip, unbutton, letting his big, handsome belly spill out freely.
She rubs warm, soft thumbs sympathetically on the angry red lines on his belly. Massages his feet after helping him get his shoes off.
He can’t lie, seeing a gorgeous woman on her knees, massaging his feet with her cleavage and bra on show for him, it’s hot as hell, but he shrugs away the feeling. He scolds himself for watching her ass as she heads to the kitchen to fix him a sandwich, because he needs his strength back. She insisted.
That night, they share the same bed, but for the first hour or two, there’s distance. Not much, because he’s taking up a full half of the bed easily. He’s nervous, too nervous to sleep, and she’s trying to lightly doze, banishing herself to the very edge of the bed just to keep that few extra inches of space.
He’s propped up a little more against the headboard than her to keep himself from snoring as bad as what he normally does, and it grands him a clear perspective of her.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Do you want to come closer? There’s not much space. I promise not to do anything.”
She takes a moment to accept. “You don’t have to promise anything,” she says, before taking her chance to tuck herself under his arm, stuffing her thigh between his thighs his gelatinous overhang, so close to everything else that it makes him gulp.
“…Okay. I won’t.”
Normally, she’s awake before him and making him breakfast to send him off when he wakes up on the couch after crashing at hers, but the following morning, he’s awake before her. She’s fastened to his side, nestled in adorably, using him like a big pillow. There’s drool all on his chest. The fresh streak is going down where his ribs used to be, under a thick layer of fat.
After that, they become closer. In the office, co-workers start to tease him about his ‘girlfriend’, which he has to dismiss to spare her her dignity. She doesn’t deserve to be teased just for being friends with the fat guy.
She invites him over for breakfast more. She even invites him to a garden party for a barbecue with her friends, and she asks him what he thinks of her new bikini.
“Yeah, it’s, um… good.” Because what else are you meant to say when an attractive woman is showing herself off in front of you, but you aren’t dating? “You look great.”
“It’s a really good material, too. Want to feel?” She presses her chest into his side and puts her arms around him.
Sometimes, they even have dinner together, and then they’ll cuddle together again when he’s too full to protest. Sometimes she rubs his belly for him when he’s exceptionally stuffed, because she has this miserable frown on her face when he leaves anything she’s made him.
He feels guilty for how expensive all this must be for her. A table full of toasted bacon sandwiches all for him one instance, a smorgasbord of breakfast menu fast food items the next, a full breakfast the time after that. He invites her over to his for a change, and orders pizza, wings, dirty fries, but takes note of how she says she’s stuffed after two slices, some fries, and a single wing, and then is working to inspire him to finish everything else.
He sees the little bloat under that black mini dress too. She’s not joking: she is full from just that. He couldn’t dream of it. It’s such a small portion to him.
He felt terribly awkward when he opened the door to find her in a pretty dress and evening makeup, hair done up and shoes sleek and elegant. She even brought a red wine. He’d answered the door with a beer in hand, in sweats and a T-shirt, assuming things would be casual, but she smiled at him like he’d just answered the door in a tux with a bouquet of roses.
“You look handsome tonight,” she’d said.
“I – um – yeah. Ditto. Beautiful, I mean. You’re– I mean, you. So.”
She giggled.
Once all the food is cleared, he’s panting heavily and sitting back. She pushes up his T-shirt without needing to be asked. She pushes the waistband of his sweatpants under his belly and starts to rub.
“You really overdid it, sweetie,” she says, as she has many times before. “But it’s okay, I’ll help you.” As usual, she starts at the sides of his belly and works her way inwards. He groans in relief from it.
She puts a knee over his thigh, precariously on the small bit of seat space his corpulence has to offer between his spread legs. His heart hammers. “What are you–?”
She straddles his thigh, perching on his knee. He can feel the heat from her– her–
“Arms up. Let’s get you comfortable.” When his arms go up, she helps pull off his massive T-shirt, squeezes one of his pecs with a tipsy giggle. “You’re so soft. So pretty.”
His brain short-circuits. “You- You know I’m not gay, right?”
She pauses. “Yeah? I’ve been flirting with you for months. You never make a move,” she sulks. “So is this okay? Can I make the move for you?”
He nods dumbly, and immediately she’s unzipping her dress and shrugging it off. He’s face to face with her bra and panty set, black lace and silk. She’s beautiful, but so tiny in comparison to him. She could wear a leg of his pants as a bodycon dress, he’s sure of it.
“The moment I saw you, I wanted you. I was obsessed with you.”
He licks his lips. “I told myself not to get my hopes up.”
A desolate expression takes over her face. She shakes her head, mostly to herself, and arches over his embonpoint to put her nose to his neck. “Your cologne’s nice.”
“Thanks…”
“I like it when you don’t shave for a while, it’s so cute.”
“N-Noted.”
“And those swimming trunks… they looked ready to burst. And these sweats are so hot. I like dressing up for you. I like that you didn’t. I want you to be comfortable. You barely look comfortable in work.”
Then it clicks for him. All that food. The takeout. The encouraging. The foot massage. “I’ve gained so much weight because of you.” He puts a hand on the crest of his belly. “Look what you’ve done.”
She kisses him with a gasp of awe. She clearly cannot help herself anymore. He can smell how wet she is, let alone feel it dripping onto his knee, through the fabric of his sweats.
“Do you think you’re too full to lie down? I was hoping you’d top, anyway. I want to feel all of you coming down on me.”
He can’t believe this is happening. Before he knows it, he’s staring at her on all fours on his bed, waiting patiently for him to lift up his gut and—jeez, he has to lift up his gut to have sex now. It’s so heavy. When was the last time he had sex? At least with a girl? Where he topped? He doesn’t know the answers to any of the three.
She whimpers when he lets his belly drop onto her back. He stresses immediately: “Are you okay? I can get off of you–”
“No,” she sighs, sweetly. “No, this is perfect. You feel so full, it’s perfect.”
Maneuvering himself to get in is difficult, but after a minute or so he succeeds, panting. His knees are twinging a bit, and the angle is hard to keep… he tries lifting her hips a bit more, but it’s a fight against gravity with his massive stomach in the way… Okay, yeah, no, he can do this. He can do this fine.
His thrusts forward are cumbersome, making him pink and sweaty and limiting friction. She rolls her hips back to meet him, pushing herself against the covers.
They find a rhythm, his belly so full and contrarian to the prospect of sex being good, sloshing and moaning with every thrust. The weight of it drags air out of his chest, and by the end, he’s ruined beside her, gasping and scarlet.
He should be– oh God– he can’t– he should be the one to wipe her down. With a cloth or something right? But he’s so… he’s so spent, he can’t imagine getting up now, trying to get his breath back before sleeping.
Beside him, she fingers herself to completion, which is embarrassing. She shows him the way she rubs his spend on her pussy, on her clit, using it as a donation, before rushing into the bathroom to pee.
When she’s back, it’s with a damp washcloth, and acting as though she didn’t just have a 400lbs man poorly fuck her, wipes him down with the cloth. Gets rid of excess sweat and cleans his fat pad up.
She kisses him sweetly, off again, only to return with a candy bar from the kitchen. “For your health,” she says, as she does when she means to get your strength back.
A candy bar for being too fat to fuck. That’s a new one.
She comes behind him and rubs his belly some more as he munches down the bar in three greedy bites, smiling at him like he’s just demonstrated an insane level of ingenuity.
Boyfriend moves in with his partner when he’s fit and handsome. But as the relationship continues and the happy weight starts, increases, he is enabled into a fatter and whinier version of himself. More domesticated. He becomes spoiled enough to think of food cravings as necessities by his doting partner.
I imagine him sat on the couch, growing belly over the waistband of his shorts and his tank top resting on the top of it, a hand on his stomach.
He calls out, as he usually does. That elongated baaaaabe – so whiny and desperate. So hungry, even if his stomach isn’t really empty.
“What is it, love? What do you need?” his partner asks, sitting next to him and squeezing his arm supportively.
“Can you get be some ice cream, babe? It’s hot. I need something sweet during the commercials.”
“Of course. You should have told me you were getting hot.” They kiss his cheek and rub his belly.
He ends up making through the whole pint, all past inhibitions completely gone.
His partner hasn’t said anything. In fact they like looking after him. So this is perfect, isn’t it? Kissing away a couple of dress sizes isn’t that much of a price to pay for that.
“Aww, poor piggy. Did you eat too much? That’s okay, we can take a break for now..”
I can’t help but pity you a bit when you get like this. In too deep, flushed and struggling to catch your breath, stuck in place like a beached whale.
“You’ve been so good for me, piggy.” I purr in your ear, playing with your hair. “And it’s gotten me all worked up.” I slip off my shorts and panties and, in a smooth motion, slide myself across your thighs so I sit straddling you. I reach a hand out to brush your stuffed gut and you whimper in pain. You would have flinched away if you weren’t weighed down right now.
“Aw, it’s okay, piggy. Don’t you want to make me feel good?” The whimpers of pain begin to mix with pleasure as I lightly run my hand around your belly. “Good boy.”
I rise onto my knees and start slowly grinding my heat against your fatpad. I brush lightly, just barely touching as I move up to your lower stomach, running my wet pussy up and down the line of your happy trail. I relish in every reaction you give me: every whine and moan, every whimper of pain and pleasure and overstimulation. You shake underneath me with pleasure and anticipation.
I stop for a second when I brush against your dick, rock-hard and half-buried in the soft blubber of your fat pad and inner thighs. Of course, your boxers are already damp. “You’ve really got no self control at all, do you?” I muse. Pathetic.
I rub myself over your tip, teasing myself with slow, circular motions. The roughness of the material of your boxers against my swollen clit makes me moan with pleasure.
“Yeah, you like that..?” You murmur through panted breaths.
I slow, stop.
“Don’t pretend like you’re doing any work here, fatty.” I start again, rubbing progressively harder circles against you. “All you’ve done is sit here and stuff yourself into a useless pile of lard. That’s your role, big boy. Sit here, eat yourself even fatter and more pathetic than you were before, and let me get off on it. Don’t forget it.”
You let out a loud moan as you soak through your boxers again. I don’t let up.
“Too- hard. It hurts—“ I interrupt your complaint with another donut shoved into your open mouth. You let out several muffled whines and moans through the mouthful as I rub myself against you 3 more times. After one final hard circle against your cock, I pull away and look at you.
You look huge. Covered in thick, heavy fat. Breathing heavily from the strain of your constant hedonism, the effects of your gluttonous habits are written all over your body.
Your eyes are fixed on me, silently pleading but half-lidded, like you’re exhausted. Your cheeks are round and smeared with chocolate icing. Your jaw is still working on the donut, and the chins under it jiggle as you chew.
You look pathetic. Your neck and shoulders are softened with fat, your arms round and flabby. Your chest has been buried underneath two fat man-tits, followed by thick rolls of fat that stretch all the way to your back.
Your stomach is the star of the show, though. The upper half, swollen from all the food you stuffed down, pushes up against your tits and upper rolls. From there it hangs forward, heavy and round and red, littered with stretch marks. It commands space in your lap, and stretches around your hips into big, puffy love handles.
—
a/n: i might add more to this later (likee some actual sex 🙂↕️), but i like what i have rn :p . i cant keep waiting for everything to be perfect or whatever to post it yk.
You finish chewing and swallow with another whine.
“Are you ready to be a good boy?”
You let out a small noise of agreement. Most days I would have forced a proper response out of you, but you look so dazed and stupid I don’t even bother.
“Good. Lean back, big boy” I instruct, and you oblige. I tug your tight boxers down, motioning for you to lift your hips. You grunt with the effort, lifting them just enough for me to pull the boxers under the plush of your ass before plopping back down heavily and letting out a sigh.
Your dick springs up when I pull the boxers off your front, and I grab and stroke it softly. The poor thing is now a few inches shorter than it used to be, surrounded by and buried in soft lard. I lower my head and give a light, tentative lick to the crease between your fatpad and your thigh, then a long, flat lick along the exposed length of your cock. This elicits a few increasingly pathetic whimpers from you.
“You’re such a pig,” I pull away and take in the sight of your huge body, my eyes filled with lust. “You’ve really let yourself go, huh?” I bite my lip, walk my fingers up the side of your stomach. You nod quickly, half-lidded eyes pained with need and desperation. I climb onto your lap once more, motioning for you to hold your belly up so I can get closer.
“What a useless pig you’ve become.” I position my near dripping cunt over you. “Say it.”
“I’m a pig— Ohhh, fuck.” You moan as I lower myself onto your cock. I take it all (all that’s left, anyway) and rest my hips on your plush thighs to give myself a chance to adjust. You let out a low moan when I slap your swollen gut. “Mhmm. And what else?”
“F-fuck. I’m—” You struggle to focus as I start riding your cock. “I have no self-control. I’m ruining myself. I keep eating and stuffing myself and I can’t stop. Unnnh- I’m a fat, worthless pig.” You’re out of breath.
“Good boy,” I praise. I grab onto your love handles and the rest of your body jiggles with them. We continue on like this for few minutes: me grabbing at and playing with the fat hanging off your helpless body as your whimpers and moans get increasingly louder and more pathetic between each struggling breath.
“Fuck. Fuck. I’m gonna- I’m—” I feel the heat rush inside of me before you can finish your sentence. I slow to a stop, resting on your thighs as your cum dribbles out of me. You continue with your panting, big gut rising up and down with each breath.
After a minute, I lean over your belly and turn your chubby face towards me. With your eyes glazed over, you almost look like an animal.
A dumb pig.
“That was pretty quick, piggy. Seems like you have even less control over your dick than you do over your appetite.” I smirk. No response from you; you’re too tired. “Aw, maybe I should cut you some slack.. Sitting there and letting me do all the work must be soo exhausting.”
I pull off of you and stand up. Still no verbal response, but you whine softly when I pull away. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but you still have some more work to do.” You turn your eyes towards the box of donuts on the end table next to you; there are still four left. You let out a pathetic whimper.
“Don’t whine, big boy. Be a good piggy and finish these up for me.” 😘
— — —
a/n: my first post is getting a little attention (yayy!) so that inspired me to wrap this part up :) thank you guys :p
I sit and watch you try to sit up in bed, not because I’d mind helping, but because I love to watch you struggle. I love catching that glint of horror cross your eyes, when you realize your whopping belly is just too heavy to move without grabbing hold of the sheets for leverage.
You groan, tired and helpless, pushing yourself upright with both hands while your belly sloshes around unpredictably — a completely separate entity from you. You’re already winded. We haven’t even started the day.
“Good morning fatass” I coo, leaning in to kiss your sweat-damp temple. “Enjoy being able to get out of bed while you still can. It shouldn’t be long now.”
You shoot me a look, half blushing, half flushed from the movement, and try to get to your feet. The swaying of your body with the slightest movement is unavoidable now. You don’t walk at all; you waddle. You don’t step; you haul. All that lard packed tight onto your thighs, slapping and jostling against itself, belly dragging you downward like an anchor of pure fat.
I trail behind you as you lumber toward the bathroom, and I can’t stop smiling. The way every inch of you bounces and sways. The slow, rhythmic harmony of your belly chafing on your thighs and the floorboards creaking is hypnotic. And when you finally pull yourself into the shower and plop down onto the shower chair, you let out a huff that can only be interpreted as a sigh of relief. Because we both know you barely made it.
When you come out, you use your gut to ground the towel in place around your waist, and you sit on the edge of the toilet. I hand you your socks and wait. Watch. You try to lift your leg to cross your ankle over your knee, but your belly presses up into your chest. You have to lean back to breathe multiple times, and I can’t hide the fact that your immense struggle at the simple task of putting on socks is making me squirm with pleasure. You roll them half on and you’re left red-faced and gasping. I can see the sweat pooling at your collarbone.
“You ever think about how permanent this is?” I say as I pinch a lump of your triple chin between my fingers. “How this isn’t weight you can ever lose? It’s your whole life now. You’re never getting smaller. There’s no ‘bouncing back.’ Your body is ruined, baby. Completely useless except to me. And all because you're such a hopeless, impotent glutton.
One day you’ll wake up, try to get out of bed, and realize the only thing you’re capable of is wiggling your fingers. You won’t even see it coming.”
recently i just looove the idea of somebody getting spoiled by their s/o and they just laze around plump up from all the attention they're given
to be pampered with gentle forehead kisses and fed rich desserts until moving comfortably isn't an option anymore, your s/o rubbing deep circles into your belly to make space for more. cooking you large breakfasts in bed and taking you out to lunch and encouraging extra helpings at dinner, making sure your growing belly is filled with snacks between meals, hand feeding you rich heavy desserts when you're too full and sleepy to eat anymore.
thinking your tummy is only rounded out from being kept so full all the time but you gradually become softer around the edges, your thighs a little chunkier, your stomach starting to soften and fill out until all your tshirts are a little too tight against the soft curve of your chub and your jeans barely hold together when you sit down
indulging in belly rubs at all times - after being fed large meals, when you're sleepy, when we're cuddling, when we're kissing - your s/o kneading and massaging and rubbing your plump belly, fingers sinking into the new plushness, hands squeezing your softened hips.
another part of getting incredibly fat… you stop doing certain things, and then you forget how to do them.
i was trying on a bathing suit bottom with these cute strings to tie on the side, and i just. couldn’t for the life of me remember how to tie them? and it got me thinking—i haven’t worn shoes i had to tie in well over a year.
i could barely reach with both hands to make the knot—my tits were in the way, my belly filled the space i had to reach over… i got exhausted just trying to reach
i wear things that’re easy to get on and easy to get off. i can’t bend over too well because my belly is in the way. it’s starting to hang so, so low.. and i can’t even reach my feet anymore—if i tried to paint my nails it would be exhausting, i’d be out of breath in seconds
it makes me wonder what’s next. will i forget the little trick i use to get bras on? will i forget how to hoist myself up off the floor sometime in the next 100 pounds?
and then, when i finally get to those “too big to live alone without a caretaker” sizes, what will be next?
clumsy, fat fingers unable to button up shirts. the same overly softened hands struggling to hold a fork, eating without utensils is just so much easier.. can’t reach around my belly enough to button any pants, either, it’ll have been years (and hundreds of pounds of lard) since i could even see what i’m doing, anyways
it’s motivating, it makes me hungry. just thinking about these possibilities makes me want to eat. i want to be useless, dependent, so fat and soft and hungry it scares everyone around me
Look at how well that lower belly of yours has grown!
I'm so proud of you. Remember how small your tummy used to be? When you first came to me you were practically skin and bones, with that taut abdomen and narrow waist. So firm, so lean. So unbearably skinny. There wasn't a curve to be found on that little tummy. Your stomach was once so flat, remember? Poor thing. I couldn't stand seeing you like that. I knew we had to give your belly the attention it deserved.
And look at you now.
See how well my hand fits under your tummy? Cradling all this new softness you've put on? It fits so perfectly, doesn't it? I love feeling the weight of you. Every new inch, every added pound that you've so diligently gathered here for me. Doesn't it feel nice? How your stomach bulges out now, distending in such a nice arc above that too-tight waistband of yours? My fingers even sink into your plush skin now. You've done so well!
I love feeling all of this. Holding the underside of your round, growing middle, feeling the fruits of your labors blossom in my palm. Traversing the curve of this wonderful belly, stretched and softened by your eager appetite. Tracing my fingers along the creases at your hips, the promise of a future where your belly is finally big enough to spill over your waistband. You look positively chubby now darling. Every remnant of that underfed body buried and gone with your indulgence.
Will you promise me something?
I want this lower belly big enough to squeeze.
I want you to become a handful. I want you to spill into my hands in all of your plump glory. I want to be able to grab this lower belly, hold layers of silky fat in my palm, feel your pudge rise like dough between my fingertips. I want my thumb to sink into your deep, wide navel as I knead and jiggle your overgrown tummy. Can you imagine it? You're belly has already grown so well. Just a few more bites, a few more pounds, to make fantasy become reality.
Eat up, darling. We need this lower belly of yours to grow.
You will keep rounding out, filling your clothes until they're stretched and tight. Until your average outfits feel like bondage. Until you can't reach over or under your tummy, because it just grew so much. Your butt firm and tight in your pants. Your chest plump and expanding.
Until you're a whimpering, needy mess. Until you're my spoiled little thing, for good. Until you look at me with your glazed pretty eyes, and ask to be fed even more. Because you know I will.
I want you to constantly feel that you're taking up space. You know, that feeling where your brain hasn't quite adjusted to your new size; where you find yourself bumping into furniture or doorways... that you could swear were wider just two days ago. I want you to start noticing that your kitchen counter seems higher than it did before... Or maybe, your gut finally hangs so low that it kisses the countertop when you're looking for a snack. I want you to wonder why all of your clothes suddenly seem to have shrunk in the wash. After all, the nice pair of jeans you just bought must be poor quality... The button flew off the second you sat down, but it's not like you've been eating enough to stuff a stoned linebacker, right?
You haven't been eating much at all, have you? Some avocado toast for breakfast... Followed by two mcgriddles and a huge iced coffee. A salad for lunch... accompanied by a triple decker burger and a massive basket of cheese fries. And dinner, since you ate so healthy and light during the day, you treat yourself to a pizza... Or two... Or three. And fuck it, why not some ice cream too? You've been good, you deserve a treat, don't you? You couldn't possibly have outgrown your clothes eating like that. That's crazy!
But yes, I want you to feel heavier.
Not only in the sense that I can fit my entire head beneath your massive tit, but in the sense that you can *feel* yourself growing... Stretching... Spreading wider. You can feel your supple, cellulite dimpled flesh getting softer, bathing you in a cozy blanket of lard. I want you to feel weighed down by your body, to question why you should ever have to get off the couch... To ever have to do anything beside eating and getting fatter.
This isnt written/signed on a contract and isnt legally binding but i'd love to change that. Anyways, i would genuinely love to be kidnapped and forced into immobility, constantly fed past my limit at all hours of the day, trained to cum dozens, if not hundreds, of times daily, made to drink and smoke loads of weed. Hell, i'll be so drunk that you could just feed me any drug you want. Please overfeed me, force me to black out, and make me to cum endlessly, you can have everything i have as long as you turn me into an immobile, drug-addicted whore. I want it to kill me so bad, for my last moments to be me cumming whilst choking on my own vomit, way too fucking immobile to even be moved past the doors. And best of all, no one would know what truly happened to me. Whilst everyone is grieving over the past me, im getting stuffed beyond my limit, unable to even remember my loved ones.
Locked away, bound, hidden from the rest of the world. Body restrained first by rope or chain, then something new. Fed, fattened, forcefully overfilled at every opportunity. A timer, a pump, a hose pushed down your throat, bypassing any attempt you make to stop. Every few hours, filled, like an industrial process, ensuring your stomach is at its limits. Continuing until you are gone - swallowed, smothered, suffocated, by enough lard that whoever you were is a minor detail to the mountain of malleable wobbling flesh you’ve become. Your basic autonomy is denied, left to be handled by your keeper. Any attempt to struggle, meaningless, silenced, by your own willingness to listen and follow your feeder to this place. Isolated, the only things visible being the feeding tube hanging from a mount above, a mirror failing to display just how obscenely overfed you’ve become, and a taunting chart showing a line spiking upward and various photos of what you can only assume are you at different stages of this process. When the feed pumping motor whirs off, the lights soon follow. Only turning on again when your body has created enough space to be filled again. You exist to eat. You are nothing without it, have nothing, can do nothing. Just lay there, fattening further and further, shocked at the start of every new day that you’ve somehow survived another night. Gasping, wheezing, struggling, eyes weeping at the realization that you can no longer see an end to the size of your own body, the folds of fat stretching too far beyond what limited head movement you are allowed. Until one day, the lights don’t turn on again.
turnnoffyourmind
yousharknotpass
dededos
andulkaphoto
origamiaround
