It is late at night while you prepare the pig's snack. Ha, "snack" is just a fancy word for the 3 liters of soda, chips, Doritos, cookies, and whipped cream that the pig likes to eat before his humiliation and subsequent handjob session. Preparing the pig's nightly snack is relatively simple, as most of his food is already prepared; it’s just a matter of reaching for it and opening it. No major concentration is needed compared to dinner, first lunch, or second lunch. Therefore, this service gives you time to think—something that, between the excitement of watching the pig ruin himself and managing his care, isn't always readily available.
It is at this moment that you look closely. You observe how the house has deteriorated under the weight of this pig and his predecessors; some wooden floorboards look warped, and you will surely have to replace them soon. From a distance, you can see that the pig's favorite armchair is breaking; you know it’s time to reinforce some of the furniture. You let out a long sigh, and a question flashes in your mind, taking you by storm like lightning on the darkest night: IS IT WORTH IT? Why? Why?
As you wheel the cart toward the pig's feedlot down the long, narrow hallway, the question repeats itself over and over in your head until you reach the door to his pen. Standing in front of it, you take a deep breath and enter. The first sight couldn't be clearer: right in front of you is a pet with flabby, greasy, heavy arms; a massive belly marked by long, red stretch marks; skin glistening with grease; and a face carrying a blank, foolish expression—almost identical to that of a drug addict. His legs are two enormous hams; you can see the veins with the naked eye, as poor circulation is blatantly obvious in him. His immense fupa drapes over his groin, causing a near-hermaphroditic appearance, and his chest is heavy, though not yet massive. To anyone else, this would be a grotesque scene worthy of a documentary; to you, it’s just another day. Usually, you would look at him with desire, with lust, with the wicked gaze of someone who knows they are responsible for a catastrophic event—but not today. The feeder is lost in his own thoughts, so he almost half-heartedly lays out the food for this flabby mass of fat, which devours the meal in a beastly manner, like a starving animal. You don't enjoy the act, because that previous question has captured your mind.
On his part, this person—reduced to a pet—engorged the food rapidly, leaving behind a mess worthy of any pigsty. Normally, that would cause concern in anyone, but in the pig, you can only observe pleasure. He feels deeply satisfied with his performance; what's more, he wants his master to reward him for it, as he believes he has done a good job. However, looking up at his master, he manages to barely make out that his owner did not enjoy his degrading act; on the contrary, he ignored it. Because of this, he decides to remain half-seated on his bed/personal feedlot. This otherwise normal movement leaves him profoundly exhausted. After a few seconds to catch his breath and without a clear thought, he decides he must speak to his feeder:
"—Uff, puff, y-y-you are not pleased with your pig's actions. Tonight, my lord, I have acted against your burppp... designs."
A surprised feeder decides to be honest, as he didn't expect his concern to show on his face. In an honest but serious tone, he speaks to his animal:
"—No, pig, you were magnificent. It’s not you, my glutton. I’m the one questioning things. I think the routine has made me lose my spark... or maybe it's exhaustion, or a mix of both. I don't know."
Perplexed by these words, the nearly breathless, tired, and confused pig decides to address his feeder once more:
"—Ah, uff, my lord, puff, puff, puff, puff... lose your spark? Exhaustion? My lord, I am only a market pig. I adore being one. I love being stuffed as if I were counting down the days to be served as the main course of an elegant dinner. It excites me to see my massive belly, my reddened stretch marks, to see how my fat has spread to places I never thought possible. But I couldn't do this alone. Puff, puff... my lord was the one who allowed me and allows me to be like this. You own this, and my life is in your hands. Whether I grow bigger or end up in a slaughterhouse broth, the choice is yours. So ask yourself, puff, puff... what motivated you to push me to the limit? What does seeing me like this do to you? Perhaps you will find your answer, sir."
The pig's words received neither an answer nor a punishment—only a deep indifference from the owner of such a greasy pet, who silently left the room. The passing of days brought no further clarity; on the contrary, doubt sowed itself deeper within him. This was reflected at the pig's feeding times. The feeder no longer looked at him with desire, with lust, or with that dark curiosity of seeing just how far he could push the limits of a personal pet; now, he only looked at him as a mere chore he had committed to. He himself didn't understand why. What was different? Was he bored of the pig? Was it the routine, or was it something else? Try as he might, he couldn't find the answer to his predicament.
On his part, the pig had very few resources to improve the situation. His own body, once the object of his master's desire, seemed to no longer generate enough interest, and its very deterioration prevented him from taking any action to change things. As if that weren't enough, his mind had slowly been consumed by desire, gluttony, and lust. Feeling stuffed, being taken care of at all hours, and having zero responsibilities had ultimately turned him into an addict of his own desires, reducing him to the level of an infant, or perhaps something even lower.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The routine was slowly consuming the feeder. Tired of it, he thought it would be best to seek out other experiences, to see if they could reignite his passion or if, conversely, he was a lost cause. In the days that followed, he set to work with that goal in mind. His first stop was a classic: Diosas Club, a famous local strip club. Perhaps the sensuality of the women there would allow him to feel something. However, his disappointment was vast. In that place of dim lights, intoxicatingly sweet perfume in the air, and the most stunning strippers in the city, they only managed to coax a slight, faint smile from the feeder. Disappointed by the outcome, he decided to go a step further; he set out to search the web for an escort to spend a night of sex with. Perhaps the physical act of lovemaking would achieve what the strip club could not.
With that idea in mind, and after browsing escort sites for hours—tab by tab, profile by profile, description by description—he found one that caught his attention. She was an escort in her early 30s, somewhat chubby, with wavy brown hair, olive skin, a prominent bust, and wide hips. Upon seeing this woman, something resonated in the feeder's heart, so without further delay, he arranged a meeting at his home with this particular lady.
On the morning of the scheduled meeting, the feeder seemed off. It was obvious to anyone, including his heavily fattened and obese pig, that his master was plotting something, as restlessness could be seen in his eyes. At first, the pig decided not to ask his master anything—it was not a pet's place to ask about matters concerning his owner. Instead, the pig was much more interested in knowing what his next meal would be, as his stomach was beginning to growl and he hated that feeling of hunger. So, he began to squeal like a pig, just as his feeder had instructed him to do whenever he was hungry. Hearing those squeals, the feeder decided to bring the pig a protein shake made of ice cream, cream, and cookies. It was rather thick, but it was the pig's favorite way to consume it. Before reaching the feedlot, he decided that if he was bringing a woman over, it was best to explain the situation—not because he cared about the opinion of his obese and obtuse pet, but so he wouldn't bother them during the act.
While preparing the funnel setup for the pig, he suddenly exclaimed without warning:
"—Listen closely, dumb pig. This routine is killing me. I decided that maybe an escort can change that and, with any luck, make me feel something again. Either way, it will feel great to be with someone who can stand on their feet for more than 20 minutes without shaking like a greasy, flabby, clumsy jello mold. I hope you don't cause any trouble, you obese, gluttonous, good-for-nothing pig."
As expected, the pig did not respond to those ruthless words because he was far too busy stuffing his greasy body with the feeder’s special blend to care about who was coming to the house to do such a thing with his master. As his master spoke to him, he grabbed the funnel hose as best as he could, and answered his master's words with a squeal of sheer excitement. The thick mixture slid down his throat. A few hours later, the funnel was empty, and the pig was massaging his belly because it felt heavy, though not quite full. At that exact moment, the escort with whom the feeder hoped to spark his desire was at the door. She was a woman of average height, olive skin, somewhat plump, with wide hips and a good—though not massive—bust. He let her in, and they began the foreplay. The lack of chemistry between the two of them was evident, but the feeder wasn't going to let this chance slip away.
In the middle of the sexual act with the escort, the feeder found himself facing a predicament: it was undeniable that his body responded to the woman's subtle and pleasurable acts, but his mind was not present. He still could not find that highly desired, elusive flame within himself.
Suddenly, a crashing sound coming from the central hallway caught the attention of both the feeder and the escort. Detecting nothing immediately wrong, they tried to continue, but now the sound of shattering plates and creaking springs was impossible to ignore. They had no choice but to leave the bedroom and investigate the source of the unpleasant noise.
On the hallway floor lay a sight that left the woman completely paralyzed with shock, though not the feeder. It was the pig. He could barely stand; his knees burned like a fire devouring a field on a sunny summer afternoon. His massive legs could barely take two steps from how swollen they were. His belly, marked by reddish stretch marks like the flank of a draft animal, wobbled like gelatin, as did his arms, from which all the accumulated fat protruded, marked by tiny stretch marks. His breathing was labored, a wheeze whistling through the squeals he could barely emit due to the sheer exhaustion of standing up. The scene horrified the escort. She looked at the feeder, gathered her things, took her money, and left as fast as she could.
When they were left alone, the pig continued to squeal as if he were an animal being led to the slaughterhouse. Seeing the feeder, he addressed him:
"—Uiii-iii, uff, puff... master, oink... food, master, iiiu-iii... master, food... pig, oink, oink... pig, hungry, food, please!! Your animal begs you: Feed me like the pig I am, fill me up, I beg you, fatten me, mistreat me, but do not abandon me. I am your market pig waiting for your commands, my master."
Seeing such a pathetic scene, something resonated deep within the feeder's heart. Something that had seemed lost—that fire—began to return. He remembered why he did this. It wasn't just about fattening up the pig and that's it. It was the control. It was witnessing such a pathetic display, seeing the pig on the floor begging for food, completely unable to grab it himself despite being so close to it.
The control. Knowing that the pig is yours, and as your property, you can do whatever you please and he will not complain. Unintentionally, he had allowed something that should never be routine to become mundane. The desire to feed goes far beyond the mere act of making someone fat; it is knowing that with every pound they gain, they are handing over a piece of their freedom to you, and you can dispose of it as you choose. That was what the feeder had lost, and this pathetic scene had brought his desire to feed roaring back.
Without further ado and with a malicious smile, the feeder approached the pig. He looked down at him with contempt, spoke no words, controlled the environment, and let the pig continue squealing for a couple more minutes. Finally, he made a gesture and exclaimed:
"—Well now, you dumb pig. What are you doing on the hallway floor, squealing for food? Is this the behavior I trained you to have? But then again, what can I expect from a dumb, pathetic animal addicted to food and masturbation? So, you're hungry?"
The pig nodded in agreement, slightly blushing, as he was absolutely thrilled by the feeder’s tone. A few minutes after his affirmative reply, he was helped onto his feet and led to the kitchen, where he was seated at the dining table and had his hands and feet bound. The feeder prepared a trough adapted for the pig's needs, filling the container with macaroni, rice, peas, fat, butter, and other ingredients that ended up forming a homogenous mush. With a wave of his hand, he allowed the pig to devour it. The scene was grotesque: the pig buried his face directly into the trough since he couldn't use his hands; the only sound was his wet engorging of the food.
Watching how the pig enjoyed this feed—which could hardly even be called food—reminded this once-extinguished feeder of his desire to feed, to push the human body beyond its limits. It wasn't a job. It was a choice—his choice. That was the desire that motivated him to feed. Knowing that the pig depends on you even to feed himself is what motivates you to keep going day after day. That was what had brought them to this point in the first place: the pig surrendering himself completely to him, to the ultimate consequences, until the heart monitor finally falls silent.
That is why, for anyone who feeds and loses their way, it will always be necessary to remember one simple question:
What motivates you to feed?
