AuxFeed

Male, 30 yo, Extreme Feeder from Germany. 🇩🇪 Into dark kinks: XWG (Extreme Weightgain), Force Feeding, Immobility, DeathFeederism,...). NSFW. Stay away, if this kink isn't something for you to identify with. 🔞 Stay away, if you're not legally an adult yet.

[auxfeed]

Hey there,

thanks for visiting my Tumblr. This blog is all about the dark side of Feederism. I identify as a Extreme Feeder, so please stay away, if you are not into the following toppings:

- XWG (= Extreme Weightgain) 📈

- Force Feeding /Funnel Feeding / Tube Feeding 🍕🍔🍟

- Immobility 🛏

- Fat-related health issues 🩺

- Death Feederism ⚰

- BDSM ⛓

Stay away, if you're not legally an adult yet or don't connect with dark feederism stuff. It's not everyones' cup of tea, but please respect that it is mine. Thanks.

Enjoy your gluttony, piggies!

AuxFeed

[stronglyloudbasilisk]

I have prepared my dream (and probably unrealistic) time line for a feedee

Starting at the day then move in

First 6 months

All prior commitments will be cancelled (work, schooling, ect)

All social medial accounts that don't revolve around feedisum will be blanked out

There will be a push to sign you up for every available feedist community (more extreme the better

Daily calorie intake will sit around the 4000cal mark

Next 6 months

Contact with anyone not completely in support of your goal of immobility will be broken

You will have regular posts about your gains on any and all available feedist platforms

Any content that does not revolve around obesity and weight gain will be banned

An expected gain of 40-60lbs a year

First year

Trips from the house will be limited

Decreasing step limits will be applied

Most media will be replaced with feedist porn

10000cal minimum per day

1 funnel feeding per day

Increase rate of post of feedist content

Second year

Leaving the house will be disallowed

Trips from bed or couche will be severely limited

15000+ cal minimum per day

3 funnel feeding per day

Clothes will be disallowed

Only consumable content will be extreme feedist porn

Any communication on social media will be limited to extreme feeders and other pro death feedist feedees

Expected 100+ lbs per year gain

Third year

Any movement beyond 3 steps must be done by scooter or wheelchair

Minimum 4h of viewing extreme feedist porn per day

25000cal+ per day

Tube feeding is standard aside from the occasional food "treat"

Must spend 4+ hours a day tube feeding

Forth year

Involuntary immobility, you will be confined to bed regardless of current mobility status

35000+ Cal per day minimum, to be consumed primarily as fats and sugars cut with only a minimum of nutrition supplement

Every hour from wakeup to sleep will involve tube feeding and a constant stream of the most extreme feedist porn

Sleep will be deferred if calorie goal has not been met

Fifth year

24/7 live stream of you're immobile fourm

50000 cal minimum

All windows blocked, all clocks removed, no indicators of date or time

Feeding tube lives in your mouth

Diet is mostly fats

Sixth plus years (don't expect to survive this long)

No contact with outside world, other feedist included

24/7 feedist hypno playing for you

Feeding tube size increased and feed slop made even less healthy and even more fattening

Start of year calorie goal of 100000+ an additional 1000 a week to be added to the minimum every week for the rest of your life

Six years and I plan on taking you from a normal healthy person to the perfect feedee, no thought, no life, just growing, growing GROWING, all that matters is growing all that matters is more all that matters is your life cut short by obesity

[auxfeed]

Searched for this timeline to finally reblog it. So great written. 🐖 C'mon you piggies, give in and find yourself an extreme feeder. Let's see who makes it the furthest... 😈📈📆

[auxfeed]

Look at you.

You’re sweating again, and I haven’t even fed you yet. Just lying there, buried under your own blubber, pink and soft and panting like it’s work just existing. You make the bed groan louder than you do. Honestly, I’m not sure which is more strained — the mattress or your skin, stretched drum-tight over that monumental belly of yours.

"You're leaking again," I say with a little smirk, dragging a fingertip along the sweaty crease where your side rolls into your hip. The layer of fat there is thick, jiggling even from the lightest touch. "Poor thing. So overfed you can't even cool yourself properly."

You whimper a little — that pathetic, needy noise I’ve trained you to make. Half shame, half lust. Music to my ears.

Your belly dominates everything. It’s huge, grotesquely proud, rising in front of you like a fleshy hill, crisscrossed with stretch marks that shine under the overhead light. I cup the underside — it’s hot, heavy, almost too much for my hands. Not that you’d know. You haven’t seen your feet in a year. Maybe more.

"I can’t believe how far you’ve let yourself go," I whisper, feeding you the first bite of syrup-drenched pancake. You chew slowly, eyes fluttering. “No control. No dignity. Just lying there, waiting to be fed, like a piglet on its back.”

You try to shift — to move, to respond — but even that small effort makes your cheeks flush and your breath catch. Your own body is a prison now, built one bite at a time. And I hold the key.

"You wanted this," I remind you, voice low, coaxing. "Remember how cocky you were when we started? Said you'd never get that big. Said you’d stop before you lost mobility. Look at you now."

I slap your belly lightly — a soft, satisfying whump that echoes off your thighs. You groan, partly from the impact, partly from the reminder that you can’t even flinch away.

"You're mine," I say, leaning in, my voice syrup-sweet. "My spoiled, spoiled blob. A mountain of lard I keep fed and helpless. You can't even roll over without me pushing you."

Another bite. Then another. I press the shake to your lips again. You hesitate — full already, maybe even hurting — but I tilt it anyway. “Drink. That belly’s not done growing yet.”

You whimper as it goes down, eyes wet, belly churning beneath the surface. Every swallow is a surrender. Every breath, a struggle under the weight you’ve begged me to build.

And I know you love it. The shame. The helplessness. The way I talk to you like you’re not even a person anymore — just a thing to fatten and admire.

You're mine. My project. My prize. My pet. My pig.

And we’re not even close to done.

[auxfeed]

Up. Come on, wobble forward. I know it’s hard to move with that apron of belly hanging down, dragging like a wet tarp full of meat. But you’re going to do it anyway, because I’m tugging that collar, and when I pull — you follow.

Good pig.

You're sweating already. Just from standing. I can see your thighs trembling, your breath whining out like a busted bellows. But this is important. Today’s your check-in. I want to see the numbers. I want to document just how far you’ve fallen.

Let’s start with the tape.

Arms up. No, higher — or as high as they go now, which is barely past nipple-height with all that lard weighing you down. I wrap the tape around your gut, burying it beneath the folds, pressing into the warm, stretched-out blubber until I hit resistance. There. I pull it tight. You flinch. The flesh squirms around it.

“Eighty-nine inches,” I read out loud, slow, amused. “That’s over seven feet of belly, pig.”

You blush. I see you blush — somewhere under the puffed cheeks and the fat-padded neck, a bit of shame still flickers. Good. You’re supposed to feel it. You're supposed to feel exactly how unnatural you are.

“You know the average waist size for a healthy adult?” I murmur in your ear. “Thirty-four inches. That means you’re almost triple. You’ve got more belly in one side roll than most people have on their entire body.” I pad your blubbery gut that's hanging in front of me.

Then I slide the tape lower. Around the hips now. More numbers. I take my time.

“Your thighs — forty-three inches. Each. That’s a full waistline just in your leg. And your upper arms? Bigger than most gym guys’ chests. And not an ounce of muscle to show for it.”

You shift, awkward, half-aroused and half-horrified. Your eyes lower. But your body betrays you — the way you tremble, the way your breath comes faster. You want this. You need this. The shame only makes it sweeter.

Now the scale.

I tug the leash. You grunt, stumbling forward. It takes effort to hoist all that mass. Your belly slaps against your knees with each tiny step. But eventually, you make it. I guide you onto the platform — steel, reinforced. You pant, drool threading from your lip.

And then the number appears.

“936 pounds.”

I smile.

“That’s nearly five of them. A whole family’s worth of meat stacked into one greedy, wheezing carcass. And you’re still gaining. Still swelling. Still pretending this is just some kink and not full-blown biological ruin.”

I lean down. Grip a love handle. Knead it. Soft. Hot. Leaking sweat. “They’d be in shock if they saw you, pig. Just a regular person, walking past the grocery store scale, and there you are — almost a thousand pounds of bloat and feeder’s pride, barely mobile, breathing like you’re being strangled by your own body.”

You shiver.

You’re turned on.

I can tell.

Because this is what you really want, isn’t it? To be broken down into numbers. Into stats. To have someone take stock of the damage and call it beautiful. Or disgusting. Or both.

I pull the tape measure off you with a snap. You flinch.

I tug the collar, lead you back to the mattress, let you collapse into your own overfed ruin.

“Next month, we’ll pass a thousand. And then we start comparing you to livestock weights.”

You don't answer.

You just moan.

And I write down the numbers. Every one of them.

[auxfeed]

This one's very dark and quite explicit. Please only read it when you definitely are into the fantasy of Death Feederism. 🐷📈

You can barely breathe now, pig.

I watch your chest rise in those desperate, pitiful little jerks, gasping through layers of your own fat, drowning in yourself. And still, I lift the spoon. Still, I press food between your lips, even when your mouth barely opens — even when your eyes beg me to wait, to slow down, to give you a moment to catch your breath.

No.

You gave that choice up when you chose this life — when you squealed for more and let me break you into the animal you are now. There’s no pause, no mercy, no easing up. You exist to be filled, stretched, suffocated by indulgence. Every wheeze, every groan, every flicker of pain in those swelling eyes is another sign you’re mine.

You don’t get to stop now.

Your skin’s purple in places, where blood struggles to move under layers and layers of ruined tissue. Your belly is hot and red, split with stretch marks and sores, sagging across the mattress like an avalanche of spoiled meat. Your legs are useless. I don't even pretend to clean beneath you anymore — that part of you belongs to rot now.

But you’re still alive. And that means you can still eat.

I hear your lungs whistle when you try to speak, so I hush you like the dying sow you are. I don't need words. Just the faint tilt of your chin. Just the twitch of that overstuffed jaw. That’s enough. You want it. You always wanted this — to be force-fed beyond recognition, buried in your own fat, fed until the veins give out and the heart stutters under the weight.

I spoon in more. Grease rolls down your chin. Your nose flares like a panicked animal's. But I don’t stop. I won’t stop. I feed you through the coughing, through the choking, through the tears. Your life is measured in calories now, and I’m counting down the final thousand.

Every moan is a lullaby. Every new pound is a nail in your coffin — hand-carved by me, padded with your own flesh.

You begged to be ruined, and I listened.

And now, here we are. On the edge of the final binge. One more gallon of cream, one more tray of fried butter, one more bloated gasp for air. You’ll die the way you were meant to — helpless, hideous, magnificent. Surrounded by the wreckage of meals you were too weak to refuse.

You don’t get to stop now, pig.

You’ll stop when your heart does.

And not a second before.

[auxfeed]

You can barely breathe now.

That wheezing, shallow rasp that passes for your breath — it echoes between your chins and your bloated chest, rattling with every labored exhale. I can’t help but smile as I watch your eyes flutter, too tired to stay open, too full to rest.

I stand at the edge of the bed — or rather, what’s left of the space not taken up by you. You’ve sprawled outward in all directions. Flesh domes and folds and swells under thin sheets. There’s no position that’s comfortable anymore, is there? You’re just too far gone.

And all I can think is: you did this to yourself.

Well, with my help, of course.

"Feeling it now, aren’t you?" I ask, casually swirling a spoon through a bowl of melted ice cream I’ve brought you — not that your stomach could take another bite. “All that talk about how you wanted to see how far you could go… how massive, how immobile. Bet you didn’t think this far.”

I lean in, letting the spoon drip onto your lips — sticky, cold, useless. You turn your head just slightly, a wet grunt of protest escaping, but we both know you won’t refuse it long. You can’t. I trained you too well.

"Regretting it now?" I ask, mock concern in my voice. "Aw, poor thing. All that fat… and now it’s turning on you. Your heart races so much as I touch your belly. Your blubber lays heavy on the old matress that's left of your former world. Your legs are practically dead under the weight. You can’t even roll an inch without help. You're just… stuck in your own gluttony."

You blink slowly. Is that a tear? I can’t tell. Doesn’t matter. You should cry. You earned this.

I run my hand over the dome of your gut — tight and angry and stretched, but soft and flabby at its' bottom, where the main storage of your fat is located. The skin feels like it could split open if I fed you just a little more. And god, the noises you make now… you groan like something... dying.

"Remember when you used to fight me on portions?" I laugh. "You used to say, 'That’s enough for tonight.' What happened to that backbone, pig? All melted into blubber and backfat, huh?"

I slap the side of your belly — hard enough to make it quake. The wave of motion travels like a ripple through a sea of soft flesh. Your face winces, and I know it did hurt. Good.

"Look at you," I whisper, voice turning low and poisonous. "You thought you were chasing a dream. Some fantasy of softness and surrender. But now? Now you’re just a monument to excess. Too fat to move. Too broken to resist more food. Just the way I like it, piggy."

I straddle the side of the bed and press my cheek into your belly, listening to the gurgling churn inside. "You always asked what the limit was. I think we nearly found it. And guess what? There’s no going back. And we both know the end of our jouney is near."

You try to speak — but there’s nothing left in you but breath and sweat and shame.

"You wanted to be my pig. Well," I say with a grin, brushing hair from your clammy forehead, "pigs don’t get very happy endings." I hold the next spoonful of melted ice cream to your lips. "Come on, open wide. You have no choice anyway. Just accept your destiny and be one of those good pigs."

[auxfeed]

Finally. The last piece of chocolate dissappears in your mouth. You swallow one last time. Finally.

You managed to eat all of the food I've prepared for you in the morning. I told you to eat all of it until I'd come home in the afternoon. And you didn't dissappoint me. How do I know? I've watched you through your day. Secretely installing cameras in your room wasn't my worst idea. That makess it possible for me to watch your way of growing even when I'm not home. And be sure: I can see everything.

I have watched you procrastinating the whole day. Being nearly immobile now doesn't allow you too many activities besides watching tv or playing video games. All the food I prepared for you and placed within your reach was ready to be consumed. It's always a lot of work to buy and cook that many food for one single person, but you, my fluffy feedee, are definitely worth it. But you didn't eat and so the pizzas, the pasta and the sandwiches got cold while your sodas and candy bars got warm. I don't know why you didn't eat by a constant speed, but it isn't part of my business anyway.

I have watched you heaving yourself up to get to the bathroom. It's such a hard task nowadays, isn't it? Nearly 650lbs of heavy blubber pinning your body to the matress you are laying on nearly the whole day. Your massive sack of lard one calls 'belly' pulling on your frame once you manage to stand. Your spine bending under all the weight you have to carry. I love watching your face turn red and your breathing getting heavy from just waddeling a few steps. I love watching you trying to find your balance and trying not to tip over because of your heaviness. And I love watching the glad smile on your face when you finally lay yourself back down on the matress, your own reduced little world.

Then I have watched you realising how little time was left until I'd come home to you. I've seen your shocked face, the worries and the stress when you finally reached out for some food. I've watched you taking the first bite and then another and another. You sped up with every minute that went by. You ate like there was no tomorrow. You ate like a greedy, big pig. Why? Because you are one.

You didn't stuff yourself because you like that very much. Otherwise you could have done this the whole day. You also didn't gulped down all the food because you desperately want to gain weight. Neither did you eat because someone forced you. And you definitely didn't eat it because of good flavour as everything stood there for hours. No, you didn't.

You, my little piggy, finished all that food voluntary, because you didn't want to disappoint me, your master and owner. You wanted to meet my expectations as the obedient, submissive, greedy hog you are and I want you to be. You know that I expect you to consume your daily amount of calories to meet your weight goals set by me. That's why you started to eat. That's why you finished all of the food. You didn't care that in the meantime the pizza was literally swimming in lard or that the cake lost a bit of his shape. No, instead you liked the plates clean after wolfing down your calories. You didn't care about flavour, you didn't care about your health, your own will or your body. All you cared about was not to dissappoint me, your master, your owner. And that, my heavyload, makes you the perfect fattening pig.

Now let me enter your room and pad your swollen belly. You did meet my expectations, don't worry. But that doesn't free you from your daily fast food stuffing. I want to have fun, too. And I brought plenty of calories for you. So, lean back, open your mouth for me and show master that you give your life for him. A life lived as my own, obedient pig. Let's fatten you into the abyss, fatty.

[auxfeed]

Yeah, you heard right, piggy: I'm not very happy with you and your gaining rate. How should I, when you failed to achieve your prescribed monthly weight goal again?

You should yet be much fatter by now, you disappointing bag of blubber.

Remember what you agreed to when moving in two years ago? I bet you do, piggy. You promised to reach your goals and eat yourself into an early grave for the pure joy of both of us. So what's the matter? Your belly still doesn't hang to your knees. Your mobility is still there somewhere. And you still don't depend on oxygyn 24/7. You disappointed me, piggy. But I will get you where I want you - either with or without your "help".

The rules were clear: Your weight should always be equal to 35-times your age. And with you turning 23 years old today and weighing in at just 750lbs, there are at least 50lbs missing on your frame. 50lbs of heavy, clogging, soft, pure fat. And I won't give up what is rightfully mine. I will add those 50lbs to your body no matter what.

So here's the deal: you will be fed and fattened without any mercy from now on until your body is heavy enough for your age again. You need to finally lose your mobility and make it nearly impossible for you to breathe without supplemantal help. I need you so fat that your heavy blubber, that pins you down to your matress, reminds you every moment of your life who you are: You are my pig, my property to fatten how and how much I want. You're body is a bag to store as much fat in until it fits perfectly into a XXL-coffin made for blubber-pigs like you.

You are in a race, piggy, in a race against time. It had always be the common plan to give you the life, you demanded and begged me for: the life of a real pig: lazy and sluggish instead of fit and active, submissive and obidient instead of self-determined and independent, fat and heavy instead of thin and normal-figured and - most important to me - a short and unhealthy instead of a long and healthy life.

You know when I found out that you were the right one? It was when you told me that real hogs shouldn't make it to their 30s. That was when I first funnel-fed you. That's when both of us decided to make your wish become reality.

You ate so well in the last months and years, always keeping an eye on our goal. And I've always been proud of you for eating yourself closer and closer to your grave. But for some months now I can not longer be happy with you. You slowed down and didn't eat the necessary amount of food to keep your gaining ratecon track. I don't know why you did so. Maybe because of doubts that came into your mind now that the end is visibly near? Or maybe your overfed body just can't take much more food? Or is it because your arms become too heavy to lift them up and bring food to your once greedy mouth? Well, no matter what the reason is: I don't care! I do care about just one thing and that is your blubber destroying your body and shortening your piggish-life.

I will say it once again: 750lbs are not enough for a 23-year old hog like you. This is just not fitting our plans. So I will pump your body full of fat, sugary, calorie-laden food 24/7 from now on. No pause, no recovery, no mercy, until you catch up with your prescribed weight. It will be painful, stressful and exhausting for you and your body, but that's your own fault. And may every painful stuffing remind you on gaining faster again from now on. Real pigs achieve their weight goals in time. Because I like it to remind you to your own words: Blubber-pigs don't make it to their 30s!

[auxfeed]

Be a good pig and open wide for me, just like you always did, piggy. Enjoy those next bites - they will be your last. Today's the day, when I will deliver you from your suffering.

C'mon, fatty, don't look so shocked. You always knew that this day would come soon, didn't you? That's just a natural part of being someones deathfeedee. Just remember how often we spoke about death to prepare you for this day. And after you passed that magical 1000lbs last week, it's now time to call it a life and say goodbye as I'm already in search of your successor.

Remember when I asked you what you'd like as your last meal? You told me that you'd like pure grease to be your last "meal" as it would fulfill your life as a literal pig best. Damn, even I as your Deathfeeder was surprised just how f*cked up and what a naughty pig you are. Well, I hope foryou that you won't regret your choice, because I bought a lot of grease to fill both your huge body and those last hours of your life.

You always fantasized about growing huge as someones pig. So I fed you and you ate and ate and ate. Your fat became softer and your blubber heavier in no time. But the real fun began, when we both confessed to each other, that this was not enough; that this was not satisfying enough for both of us. We wanted more. Growing you into immobility became the next logical step. And after you became bed-bound you confessed to me with that naughty, piggish smile that you seriously could imagine being fattened to death by me. That's what made you the ideal hog to me.

It will now proceed as follows: I will feed you spoon after spoon full of fat, slobby grease and you will suck it down for me like the good pig you are, although you know that it'll kill you. Because you are gluttonous. Because you are greedy and submit to me, your feeder. I know that your body hurts. How couldn't it after we overfed you for so many years now. Face it, reality's kicking in: your body's about to give up.

You want your pains to release? Then be a good pig and eat yourself to death for me. This is my last command to you: Greedely suck down every spoonful of grease until that poor little overstuffed heart of yours stops beating. And be aware: we won't stop until you are dead, pig. Let's bring it to an end, pig. Open wide for me!

[auxfeed]

(This is kind of a second part to my contract-story as one of my followers wished for a continuation. But it also can be read seperately, of course. Enjoy!)

Oh you sick little piggy, what have you done? You just signed your fate and your own death. The ink on the contract is dry now, so there will never be a way back. This is it: you are my property now. My death feedee to fatten until the end... YOUR end.

Wll then, take your fucking clothes off, hog, and throw them in the trash over there. You won't need them ever again as you'll stay naked from now on, just like you agreed to in our contract. Oh, I like your heavy breathing you got just from stripping naked for me. Is little piggy exhausted from all the fat it grew already? Is little piggys' butt too wide for this tent-like pants? Or that belly too heavy for a long stand? Don't worry, hog, it'll all be over soon. All the pain, all the exhaustion. Although, actually, the real exhaustion comes through my feeding. And pain... lord... you'll experience so much pain now for your last years now. It'll be so much fun - at least for me.

Now, move your blubber over here and step on the scale. Yeah, I know, you can't read the number on it because of your huge, hanging gut. That's ok, none of your predecessors could. Let me just do this for you. Oh lord, you're definitely a big one. Piggy ate well, didn't it? Little piggy got a starting weight of already 480lbs. But still piggy wants to grow for me, doesn't it? Piggy wants to get fed and become much, much fatter, huh? Of course, you do. We'll, better waste no time then. Hurry up,pig, and waddle down the floor. Take your time and better take a look out of the window to see the beautiful sun and the blue sky out there. It'll be the last time...

Well, this is it: the stairs to my basement. The place you wanted to live so desperately since we first wrote. Here, take my hand, pig, and let me help and lead you downstairs. Oh, how it must hurt, when such a heavy body of yours crushes your poor knees with each little step. I do believe you, that it has to be so hard to move such an amount of fat even for a inch. Wobble wobble, makes the belly, huh? But don't worry, you are nearly done and... it's a one-way-walk for you anyway.

Yeah, fatty, you made it. Welcome to your new home! Just waddle those little fat feet of yours to your extra-wide bariatric bed. Good piggy, you do so well. Is your belly heavy? Are your thighs too thic to walk? Yes? Should we lay you down then and chain you to the bedframe like you agreed in the contract? We'll better do. Here, let me make room for you. These will be the last steps you'll take forever and I want you to feel them. I want you to get nervous, frightened, excited, anxious, glad, finally satisfied - all at the same time. Good piggy, move your blubber! And now... heave yourself up!

This was it, piggy. These were your last steps. This is the place you'll stay in for the rest of your days. I'll feed you down here, you'll grow for me down here and - of course - you'll die down here. Now you finally are what you ever wanted to be: a real, serious death feedee. With a feeder that fattens you until your heart stops beating. Congrats, piggy! Let me just fix those chains to your wrists and ankles and then the fun begins...!

[auxfeed]

Good Morning, piggy. I see you survived another night. Honestly, I'm a bit surprised, that you opend your eyes once again. The way we fed you the last weeks and days should have already stopped your little, overfed heart from beating. But somehow you managed to live on for at least another day.

Don't get me wrong, piggy, I'm glad that you decided to continue your gaining for another day. Although seeing already deep into deaths' cold eyes, you are now able to open your mouth wide again for me. And be sure: I will use every single second of this additional day to stuff another ton of fat, sugary slob down your greedy throat. And I know, you won't resist this time too as being fattend the hard and cruel way like an animal for slaughter is exactely what turned you on as long as you were my deathfeedee.

But, piggy, although it's great for me that you let me stuff you silly for another day, I think we have to speed up your fattening a bit. I know, you are already bedbound and far over 800lbs now and you can't survive for much longer, but... wasn't that always the goal for both of us? Didn't we met and got into a relationship with the intension to feed you and kill you at your fattest? I think it's time for you to go now, isn't it?

See, piggy, I've met someone online, who absolutely qualifies as your successor. Quite young, already really heavy and out of shape and - damn - willing to live in with me as my deathfeedee, that I'm allowed to kill by food - just like you. I've already set a date and we'll meet in the new year. Which leads me to the other 'problem': it's just two days now until New Years Eve and you are still living... but I already ordered your gravestone reading the current year. So... I think you see where all of that leads to, don't you, blubber blob? Let's speed up your fattening and intense your feedings. Because there's no doubt left: You'll have to die within the next 48 hours, pig. So open wide and enjoy your last stuffings, fat hog! Let us make your heart stop.

[auxfeed]

Open wide, pig. I know, you are dizzy. Everything you do is so exhausting, isn't it? Like... laying in bed, breathing, eating. I know, these are hard activities for you nowadays and I really wish for you, that it'll be all over soon. But until then, there's no other option but feeding you more. See, obviously you aren't at your max weight, because you do still live. So you haven't met your duty as my death feedee yet.

Let me just check those chains of yours, that I fixed you to the bedframe with. Great, they're still tight. I know, I know, we don't really need them anymore these days as you're bed-bound by your immobile, overfed body anyway. But you look so adorable to me with your wrists and ankles fixed to the bed 24/7. It just makes you look even more like my property, my plaything, my personal pig to store fat in.

So, here's the tube, piggy. Just wrap your greedy lips around it like always. Good pig, you are doing so well. It'll be pure lard this time. I melted it, so that there is a constant flow down your throat, and added a ton of sugar to it, so your arteries can clogg more again. I always liked the fact that there are animals who are fattened on purpose and are killed, when they are fat enough, only to produce meat and lard, which is then used to feed pigs like you with. Maybe that's why the scale already reads 982lbs. Maybe it's also the reason that you are completely immobile since years now.

Don't worry, t'll all be over soon just like we planned. Let me be honest: with your bad and declining health and that sheer amount of fat hanging off your body, laying infront of you on your matress and torturing your heart and lungs, you won't consume too much pig-lard any more. Maybe just a couple of gallons until that little blubber-wrapped heart of yours quits working and gives your poor life into deaths' cold hands. Don't act like you are shocked, I know you want it to happen, too, you fat, greedy hog. Who will die soon from it's gluttony? Yes, little piggy will. So, what about swallowing a bit faster for me, huh?

(The idea for this text came from a follower, whom I'd like to thank at this point. Just send me your story idea (death feederism related) and I'll try to write a story.)

[auxfeed]

Wake up, piggy! It's time for a little cleenup. Your room smells like a pig sty, so I might should change your bedsheets. C'mon, try to move that blubber of yours for me. Yes, I know it's hard for you these days, but we have to position you right for the crane to lift you up. Help? Oh, piggy, not so quick. I can't tell you how hot it is to me seeing you struggle so much under your weight and your fucked-up health. I just love it that you've let me feed and fatten you this huge. I'm so proud of you, little blob. Most people would have stopped consuming any calories after having their knee broken under their own mass. Not you - you ate and ate and ate, until your bariatric bed became both your home and your prison. C'mon, pig, no tears this time. You knew exactely how all of this would end the moment you gave in to your desires and moved in with me. Like hogs are born to be slaughtered when they are fat enough, you were always meant to be a DeathFeedee. Now you're mine and it's up to me how heavy and fat you'll become. You. Have. No. Choice!

Well, back to our stinky problem here, huh? Let me just pull you up by the crane so that I can clean up your bed. Here we go - 1, 2, 3... why doesn't it move? It's supposed to hold a weight of 1000lbs. Damn, piggy, I can't believe it! You must have met a new milestone! You just broke our crane; a crane that's made for the heaviest of the heavy! Why do you sweat so much, piggy? Does having reached such a high weight turn you on, hog? Face it: you are finally immobile now. There's no way left of moving your blubbery, overfed, fat-filled body of yours. Neither me, nor a machine will move you from now on, pig. Not even the bed can be cleaned.

It's official: sooner or later you'll die in these bedsheets. I'm going to feed you, and you will eat like the good piggy you are until your heart will stop and your gluttony will end your worthless life. And after you dissapeared from this world, I'll finally be able to change the bedsheets - for your successor, you know. Let's see how fat we can make you until then.

[auxfeed]

Welcome back, piggy. How do you feel? Tired? Well, no wonder. You had another heart attack and were dead for a couple of moments. Yes, no heart-rate, you were "flat-lined" - again. Why so sad, piggy? Are you disappointed?

Of course, you are. I'm sure you hoped to die this time. Because death would let you escape from the hell you call your everyday life. But I own you and I decide when you are allowed to die, piggy. I brought you back to life - again. Because you are still not fat enough for me. Yes, I appreciate it that you just had your third heart attack today. But as long as the scale doesn't read the big 1000lbs, you have to keep on living - with all the pain, all the suffers and your declining health.

You know, piggy, I should be proud of you as it is your biggest wish nowadays to die. This is what you were born for in my opinion: being fattened by me until your body can't take another calorie and just gives up. And that's what I think is appropriate for a serious DeathFeedee. But: I want you to suffer even more. I want your health getting worse and your BMI raise more and more. Shut up, pig, it doesn't really matter to me how you feel. You belong to me and you depend on my mercy. But: there won't be mercy too soon. As long as I can bring you back to life, I'll do it. But I won't do it to rescue you. No, I'll just do it to feed and fatten you up further.

You won't go nowhere, not even death. Until I, your master, feeder and owner allows you to finally end your life for me as at the heighest possible weight. So better open wide, piggy, and let me pump the next 5000 calories down your throat.

[auxfeed]

Are you really sure, you want this, piggy? Remember, signing this contract won't be a temorary thing. It will have a permanent impact to your life. Let me sum it up for you one last time.

By signing you'll submit your body, soul and life completely to me, your feeder. I will own you then, just like a slave or a pet or an object, to which I can do whatever I want. Immediately after signing the contract, you'll be stripped naked and lead into the cage in the basement, your new home, where you'll spend the rest of your life. You'll never see the sunlight again as I prefer your skin and your fat, that you'll grow for me day by day, very pale, little piggy. There also won't be any social interactions. For the rest of your life, which won't be very long of course, it'll just be me, you and your fat. You'll dissapear completely from this world. Will they search for you? Maybe. Will they find you? Never! Maybe just see my basement already as your grave and the cage, in which you'll fatten up, as your coffin, piggy. Oh, I can tell you that you can't even imagine what gaining as my DeathFeedee will feel like. Listen carefully: there won't be any humanity left, no respect, no mercy. There is no chance for you to change your mind, escape or just leave. No, if you sign this contract, you will die within the next 3-5 years, promised. Because I want it to happen. Because I will push food inside your poor body like it was a bag to store blubber in. Because I'll pump your arteries full of sugar until your body gives up. Because I won't see you as a human being anymore. You'll just be a project, a job to be done. You aren't the first one and, of course, you won't be the last one I've fattened to death. So the only question is: will you becone the fattest one to die down there?

Here, piggy, take my pen. What are you going to do? Oh you sick little fatty, you definitely are the pig I've searched for.

[auxfeed]

Look, piggy, you received an email on your old email-account. It's from one of your former schoolmates. Should I read it for you? Yes? Well, it's adressed to all the people of your former class to meet for a ten-year-reunion in about six months. Oh piggy, isn't it adoreble that they think you still belong to them?

I remember when you told me how big you've already been back in your schooldays. That you easily doubled most of your classmates in weight. That you had problems sitting normally on the chairs and that you'd even broken some. You were always the biggest, weren't you? So just think about the current situation then...

Most of your former classmates live perfect lives, don't they. And while they do, nobody could even imagine what happened to you in these last ten years. There are people, who founded a family, for example. All while you submitted to me and fattened up for me like none of them could even imagine. At a gaining rate of nearly 70lbs per year, you added 700lbs of extra fat and blubber to your already big frame, weighing down now at an enormous and supersized 985lbs. And while all those now successful women and men out there work on their careers in good jobs everyday, your only job is to lay here naked in your bariatric, reinforced bed and eat your life away for my pleasure like the good pig you are. Like them you also achieved a lot of hoals in your life - just... different. They got married to their partners, you got owned by me, your feeder and master. They built houses, you trapped yourself inside your own body on purpose. They travel around the world, while you can't move a single finger nowadays.

So, imagine if we'd find a way to move you to the reunion. What would all these people, your former classmates, feel, when they saw you? Would they be embaressed? Would they feel sorry for you? Would they be disgusted? Would they laugh at you? Whould they tell you that they'd always knew how you would end up, you fat fuck? Well, probably all together, don't you think?

Let's face it, piggy: you won't go there anyway. Because you have a job to do, a very important job. There's still not enough fat hanging off your body. And you are still able to breathe way too good. We should change that, shouldn't we? And while all of your classmates will meet in a couple of month to celebrate their reunion, I'm pretty sure, you won't even make it until then, you fat, greedy hog. Here, piggy, eat something. Make me proud and eat yourself to death, fat pig!

[auxfeed]

Ok, piggy, I will remove your blindfold now, so don't be afraid. Well, much better now, isn't it. Oh, I see: piggy wonders, where I've brought it. Piggy isn't sure about why we are at a farm. Well, it's because we need to get you weighed here, fatty.

Yes, you've heard me right. Remember the last times when we weighed you at home? You couldn't see the numbers on the scale because of your huge gut hanging infront of you nearly to your knees. So I read your weight for you - or, at least, estimated it. Why? Because our 700lbs-scale at home read "ERROR", piggy. And that was some months ago. So I brought you here to the farm. Why? Because they have a cattle-scale here. Yes, you heard right: a cattle-scale. A scale, that isn't made for humans, but for livestock. For pigs, greedy, fat, overfed pigs. They usually weigh them to control their fattening progress or to check if they're ready for beeing slau... well, you certainly know, don't you? So... no big difference to you, pig, huh?

Why so scared, big hog? Did you really believe me, when I told you, that you plateaued at 690lbs? Come on, just look at you. All this blubber on your heavy, jiggly belly, those big thighs or your wide wobbly ass - didn't you recognize how you ballooned for me? I bet you did!

So, move forward, piggy! Better hold your balance on the walk to your destiny: being weighed like lifestock, ready to be fattend like a real pig. Move your blubber, hog, and step onto that scale. I bet, it will read a four-digit number soon...