If feedism, hedonism, and excess aren't your thing, then go!
Oh and also if you fuck with the current government then you can fuck off too
Tags I use:
#violet rambling - any text post that's not a story
#violet stories - any story I write
#violet scenes - short kink blurbs over pics of anime women
#fat girl pussy - I can't shut the fuck up about it, it's the best
#hot fat women - self explanatory(reblogs)
#fav text posts - wg/fat/feedee text posts(reblogs)
#feedist discourse - shit I think is morally sound when it comes to living as a feedist, if you think I'm wrong on something reblog it and tell me cause I'm down to change my mind if you have a good argument
I'm no longer sure if this is me simply being too passionate or being obsessed at this point, but there's nothing as beautifully artistic as fat, how it creates curves that go outwards, rolls that stack upon each other from many angles and a softness that is one of a kind.
It's a whole experience like no other with unlimited beauty, especially since everyone carries extra weight differently, those little details only make it even more enchanting to me.
I only desire to one day sink into that softness and make it more abundant with my feeding hand.
Probably a lil bit of both but that's why we have tumblr, so we can say shit like this without being seen as massive weirdos
Like there's no where else on the Internet id feel comfortable saying that the section of a fat woman's back/armpit thing when she's wearing a bra that is clearly too tight is easily a top 3 most attractive part of a fat woman. Like that over hang made by the bra strap that you can see from behind and even through a shirt most of the time? That's that good shit right there. Titties? Cool. Belly? Awesome. Thighs/Ass/Double Chin/whatever it's all great but the niche parts that only exist at a higher weight are enchanting
My wife told me that the idea of me getting too big to leave the bed without her help turns her on more than anything else. This past year she’s been feeding me like it. I consume a daily intake enough for three people. Chug down an ice cream shake every night. My tits have gotten so big they wrap around to my back fat. My belly apron feels so heavy when I waddle. I spend most of the day in bed. A stay at home pig husband.
I haven’t been anywhere in months. I no longer have a wardrobe that fits me. My upper arm fat is starting to fold over my elbows. My wife pinches and jiggles it as she hand feeds me cookies, cake, donuts, whatever we have.
I’m not capable of penetrative sex anymore. I can’t fuck her. Too much of my cock is submerged in fat pad. “I want it completely buried,” my wife said the other day. “I want you stuck in bed eating for me. So loyal you eat yourself to the point your dick is buried.”
I don’t know how I avoid this fate. Or the fate of needing her help to get out of bed. She almost always gets what she wants.
Pre breakfast snack POV: when you're this skinny, you have to start your day off right, by eating 2300 calories of biscuits before you even touch your breakfast : ) lots of talk in this one
thinking about enabling and coddling a big fatboy. Bringing him food and refilling his plate as soon as he’s finished one up. “Sit down babe I’ll go get you more.” Watching him eat past his limits, belly pushing out further and further into his lap. Him squirming in his seat so uncomfortable from his stuffed belly. “Oh no did you eat too much again honey? Does your poor belly hurt?” Hearing him whine and try to soothe his own bloated belly. “It’s okay you just got too excited I’ll rub your belly for you. Lift up your tummy I’ll help you unbutton those tight pants.” 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻
Getting fat can be on accident, not on purpose at all, just life getting in the way or maybe being a bit too lenient with what you eat, nothing too special or spectacular. Even in the feedism space, gaining all on your own can be rewarding, sculpting your body with food and pleasure is gratifying and sometimes the speed in which you gain can be accidental.
But nothing can compare to being fattened up, to have an audience that desires to see you blow up as much as you desire it, or better yet, to have a sweet feeder that dotes on you and your growing body.
Someone to grab at your extra softness and admire the amazing work you've done at fattening yourself up, only to tell you how much they want to fatten you up some more, to leave new stretchmarks on you and make you carry new pounds on your already plush frame.
The sweetest of pleasures, having a feeder to push you and having a feedee that desires the exact same and even more. Wouldn't you like to have that? For me to mark you with my desire, to see you fatten up by my own hand, for you to grow plumper under my gentle care and loving praise, to shape you as my feeder heart desires, shower you in affection every time you get to milestone and celebrate it with a massive feast.
It's amazing how the difference between soooo many obese people and those who are mattress sized, wheezing blobs is usually just a little bit of enabling.
Think about that. You don't have the will power to stop yourself from becoming too fat to care for yourself. You are closer to those horror stories you see on TV, or read online, than you realize. "They were too big to leave their home. Stuck in bed all day long."
It doesn't feel so sinister at the start. Being 200, 300, even 400lbs. Sure, you have food brought to you. Chores are being handled. Bills are paid. The occasional day happens where you feel like a bottomless pit. Eating close to 10,000 calories during an all day binge, on a whim.
Those are not the habits of someone who envisions being able to walk in a few years. In fact, that's a type of day that might even exceed what many folks who are bedbound typically do.
But it's innocent, because you aren't bedbound, right? It's a fun game. How far do you let this go before you come to grip with reality.
Too food motivated to turn down anything brought to you. A meal that starts feeling laborious doesn't matter. You are hooked on the sensation of eating. Conditioned to finish everything in front of you.
You don't bother thinking about how much activity was taken from you by being enabled. Steps dropping from the thousands into the hundreds. You can't remember the last time you consciously stood for any period of time. You're only upright when taking those precious few steps.
Changes, accommodations, they are in the name of comfort. There's no worry. You have food. Your partner kisses you. You feel safe.
You go from bathing standing up, to sitting in a shower chair, to needing extra hands to keep yourself from tiring. It feels like a relief when the offer comes to wash you down in bed. Instead of getting out of bed, shuffling to the shower, shuffling back to bed, and being repositioned again (each action bringing you to exhaustion), you can basically lay still. Bond with your partner.
Sleeping evolves in its own way. You need to be elevated. A CPAP is prescribed. Food comas during the day make you restless at night. You lazily tap your partner in those odd hours. You're awake. You need food to doze off again. Never mind that your bed was upgraded to a automatic, reclining bed. A warning sign of being so weak is brushed over.
Your final moments of independence slip away just as easily. At some point, you're pushed into a routine to keep yourself from developing bed sores. Every few hours, you need to be told to turn. You need help. Your legs are too heavy to move on their own. Your waist is too wide for you to build momentum to turn. Your chest keeps you pinned against your pillows. You need help turning, rolling in bed.
One of you is reading this right now. You're hundreds of pounds away from this fate, but you're incapable of stopping it. Rationalize how you must. It's just another big meal. It's just one more day keeping off your feet...
"fat fetishists who don't care if their victim dies enable them"
"their partner is always skinny because they know how bad being fat is"
"lotta dudes want that disability check for taking care of a fat ass"
"narcissists and manipulators love a victim who can't run away"
Plus the good ole "the fatties who claim they're into it are just lying to themselves and lazy"
And of course the incels saying stuff along the lines of "even a bed ridden female is more valuable than the average male in our wokeified world" TAKE A SHOWER AND GET OFF OF 4CHAN HOLY SHIT BRO
He does so, looking up at me, eyes dull and unfocused. His mouth widens, his tongue dripping with saliva, all too ready for his next mouthful of food, rich and fattening. His belly gurgles, already stuffed full, but his mind doesn't register its fullness. All he knows is hunger and the desperate need to sate his appetites.
Stroking his chins with my thumb, I guide heaving handfuls past his lips, already sullied by previous stuffings. I rub his bloated cheeks as he ravenously feeds, moaning and grunting between swallows. I kiss the folds of his neck as he sucks my fingers clean, not wanting to miss a crumb. My lips meet his, tasting the heavy sweetness on them. Good piggies need to be loved, nurtured.
I can feel him throb between my thighs. The one part of him that isn't completely enveloped in layers of blubber and bloat. Conditioned to connect feeding with intense arousal, he can't help but get hard as soon as his mouth is full. His belly quivers slightly as he thrusts involuntarily, weakly. His body is too heavy to exert that kind of energy but he wants, needs it so badly.
Piggies need to feed. Piggies need to breed. And my piggy will have both in abundance.
Hehe, having your gainer partner do the driving on a road trip, ordering them when to stop for food. You’ll lean over their protruding belly to bark off menu items they’ll be eating, can’t help but feel them shift their legs together as it keeps coming.
You’ll be sat in the passenger seat unwrapping and feeding them every little food in the over stuffed bag, the small one is for you since you can’t keep much down on a bumpy road. One hand rubbing their growing belly, shifting a little when they feel the steering wheel start digging into them while trying to drive still.
At the first rest stop you two hit, they’re stuck in the driver seat. Top of their belly is distended and shining red while the rest of their belly sags between their chubby legs. Looking up at you with a begging puppy look in their eyes, they ask that you lower the seat and help them slide out. You wrap an arm as far around their waist as you could and help them to the passenger seat where they can finally recline and digest.
Getting back onto the road, and a grumble sounds off from the passenger while they snore away. You’re pulling into a drive through again before they crack their eyes open. Waking up by the time you grab the first bag from the window and plop it on their lap and they dig in immediately, not even noticing the two others you put in the back seat.
Those three bags were enough to nearly send them back off to sleep but those damn bumps in the road are just dislodging burp after burp in them, you can see a bit of nausea in their face but you tell them to hold on as you’re just around the corner from the house
Like please make me under dress and take me to the one food court you know has the best fast food I can’t say no to.
Please get everything with extra sauce and mayo on whatever it applies for.
Please “Forget” the tissues and napkins when you come over with the first of six trays of this meal.
Please just sit across from me without making a peep, just rubbing my thigh and under belly with your foot while I grind against the chair and eat faster.
Please wipe the edge of my lips and call me messy when the rest of my face is covered in sauce and grease.
Please keep rubbing my belly while the elastic waistband slips down and my belly pushes forward.
Please rub small circles around my belly button cause you know it’s become so sensitive I can cum from it.
Please keep fetching the other trays just before the last one runs out.
Please force me to waddle out leaning on your shoulder cause I’m not fat enough for the scooters.
Please rub my belly while I burp and moan the whole way there.
Please tease me for making such a fucking mess of myself the entire way, whispering just loud enough for the passerby’s to hear you.
"Good piggy..." I murmur, mounting the immensely bloated man beneath me. Or at, least, what was once a man.
His gut, previously flat, now protruding heavily upward and outward, swollen, the skin taut and adorned with stretch marks. Tiger stripes on a hog.
His limbs, once fully flexible, now pinned in place, their dexterity lost to the weight they now carry. Arms that he can barely lift, elbows lost to layers of fat, wrists as thick as his forearms, and his fingers... Now doughy digits that can only paw and rub. His legs utterly useless, immovable on their own. Thighs usually pressed hard together now spread apart, for access to the only part of him that isn't wholly blubbery and soft.
"Good piggy..." I moan, as he mindlessly thrusts into me, plumbing my tight depths. He grunts, groans, squeals. His eyes listless and dull, a window into his emptied mind. He used to think so much. Too much. I relieved him of such stress. Broke his mind entirely, so his only thoughts now lingered on feeding, fucking and sleeping. So basic. A good hog doesn't fret about the concerns of superior minds.
"Good piggy!" I gasp, his thrusts gaining strength and speed. He knows what he wants. To come, hard, inside his beloved Goddess. To fill her with his hoggish seed. To fill that which has filled him. Cyclical. His entire existence revolves around filling. To satisfy and to be satisfied. He's desperate to please, to know that he is a...
"Good piggy..." I sigh, as he pumps his seed inside of me, flooding my womb. Breathless, I collapse into him, his massive belly, covered in folds and rolls, cushioning me. He grunts happily, his thickened fingers rubbing against my naked skin. Bellies pressed tightly together, hot, sweaty and sticky, my lips kissing his softly as he pants, his breathing laboured.
She opens another tub of ice cream, the combination of excitement, the coldness and a sugar rush making her hands quiver. Clumsily, she spoons multiple scoops into her bowl, already streaked with previous portions, blobs of cream, chocolate and fudge sauce smeared on the edges. In a stroke of what she considers genius, she reaches above her, with some effort, into the cupboard, feeling around for the packet of chocolate digestives she left in there. Her pudgy hands making contact with it, she pulls it out, giggling to herself softly. Ripping the packaging open, she grabs a hefty handful of the biscuits, crushing them between her doughy palms, crumbling the remains over her ice cream, licking the crumbs and melted chocolate off of them once she's satisfied with the mountain she's built.
Waddling the few steps from her kitchen to her living room, she throws herself onto her sofa, ignoring the crack and creak of the long-suffering frame beneath her, and settles back in to her favourite position: horizontal, on her back, her belly rising and falling softly, her view of her lower half a distant memory. Resting her slowly melting bowl of creamy, crumbly slop on her chest, her breasts falling either side of her, she sighs, reaching awkwardly down her side to wrestle the television remote from beneath her bloated rolls, ready for another evening doing what she does best: stuffing her face.
On the coffee table, pulled close for convenience, piles of her favourite snacks. Chocolate wrappers torn and discarded carelessly. Cans of her current favourite soft drinks, all drained dry. Greasy takeaway boxes scraped clean of their contents. She's eaten particularly well today, and she can feel it. Her stomach feels dense, gurgling almost constantly, digestion trying to match the pace of her consumption. Her face sticky, remnants of past food sitting in the corners of her mouth, her tongue darting between her lips occasionally to try and lick it off.
“This will surely be my last snack tonight” she thinks to herself, knowing full well that she's lying to herself. She spoons mouthfuls of ice cream and biscuits into her mouth, dripping it down her chins as she reaches back into the bowl. She knows once she's finished this, she'll be struggling to get off the sofa once again, ready to rummage through her fridge, freezer, cupboards, for that “final snack” that will definitely fill her up. A routine well practiced, day after day, yet never mastered.
Another night, lost to gluttony, and she couldn't be happier.
I think it's time, don't you? We're past the point of things being a little tight…
I mean, if you're asking, you are sort of… spilling out of your shirt. Not like a lot... but definitely more than you can see past that belly of yours.
No no, it's not just this shirt, it's like all of your shirts at this point. Did you not notice you've been tugging them back down all the time? It's not the dryer, my clothes are all totally fine.
It's nothing to worry about! Just a bit of belly. Okay, maybe more than a bit… it's just a few stretch marks, don't be dramatic...
And if we're already going shopping, maybe some bigger pants, too?
It's just that I've seen those red lines on your waist and hips when you unbutton your jeans. And you've been getting kind of out of breath trying to button them. And your sweatpants are getting kind of stretched out. I threw out that grey pair where the elastic snapped... those things were on the verge of shredding, like one good meal away.
I'm not saying you're fat, you're just… a little bigger than you used to be, you know? Your body changes over time, it's totally normal. You've got a bit of an appetite… not to mention more than a bit of a sweet tooth.
I really don't think it's good for you to be squeezed into uncomfortable clothes that don't fit all the time, that's why they make bigger clothes! So you can fit into them! For a little while, at least.
Maybe, just hear me out for a second, we go up… two sizes?
I know, I know. Once there's multiple extras in front of the "large" it sounds really, really big, but this way there's no way they'll feel tight on you! You can have a big dinner, sneak some of your late night ice cream, and still—
Yes, I know about the late night ice cream. Your shirts get these little chocolate drips on them... And you're not exactly graceful getting in and out of bed at this size.
Anyways, I think two sizes up, don't you? Good.
I'm not enabling you, I'm just… making sure you're comfortable and happy... and full.
I know that look, you're hungry again aren't you? We'll stop for milkshakes on the way home, you love a midday milkshake. Not wasting any time starting to fill out those new clothes right away, huh?
Your belly spills out of all your shirts. You're getting a little too wide for the dining room chairs. The seat in the car is already set back as far as it can go.
It just feels like you keep getting bigger and bigger, doesn't it?
It's really on me for leaving all that food at home for you gobble up during your work day. For cooking every meal and making sure there's plenty of leftovers for you to enjoy later.
Even if I wasn't literally feeding you, I should've known you can't help yourself around fattening stuff, right?
I guess I should've hesitated when you asked for thirds at dinner every night. Maybe I shouldn't have made a habit of giving you extra dessert after every meal. Maybe doubling recipes when you told me you couldn't stop eating my cooking wasn't what you really needed.
I suppose I could have enabled you a little bit less, maybe that would've helped?
When it started taking you a couple tries to get up off the couch, I could've told you that you needed to get your own afternoon ice cream instead of bringing you the container and a spoon. When you started waking up in the night because you'd gotten so hungry after not eating for a few hours, I could've told you that regularly eating five or six full meals was too much instead of microwaving leftovers and letting you suck down a creamy milkshake.
But… I mean, if we're being fair… you did eat it all, didn't you? Like, every time?
You always eat everything. You really haven't even tried to stop yourself, have you?
Maybe you can't… I mean you never fail to empty your plate, no matter how much I give you.
I guess you have gotten a little heavy at this point, haven't you? Huh.
But let me guess.
You're hungry now, aren't you?
I can tell by that look on your face. The way your belly seems soft, when it longs to be strained with way, way too much food.
It's okay, let's get you something heavy and filling to eat.
It's not like you're gonna get that much bigger, right?
You can just blame me if you get any fatter, okay?
He's standing in the frozen section, carefully considering two cartons of ice cream in his hands. The plumpness of his neck is pushing the fullness of his round cheeks almost into his glasses, but he's reading the nutrition facts too intently to notice. His shirt, pulled tight across the doughy orb of his belly, doesn't quite cover his whole middle like it used to. There's a bit of a chill from the freezers creeping onto the bottom of his belly, hanging dough-like below the bottom of his shirt, but he's used to that by now. Outgrowing clothes has been happening more and more.
His feeder strolls up beside him, pushing a cart that is filled with enough food to be comfortably beyond a normal shopping list's worth. "We can just get them both," his feeder says, pressing their hand on his back, right at the spot where they know his soft rolls meet. The softest touch, the firmest reminder that they know exactly what to say and how to push his buttons. His overflowing belly is evidence enough of their effectiveness at stoking his gluttony.
He doesn't always go grocery shopping. He sort of likes sitting the trip out, then marveling at the bags of food his feeder returns home with, a building sense of anticipation and eagerness as he watches them unpack everything and wonders how quickly he'll eat through it all. How fast it will disappear into his ravenous belly and cake onto his body with more soft fat. The effect, he finds, is even more exciting at the store. Aldi shouldn't be erotic, but watching his feeder select item after item, stacking his favorites into neat piles in the cart, has him tantalized.
"Both?" he says, sarcastically. "What, are you trying to make me fat or something?" The grin on his round face makes his feeder want to peel the lid off the carton and push a mouthful of ice cream into him on the spot, but they know this dance well enough to let the anticipation stoke until they get home, when he'll plop down on the couch, his shirt will be peeled off, and every tiny moment of this outing will bubble back up in a furious frenzy of feeding.
"This one," he says, holding up the Premium-branded vanilla, "has the most calories per serving. So if we're getting two…" he continues, bending down to swap the inferior ice cream for a second Premium carton, the slightest contortion pulling his shirt up further and letting his love handles gently sag over his waistband. "We need to get the Premium stuff."
He smirks, pleased with himself. "Caloriemaxxing," he decides, patting his belly proudly after adding both cartons to the cart. "I can only fit so much ice cream in here, so I've gotta make sure every bite counts."
"Trendy," his feeder grins back. There's unmistakable pride there. Almost as greedy for him to balloon heavier and heavier as he is. His feeder grabs a third carton and adds it to the cart, this time glancing at the nutrition label for themselves. "Three thousand calories," they say, cocking their head to the side, sizing him up as though there's any doubt that every morsel in the cart is going to end up packed into his belly over the coming days. "I'm sure we'll fit it in."
Now he's thinking about it, too. How he's going to fit in all this eating. His appetite is growing, sure, but this is a lot of food. He surveys the contents of the cart a little closer, trying to do the mental math of how many days of constant snacking and nights of being so stuffed it almost hurts will be needed to eat his way through this. He thinks of how much tighter his clothes will feel in a week. In a month. At this rate, nothing will fit by the end of the year.
They haul their winnings to the checkout, he's watching as his feeder pulls out the items one-by-one, like it's a trailer for the feature film that will be his (over)feedings for the rest of the week.
There are the staples, sure. Eggs, bacon, pasta. Things his feeder will use to make rich, oversized meals.
But then there's the extra stuff; the supplemental calories that take him from overeating to overstuffed.
Peanut butter, which he keeps beside his bed to eat by the spoonful when he gets that itch to fit a few more calories in before going to sleep. It's gooey and thick in his mouth, but he constantly surprises himself how quickly the jar empties.
Heavy whipping cream, which his feeder seems to find myriad ways to sneak into all manner of food. Sometimes he can tell when it's been added by the itching he feels on his deepening stretch marks.
Coffee creamer, which he used to add copiously to his morning coffee, but lately he's taken to chugging down on its own. After trying it once, the feeling of letting it dribble down his fat face and chest after he's eaten as much solid food as he can, but knows he needs more to reach his belly's limit, has meant running out of creamer more and more often.
And, of course, the Premium ice cream, which he knows he'll be eating straight from the tub during work tomorrow. He'll probably finish it before lunch, but if he doesn't he can just drink the softened remnants.
Maybe the extra carton will get blended into a late-night milkshake, he thinks, letting his hands rest on the lowest part of his belly and thinking about his feeder pouring the creamy, fattening slurry down his throat as his strained belly wobbles against their lap as they're sinking into his.
He's lost in his reverie until his feeder's hand is on his middle, gently pulling him back. The groceries are bagged. And now he's even more hungry, from all this thinking about eating. Aldi shouldn't be erotic, he reminds himself.
He thinks about eating all the time, the grocery store and food take on whole new levels of meaning. He's thinking about what he can start eating in the car on the ride home, he needs something to snack on after all this walking and all these indulgent thoughts.
