hello, I am mara a.k.a. emptyheadedhousecow, a sub gainer from the UK. this blog is for 18+ readers only and contains original text-only gender-neutral-where-possible dark erotica about:
weight gain
ownership, control, and power dynamics
manipulation, lying, and gaslighting
loss of control, of agency, and of intelligence
depersonalisation, dehumanisation, and delusion
while some of my stories involve questionable consent, actually consent is very cool + sexy irl
if you are uncomfortable with any of these topics, please respect this space by not interacting with it, or by blocking me if you prefer
the contents of this blog are not a reflection of the feedism community, only of its author
as per tumblr t&c's this is not a feedism blog and any appearance otherwise is coincidental :) this blog embraces seeking counseling or treatment, or joining together in supportive conversation with those suffering or recovering from depression or other conditions :)
this blog is for original content only, but I may reblog some entries to my general blog: yourfattestcow
Your writing is fascinatingly horrifying yet very real. It's the same feeling as watching a car crash compilation, but instead it's the stuff that's the most "boring" which highlights the icky feelings and implications that often get sanded off. It's as refreshing as it is uncomfortable. Thank you.
thank you! the in-between parts are my favourite, they're the sinew that makes it feel real and they're so often omitted. I think it's totally okay and cool to casually enjoy just the peaks but to me there's something special in seeing the valleys too and knowing you still crave the entire vista.
900 words · 5 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · May 2026
The fourth meal of the day ended ten minutes ago, and the heat hasn't faded. It's the most I've ever eaten in one session, or close to it. My breathing is fast, my thoughts are slow. The fullness of my stomach radiates outwards, pressing against every part of me.
You're nestled into me, resting your head on my padded shoulder, squished between my arm and the soft slope where my side meets the mattress. I'm not really someone you cuddle anymore, but more like somewhere you settle, soft and comfortable. Your wrist rests on my belly, rising and falling with my shallow breath, as you gently trace lines of glittering fire over my stretchmarks with your fingers.
"You did so well," you murmur. (I grunt in agreement.) "All of it, every bite. I'm so proud of you. You make me so happy."
"You make me happy," I answer, drowsily, unthinking, but it's true. This is all I want - this moment, this warmth. Our closeness. Your voice and your hands and the heavy, satisfied ache that holds me.
"I know I push you a little far sometimes. But you always rise to it. Look how far you've come," you say, moving your hand a little further down my belly. "Six hundred and thirty pounds. My perfect little larder."
I smile.
And then the number lands.
Six hundred and thirty. I knew, of course I knew, I'm on the scale practically every week and again earlier today - but hearing it here, in your voice, in this moment, it's different. Six hundred and thirty. The numbers used to be hot but now they're scary. Those are TV show numbers. Hospital numbers. Numbers that make me think the honeymoon could end at any moment.
I'm still smiling, but it's just the muscles holding position. The rest of me is somewhere else.
Your fingers still trace me but the sensation is gone and I feel what you're outlining: contours of land, like earth poured into this reinforced bed. You're curled up against the expanse of me like you'd curl against a hillside.
You shift, look up at me. Your whole body weighs less than one of my legs. If I rolled I'd smother you in a landslide.
"What's wrong?" you ask.
"It's nothing," I say, trying to find the warmth again. It was right here. "I'm okay."
But the cold is in me now. It's not the first time I've heard that doubting voice. It speaks up at every milestone, at every new struggle, each time I need help with something I could do before. But it's always been silenced by that heavy fullness. It's never interrupted a moment like this before - it's never smothered the warmth. It's never stolen you from right by my side.
I need it gone.
"Sometimes I get doubts," I say. "About... this. Of losing it."
You wait.
"There's part of me that hears a number like that and panics. It tries to tell me that this can't be my life. I try to ignore it, but... one day, when I'm empty, when the warmth is gone, I'm scared it'll win me over."
You open your mouth to speak, but I continue. "So don't let me. Okay? I need to stay in this feeling. Promise me you'll keep me in it. Promise me you won't let me go."
You're silent for a moment. Perfectly still.
Then you sit up. You lean over me and take my face in your hands. Your eyes are full of love.
"Yes," you say. "I promise."
Relief floods through me. The warmth burns hot. You understand. You'll keep me here, you'll keep me safe.
"You've made a big decision," you say, gently. "I'm proud of you."
I smile, and relax, but something snags. Decision? The word feels out of place. I was only asking for reassurance.
The endorphins are fading now. The warmth is tapering off, and I find myself lying here in our bed, in this body, this growing six hundred and thirty pound body that becomes less independent day by day, and you're still holding my face in your hands, and your eyes are still full of love, but something within has changed. Something that was waiting and isn't anymore.
What have I done?
I go to speak, but you shush me with a gentle finger. You stroke my cheek.
"You're tired, honey." You reach for the tube, connect it, check the seal, place the end in my mouth. Never mind that I'm already as full as I've ever been. "Let me take care of everything."
No chance to argue. The lights dim. You leave.
There was no hesitation, I realise. No "let's talk about this when you're less full", no "this is a big step", no "are you sure?"
The warmth is gone, fully gone, and in the cold I see clearly: a body I can hardly move, a door I soon won't be able to reach, a life that revolves around you. And I... don't...
...but... those are cold thoughts. Tomorrow, when I'm full, with you beside me, I'll mean every word I said tonight. So whatever I just gave you - if it helps me get back to that warmth, you can have it. That's what I want. That's all I want. I have to believe that.
The feed runs, and I swell.
In the hallway, you stand for a moment, watching me, silhouetted against the kitchen lights.
900 words · 5 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · November 2024
The funnel is empty. The blanket is dotted with crumbs. The pizza boxes are on the floor — there's a grease stain on the bedsheet where it had been carelessly placed half an hour ago, but that's a job for tomorrow. The box of aftercare chocolates is open and the best ones are already gone. It was hot, but the libido is gone now, and appetites are more than sated. Your feeder is curled up beside you, half-asleep already, small beside you, eclipsed by your mass. The pain has been kissed and rubbed away, but you're still swollen and stuffed, and most importantly, you're still fat.
They woke up before you. The pizza boxes are gone, and the funnel too; through the walls you hear the dishwasher churning, something sizzling on a stovetop, and fresh coffee being ground. There's a hunger brewing inside you already, but the stretchmarks on your sides are itching again, and the moisturiser is just out of reach. They'd jump at the chance to help, but it's not sexy right now, you just want the discomfort gone. You shift and roll, and build momentum, and grab the bottle, and then come crashing back down on the mattress in a breathless heap, your fat splayed out in exactly the same way it was before. You breathe, and recover, and you have to remind yourself, like every other morning, that your body has grown into something made of carbs and lard, even though everything else is back to normal, you're still fat.
Your day would be easy for anyone else, but everything is an ordeal for you. It seems like every time you shower you discover a new fold that needs to be cleaned and powdered. You need to catch your breath while washing your hair. You could wear clothes, if you wanted, but it's so much easier not to try, and you're increasingly unsure just how long it's been since you wore anything at all. Your feeder brings you all the food you could want, four meals a day or five if you're lucky... and you're grateful, of course you are, but not every meal is sex. You eat because you're hungry — a deep hunger that's only satisfied when you're pushed to breaking point — and you eat to shush, if only for a little while, that tiny voice inside you that's always demanding more more more. You knew this would happen; that every time you push yourself, your appetite grows a little... and you've pushed yourself a lot. You don't always eat because you want to, you eat because you HAVE to, because that's what a body as fat as yours craves, and day after day, you're still fat.
And then the funnel's back in play, and another order is lined up on the pizza app. Can you down the pitcher of cream before the pizzas arrives, and then the pizzas too? It's always an offer, never coerced. It was such a struggle last time, you only barely made it, but that only means it'll be easier now. And the tiny voice inside you can't be silenced, and the deep hunger is so very demanding, and it does drive you wild to see them this excited. You agree. You know you won't be able to stop yourself from pushing yourself to your limit, again, and you know that if you manage it, next time there might be another pizza on top, and that's far beyond what any normal person could eat, and as exciting as that is, you can't help but worry a little. But the preparations are underway, and your feeder's in the kitchen already, and all you need to do is eat, which you're amazing at, so this is just the best option, right? After all, you've done this a hundred times, what's one more? Tonight won't change anything, not really — either way, you're still fat.
The next day is always the same as the day before. Your feeder is dressed in a tenth of the time it takes you to shuffle to the edge of the bed and you're exhausted already. A kiss and a smile and you're helped to your feet, but you're not steady, and your balance is always unfamiliar, and it wasn't so long ago that it wouldn't even have occurred to you that you might need help getting up, and yet here it is, a development as casual as a second portion of breakfast. It ought to worry you but you are so very hungry, and the little voice is louder than your own thoughts these days, even though the pressure from last night's feast remains. Food is brought directly to the bedroom, once a rare treat but now the norm simply because it's getting harder to walk to the kitchen, even assisted. Getting dressed isn't an option anymore, for sure there's no clothes that still fit you, and that means no going outside, even in the car. Not that you've been outside in a long time. Perhaps you begin to slowly realise, if you hadn't been in denial about it already, that your last opportunity to lose the weight has quietly disappeared, who knows how long ago, and you never even noticed. But that doesn't seem nearly as important as finishing the plate of food that's in front of you. Maybe you'll get a chance to think about that later, maybe not — it feels like a very permanent fact of your life that you're still fat, forever.
650 words · 3 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · March 2024
It's not enough just to win. It's not enough to only have broken you.
We both knew that I thrived on the struggle. That I loved when you resisted, but loved it even more when tomorrow you'd resist a little less. As day by day I'd snake past your defenses, overwhelm your dignity, make you give in. Little by little, bit by bit; just a tiny bit more compliant today than you were yesterday.
We both wanted it. You wanted your barriers broken and you knew you couldn't do it yourself; you wanted to renounce everything that was holding you back, but you didn't have the strength to turn away. I wanted nothing more than to corrupt you, isolate you, dedicate you to me and only me. From when we first locked eyes there was a tense balance between us and we both knew all we wanted was for the scales to tip, slowly, irreversibly, to me.
But you were worried. We both love the struggle but your real goal was what comes afterwards. You wanted to be switched off, to be putty in my hands, to follow my instruction without a thought from your own head.
You worried that I didn't want the same. You worried that I was in it only for the battle, only for the agonising push-and-pull of power, only for the slow accumulation of subservience. You worried that I only wanted the glory of winning, of proving myself superior to you. You worried that once I'd won and gotten my prize I'd have nothing to play for. You worried that I'd leave and find a new champion to play with, leaving you utterly dependent on me with only my memory to slake your unquenchable thirst; a breath held forever.
Honey, no. Hush those silly thoughts. Seeing as I'll be doing all the thinking for both of us one day, we may as well start now.
It's not enough for me to win, darling. In some ways I already have, from the moment you first resigned yourself to eventually being mine. Yes, I love the struggle, and I'll savour it as long as I can make it last — but even though the flesh of this fruit is perfectly tasty it's the sweet ichor inside that drives me wild.
I don't need to win. I will, of course; I am superior to you, in every way, but I don't need to prove it. No, I need to dominate you. I need to win day, after day, after day. I need to win when you can no longer muster any resistance at all. I need to win when you've given up all thoughts of running. I need to look into your eyes and watch the memory of life before me fade. I need to own you, inside and out, so thoroughly that you forget who you were.
When one day you realise that you got what you wanted, and you have nothing left to call your own, and you belong to me in every sense of the word, but I'm still taking more —
— when you're already addicted to me, but I keep upping your dose —
— when there's nothing left to think but thoughts I fed you, but I still fill your head with lies —
— when your world extends no further than my bedroom door, but I still keep you bound —
— when you put up one last struggle to try to tell me this isn't what you wanted, and for the first time you really earnestly try, and worry for wholly different reasons — that's the battle I need to win.
750 words · 3 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · January 2023
I heard something that I shouldn't have.
You were on the phone, chatting to one of your friends. I'd met her before, months ago — you brought her here to see me, to show her what you'd made of me. I don't remember what she said. She said something to me; made some crass comment about my weight. There was an argument; you yelled at her. I said nothing. Her face is a blur. I think she might have been my friend, once, too. I'm not sure I remember her name.
I heard snippets of your conversation drift in through the open bedroom door as you paced back and forth in the hallway.
"No. I'm not enabling anyone's addiction. I don't appreciate that implication."
It was like I could hear both sides of the conversation.
Perhaps you sent her a picture of me, maybe taken this morning while I slept. Perhaps she'd seen how much new weight was on my body, despite how she'd tried to convince you to stop.
She'd called you an abuser. She'd called you an enabler. She'd accused you of taking advantage of my addiction, of emotionally abusing me.
"Of course I would stop if I thought it was an addiction," you said, glancing at me with a knowing smile as you paced past the door, "that would be abusive."
You're an enabler. That's all I need, isn't it? An "enabler". My default state is to eat and eat and eat and I can't stop myself, right? All I need is to be "enabled" and I'll bloom into obesity. You don't need to do anything. You just need to "enable" me.
I can't stop myself. The worst thing is that everyone knows it. Everyone knows I have no self control. Everyone has given up on me. They don't tell me to stop eating, they tell you to stop enabling me. Everyone knows I'm utterly powerless to stop myself; that you're the only one with any semblance of control.
They're right, of course. I can't stop. I say I have an addiction (and it was me being so open about it that lured you to me in the first place), but that's not the whole truth. The truth is that eating turns me on... but that's not the whole truth either. Eating is dull, a mindless necessity. I have done so much of it that there is no pleasure left in it. No, what really turns me on is when I reach the point where a normal person would stop — where I assume I would feel "full", where my stomach no longer readily accepts food — and I must force that it into myself like air into a balloon. Only this brings me arousal.
All this on top of the already very real addiction, of course. To food and to weight. The feeling of eating and growing.
Arousal and addiction, circling me forever like vultures.
One caused the other, or maybe the other way round. You'd think that I'd experience them as a single, unified hunger. Not so. They are both entirely separate from each other. The arousal... when it builds to a certain point, it overwhelms everything else, and I consume everything in sight without thought at all, in the hope that it will offer some small release. But the addiction is waiting underneath. When the arousal fades, my first instruction is still to eat. Unlike my arousal, which I can understand and which I brought upon myself, my addiction I cannot hope to comprehend.
My brain has reorganised itself such that it only wants to eat. It doesn't matter how full I am, or how tired, or what I'm doing. I must always eat. The arousal is sometimes fun. The addiction is always misery.
They don't always come separately. Most of the time, they are intertwined. Both processes running at full speed at the same time. I eat and I eat and none of it is for the joy of eating, or because I love food. It is simply because I must. I have to. I have to.
You came to me and you worked all this out, didn't you?
I broke myself. I ruined my brain long before you ever met me. You didn't have to do anything — just enable me. I was perfect for you, wasn't I? A perfect cow for you to feed, already broken where it mattered.
Everyone somehow already knows that I'm beyond saving. I don't get a say over what or how much I eat — only arousal, and addiction, and you. I can't stop. I only need to be enabled.
400 words · 2 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · August 2022
I want to feel like this for the rest of my days. I want to be blank, but not forgetful. I want to be numb and unaware, but I don’t want to lose myself.
It should hurt. I shouldn’t be so happy about being a shell. I should be terrified by the thought of living without a brain. But instead, I can’t wait. I’m excited. Everything you do to me is thrilling. I love the way your eyes light up when you look at me and I know what you want from me. I love the way you hold my hands and guide me through the world. I love the way you speak to me and ask me questions and explain everything.
I love being blind. I love being dumb. I love the way I can do nothing but follow you, and I can never go anywhere without you. I love that I can’t think for myself. I love that I have no identity. I love that I can't do anything but obey. I love that I'm a person with no opinions. I love that I have no dreams. I love that I can be whatever you want me to be. I love that I'll never grow up. I love that I will never get bored. I love that I won't ever stop dreaming. I love that I will never have the courage to leave. I love that I'll never miss anything. I love that I don't care.
You're going to take away my ability to think because you want to, but I won’t mind. If you keep making me do what you say, eventually I'll stop trying to figure out why. Eventually I'll stop wondering why you did it.
The more you take away, the better we get along. The more I lose, the happier I become. You're taking away every last part of me: my memories, my skills, my independence, my dignity, my pride. But you've given me so much more. You gave me you. You gave me someone I can trust. You gave me my new best friend. You gave me a reason to live. You gave me a goal. You gave me a purpose, a plan, a future. And you gave me me.
If I had to choose, I think I'd rather be empty than full. Empty means I'm free. Full means I'm trapped. You've given me both. You've emptied my mind and filled me with you.
1200 words · 5 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · October 2021
I remember how I used to be able to fuck you. I loved climbing on top of you and earning your love. I loved learning your every want, I loved exploring the intricacies of your body and your orgasm, and most of all I loved feeling useful to you. We weren't far into our relationship when I was no longer able to do that. I couldn't hold myself up for long, and later, it was difficult to climb on top of you at all. I was so scared that my growing arms, wobbling in exertion, would fail me and I would fall, crushing you — or at least smothering you. Your eye gleamed when I shared that concern, and you told me to do it. You told me you wanted it; you wanted to feel my whole body boring down on you. But I couldn't do it. I didn't dare.
I remember how you used to be able to fuck me. When I could no longer get on top of you, you would get on top of me. I felt pathetic and weak, more like a thing than a person, knowing that I didn't even have the option to switch places if I wanted to. You reassured me, telling me that this way of doing things was more than normal, even for vanilla couples; and you told me that so long as you could fuck me, I'd still be useful to you. But I don't think those couples faced the same issues we did. First all you needed to do to get to me was push aside the fat on my thighs. Later, you'd have to also lift up my ever-lowering belly fat. Later still, you also had to dig around in the fat that swathed my crotch to find me. That didn't give you much trouble, at first, and you'd crack jokes about my buried treasure. But, given time, you had to rummage for longer and when you found it you had trouble mounting yourself. You had me hold apart my legs or lift up my belly as best I could, to open myself to you as much as possible, but it wasn't enough, and later, I struggled even with that.
I remember how you used to be able to fuck me with your mouth. My growing belly meant there simply was not enough space for your body for traditional sex — perhaps we could have tried other positions, but it was so hard for me to shift myself around that you couldn't bear to see me do it. But while you could no longer fuck me properly, there was still space for your head between my thighs, and if I strained you could reach me with your face. It was never particularly comfortable for either of us — I had to contort myself into a position where I could pull towards me as much fat as possible, which quickly exhausted me; my lower body had to be raised with pillows and such to make me accessible to you, which forced more fat backwards by gravity and made it difficult for me to breathe; you still had to hold apart the fat covering my crotch, which tired even you out; and even then there wasn't quite enough space — you had to really push yourself into me, which can't have been comfortable, and take breaks to breathe yourself. Our one-sided sex made me feel awful, leaving me no method with which to prove to you my love. It wasn't workable for long.
I remember how you used to be able to fuck me with toys. Once we'd exhausted all other methods, props were required. At first, these worked wonders. Where you could no longer reach, or could only reach with your hands and even that with difficulty, our new toys seemed to have no trouble accessing. Once it had made contact, it didn't need to be moved much, and that meant we could both relax. My fat was pliable enough that there was still some wiggle room for the toys that needed motion — it was a workout for you, but you somehow managed it. But, given time, it became ever more difficult to find the right spot and more tiring to keep it there — especially after I'd reached the point where any attempt of mine to help you didn't achieve anything. I couldn't bear watching you put yourself through all this when I could never do the same for you, so I tearfully asked you to slow down. It pained you, but you agreed.
I remember how you used to be able to fuck me. Now, we rarely fuck at all. It's simply too difficult; too taxing on both of us, both physically and mentally. Sometimes, I grow so desperate. I forget my guilt; I crave your touch. There's no hope of me touching myself, so I beg you. You laugh, and tell me "honey, you know that you're too big for that." You grew me a body that you can't get off, and I grew a body that wants nothing else. I'm forced to find release myself, often through feeding, and often amplified by the knowledge that there's simply no other way.
I remember everything we had, and I see how much of it is lost.
...which, to tell you the truth, isn't much at all.
We've discovered a love for wordplay. Sometimes we'll talk about how we used to fuck, describing it in vivid detail, and the memories seem as real as if they were happening now. Other times we'll talk about the future, how as I grow we'll discover new difficulties and navigate them together — or perhaps how we've already reached our limit, and there's no more room for any more difficulties, and the new kind of excitement that those thoughts bring.
And, while you might not be able to touch me where it counts, you can still touch me everywhere else. You've not let me go unwanted. I may be weak, and helpless, and not even good for fucking anymore, but I still belong to you and you make sure I still know it.
I still feel so guilty knowing that I'm so terribly useless to you. You don't like that. You tell me that knowing my difficulties are caused by what you've done to me is enough; that knowing I can't fuck you if I tried is better than any sex we'd ever had. I see the lust in your eyes when you look at me, I feel your excitement when you touch my body, I hear your subtle craving for me in every word and know that you are telling the truth. You love me despite and because of what I became — or you wouldn't have made me this way in the first place.
Sure, we lost a lot — but we gained so much more. A lot of people would say you took everything from me, but I wouldn't have it any other way.
1000 words · 4 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · December 2020
You used to ask me what I wanted for breakfast. You'd tell me that you'd make anything I wanted, anything at all, and you'd bring it to me in bed. You seemed so happy to make food for me and who was I to question that? I was never very good at coming up with meals so it was always difficult. I've always found choosing the perfect breakfast hard. It's easy to choose the fattiest thing you can think of, dripping with grease and oil, but it's not reasonable to expect to be able to eat that every day. It's a tiny choice, but it's so difficult, and over time it adds up. Most days I just picked the same thing. I think you grew tired of that, but even so, you always made me choose. Whatever you made for me, I ate, and I ate it all. You'd always ask me if I wanted coffee, too, and I always said yes.
Eventually, you stopped asking me to choose anything I wanted, and started asking me to choose between two options. Eggs or pancakes? Cereal or sausages? I chose, and you cooked. I think this was so much easier for everyone! I still got to choose and you didn't have to have every ingredient on hand constantly. I was of course eternally grateful to you for always cooking for me, though I was never sure why you insisted on it. Whatever you made, I ate, and I ate it all, and I thanked you for it. And you always asked me if I wanted coffee, and I always said yes. I really needed it to get through the day. You made sure I stayed in bed while I ate — the first choice you took away.
Then one day, you narrowed my options again. You'd already decided what I'd be eating, and you only asked me "how much?" How many sausages? How many eggs? I felt like I'd lost something — I didn't do much but eat back in those days, and that simple choice was a break in the monotony. It wasn't long before whatever amount I said, you always added a little more. The rules were clear: whatever you made, I ate, and I had to eat it all. You pushed my comfort zone with every meal. You stopped asking me if I wanted coffee, too, and made it for me anyway.
It took me months to accept our new status quo, but just as I did, you changed it again. You stopped asking me how much I wanted. It had been coming for a while — you'd long been ignoring what I said, and adding however much you wanted. But I still had to eat it all. You'd sit and watch me as I tried to work out how many eggs had been scrambled; as I struggled to count on my fingers the number of sausages in front of me. I remember your smile the day I realised with sickening horror that my plate had more than a full carton of eggs and more than a full packet of sausages and not only had I not noticed, I couldn't hold myself back from eating all of it. My conditioning took over. You had me trained to eat whatever you gave me without question.
You pushed my limits with every meal. I was always eating, it felt like — I never really had time to do anything else. Sometimes you pushed me a little too far, and I couldn't willingly eat the last little bit. When that happened you came over and made me. I always had to eat it all — I didn't get to choose.
You stopped making me coffee, too. I did really need it. I was so sleepy, all the time. But I don't think it really mattered to you whether or not I was awake. When you wanted me to eat, you slapped me awake, and let me fall back to sleep when I was done. If you wanted to fuck me, you did — I never chose when. Sometimes it woke me up. Sometimes it didn't. When I was awake for it, I was too hazy and sluggish to really notice. I would have been occupied, anyway — if I was awake, I was eating. I rarely left the bed and I never left the house.
You made sure I never had to make a single decision. Everything I needed was always right there in front of me. You chose what I ate and how much. You chose when I was awake and when I was asleep. You chose how much I weighed, and you never let that number fall.
You even chose when I showered and when I used the toilet. The same time every day, you'd get me up, and support me as I struggled toward the bathroom. If I needed to go, I did, and if I didn't, then when I needed it later I'd just have to hold it for tomorrow. Sometimes you'd shower me, though you made sure that even then I never got to choose anything. You shampooed me and scrubbed me, and washed all the places I couldn't reach. You dried me off and rubbed oil into my tight skin that, even though every part of me that could grow was covered in stretchmarks, simply could not catch up with how much fat you were adding to me every day. It was always so tight.
You never let me choose anything. I think, at some point, I forgot how to. I think that if you'd forced me to make a decision, I wouldn't be able to; my mind would shut off and it'd never turn back on again.
Later still, I think you stopped making choices, too. At some point, there was nothing to choose between. You had a routine. You fed me and cleaned me and fucked me and I ate and I slept and I grew. All the unnecessary bits had decayed like the leaves of a dying plant — friends, and love, and going outside, and thoughts of a life not solely dedicated to filling my body.
There was only one choice left to make — whether or not to stop — and you'd never let me have it.
1000 words · 4 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · November 2020
Thank you for RSVP'ing to my invitation. I appreciate that it has been several years since any of us last saw each other at our wedding, so truly, thank you. The dinner party is scheduled at our place, 5 PM this Saturday. Remember to bring something for the pot!
You may have been wondering why I have chosen to invite you at all, given that we no longer really know each other. The reason is a little complex, and before I can explain it, I must give you four rules that you must follow for as long as you are in my house. If you find any of them disagreeable, please uninvite yourself; they are not negotiable. I trust that you will be able to cope.
Since the wedding, the nature of our relationship has... changed somewhat. The person you know as my spouse is no longer the person you knew back in the day. In fact, it is no longer a person at all. That is the first rule: you must call it "it". The name you knew no longer applies to it. It is a toy, it is my toy, and toys do not have names.
I have been training it to understand that it is not a person and that it is not entitled to the rights that we assume for ourselves. It may not leave the house, it may not cook, it may not read, it may not go online and crucially it may not speak. It is my understanding that it has forgotten how to; this is intentional and is the result of my training. I believe that it has lost the capacity to communicate. However, that may not be the case, and I do not want you to potentially jeopardise my training by trying to talk to it. That is the second rule: you must not speak to it. If it speaks to you, you must ignore it, and tell me immediately. You may speak to each other in its presence, so long as you are clear that it is not part of the conversation. This will affect our dinner conversation, as it will be present in the room with us throughout.
You will likely be shocked and possibly revulsed by its appearance. That is to be expected. It does not at all resemble the person you knew. I understand that many of you were growing concerned about its weight even before the wedding, and that you harboured suspicions about my role in that process; I wish to assure you that those suspicions are entirely correct and that in the past few years I have only grown it further. I encourage you to touch it, if you are so inclined; it will not protest and if it does I want you to ignore it. It is not a person, remember, and I want you to treat it as if it were my pet, much like how you would greet a dog with a thorough petting. That is the third rule: you must be honest about your reaction towards it. I want to see your disgust at what I have done to it, but most of all I want you to show it that disgust. It might not be able to understand what you say, but it is still capable of feeling emotions like shame and guilt, and it will understand your facial expressions and your body language. I want it to know that you think it has become disgusting and wrong; I want it to know that you are filled with regret for it, that you wish you could go back in time and save it from me. I want it to see your faces when you realise that what it has become is irreversible.
The fourth and final rule is the simplest, but I suspect it will be the most difficult for you. It will be in the room with us during the dinner, but it is unable to leave its bed or even sit up, and it cannot feed itself more than a few mouthfuls without exhausting itself. So, you will be taking turns to feed it. The dinner will be a mixture of my own cooking and delivered food, plus whatever you bring. The amount of food will be far in excess of what you will expect. However, it must all be eaten; whatever is left you will feed to it. If you do not wish to feed my pet, then you must eat the food yourself. I will derive equal pleasure from it either way. As you feed it, keep rule three in mind.
Now you know the rules, and you know our situation, so I can finally explain why we need you.
In the past few months it has been showing an uncharacteristic resistance to my training. Its appetite is always growing, but not quickly enough; it is always gaining weight, but not as fast as I would like. I have contained its body within its bed but I have not entirely contained its mind. It cannot talk but I suspect it has begun recalling happier times from its past, of freedom and friends. Since the wedding, we have been in isolation; the only person it has had any contact with is myself. If my suspicions are true, then it must be latching onto the memories it has of you.
This is why I need you. I want you to see it, and I want it to see you. I want it to know that you know what it is. I want it to see your disgust, I want it to see your hatred, I want it to see your fear. I want it to know you think it is an abomination. When it sees that from you, those happy memories shatter. It will have nothing to hold onto. It will be broken and unable to resist my control. I will finally be able to shape its mind into exactly what I want. It will know only obedience, and then only consumption. There will be no barrier between it and the growth that I crave.
500 words · 2 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · September 2020
I want to be lost in your wonderland. I want you to keep me just a little bit out of touch with reality. I don't mind how you do it — sleep deprivation, alcohol, blood sugar, drugs.
I want to be foggy and confused, all the time. I want my friends to be concerned about my vacant eyes and slow voice. I want to never be quite sure what's happening or who's speaking, or what they're talking about, or how long ago that was. I want my only moments of confidence to be when you stand in front of me and your face fills my vision and you tell me what to do next.
When I say something that doesn't quite make sense, everyone will learn to play along. They'll nod and they'll smile. They'll reply to me in a sing-song voice, echoing back to me whatever fantasy I've constructed. No more real talk. Just nodding and smiling and people agreeing with me. No more need for critical thinking. Everyone will treat me like a baby, always saying the right things, always putting me in the right place, always looking after me; never asking for my input, never expecting my opinion, never giving me responsibility. I will be there to be loved and fed and spoken to in gentle voices.
No one will treat me like a person and no one will expect me to act like one. I'll follow you around everywhere. I won't have any thoughts of my own. It won't scare me. How could it scare me? I don't have anything to compare it to. You'll make sure of that.
I'll be a little out of touch with everything. I'll see and hear things that aren't quite real. I'll never be sure if I'm thinking or speaking out loud. I'll never know where I am or how I got there, and I'll never think to question it. I'll always blindly accept that you know what's best for me.
When I'm like that, I'll be pliable for you. You'll be able to tell me to do anything and I'll do it. I won't be able to understand the significance of what you said or what I'm doing. I won't be able to think to resist you.
When you tell me to sit down, maybe you'll have to gently push me down into the chair, like you're training an animal. I'll hear what you said but the meaning will miss me. I'll notice your body language and the tone of your voice, but I won't understand them. I'll be lost and confused and too stupid to consider anything else. My whole life will be hazy. I'll never remember yesterday. All I'll know is the weight in my mind and the sweet sound of your voice.
800 words · 3 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · February 2020
When you show me to your friends, I want them to be confused. They'll think I'm a little chubby for you, that your standards have slipped. They won't judge you. Everyone needs someone, anyone every now and then, and they'll think I'm a quick fling.
When you show me to your friends, I want them to be bothered. They'll think I'm definitely fat. They'll think it's been a little too long since we've been together. You should've dumped me by now and found someone more fittingly attractive. They won't say anything.
When you show me to your friends, I want them to be worried. They'll notice how I'm far wider and heavier than any of them. They'll notice my fat fingers as I pick up cutlery and be forced to watch my buttcheeks sway and slosh as I walk. I want them to approach you, in secret, and tell you that they're concerned for my health. I want them to encourage you to dump me for my weight.
When you show me to your friends, I want them to be disgusted at me. I want them not to be able to see the person inside me — they won't even try to get to know who I am — they'll just see the fat. I want them to be frustrated that all of our outings have become getting food, because I just can't do any of the things we used to (no bowling bowl has finger holes big enough). I want them to sit in exasperated silence as you explain to the hundredth waiter that we can't have a booth table. I want their resentment to grow as you push two chairs together for me and my ass still spills over the sides. I want them to start thinking of excluding you just so they don't have to see me.
When you show me to your friends, I want them to be disgusted at you. I want them to wrinkle their noses when I approach and try not to make eye contact with my taut clothes and skin. I want them to see the rolls of fat under my clothes and the shaking in my legs as I struggle to walk. They stopped seeing me as a person long ago, so they can't imagine I have any agency or control over this. They blame you, now. They blame you for making an inhuman monster out of me. I want silence where there used to be lively conversation, with everyone except you holding back vomit as they're forced to listen to the slobbery sounds of me eating as much food as the rest of them at inhuman speed, not bothering with cutlery, gulping down any liquid in my reach and barely stopping to chew let alone taste. I want them not to react when I take their unfinished food from under them and add it to my pile. They weren't feeling hungry anyway.
When you show me to your friends, I want them to say no, enough. I want them to reject you, exclude you, just so they don't have to think about me. I want you to be alone. I will comfort you, tell you everything will be okay, tell you I love you, tell you to fix this by feeding me. I will mount your depression and isolation, saddle it, tell it where to go. I will make you dedicate yourself to me.
When you call your friends for help — which one day, you'll need to do — I want them to be in shock. I want them to be repulsed at what I've become — what you've created. I want them to gag when they prise my folds apart to scrub the broken skin between. I want whoever has to prepare my feed to imagine they're on a farm, because it's the only way they can cope with the amount and the ingredients. I want them to have to work together to roll me over, knowing that I've been in one position so long that my fat body has flattened, and that I'll only be able to hold my breath on my side for thirty seconds before they'll have to do it again. I want to hear retching from whoever has to clean between your ass when they do that.
I want none of them to ever look at you the same way again, and like me, no longer consider you a person either.
1200 words · 5 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · January 2020
You have sixty seconds left to live.
You didn't think it would end this abruptly. It is terrifying and irritating in equal measure — you know there is so much further you could go.
You're lying in bed. I have strapped a funnel and tube to your mouth, as I do at this time every day. I’ve begun to pour the liquid — hot, fatty, tasteless liquid; pure calories; being poured directly into your fat cells — down the funnel. You are very familiar with this process, and with the amount that I pour. You know it will take me sixty seconds to finish pouring, and you know I won't let you stop until you've finished it all. I won't even let you stop for air.
You've been growing a little more breathless every day. At first it was motion. Walking around would leave you out of breath. Then getting out of bed would leave you gasping for air, desperate to get back in. Once that was no longer feasbile, just shuffling around on the bed had you gasping for air within seconds. And now, it's every miniscule effort that feels like a marathon. Talking is brutally slow as you're left to suck in air between each word. I was patient with it at first but I soon took over, making sure you very rarely had to speak at all, and your muscles continued to wither. Now, with fat surrounding every single part of your body, and motion of any kind pretty much out of the question, it's basic survival that leaves your lungs hurting as you gasp for air, whistling it down your fat-ridden windpipe. You can never quite catch a full breath because the sheer effort of doing so is enough to exhaust you once more. It is a vicious cycle that you can never fix. Just a problem that will continue to grow worse and worse and worse.
So when I strapped today's funnel to your mouth, and you knew that despite your constant hypoxia you'd be forced to hold your breath and only be able to suck down the fatty sludge until I told you you were done, you panicked. You gasped for air, a final filling of your lungs, however unsatisfying it would be — and you sucked in the first part of the sludge.
You began to choke. Your whole body wracked with the effort of it, but you barely moved, your vast swathes of fat tethering you down. You struggled and screamed but I didn't even notice, everything muffled by your corpulent body. You try to wave at me, get my attention, but even your arms are held tightly to your sides by the stickiness of sweaty skin that's been touching for far too long and years of lost strength unable to overcome it. You often struggle against my feedings. I have no reason to assume that this one is any different.
There was nothing to do but wait. Your attention begins to wander as you wait for the pain to set in.
There are only thirty seconds left.
A great metal frame towers over you — it used to be a winch that would lift you up. At first, you'd use it as support to get you to your feet so you could shuffle to the bathroom. Later, when you'd long given up on such dignities and resigned yourself to permanent immobility, I'd use it to clean up your mess instead, and have access to your back for cleaning.
The winch broke one day. The sheets of heavy fabric that it lifted — which had been passed underneath you, and that you'd been lying on for years — had ripped. Without them, there was no possible way for you to be raised high enough to remove the old ones, so they had simply been left there, along with the winch. Without being able to be cleaned, things had quickly gotten much worse. Your back and legs constantly ache, are constantly in agony. You are sure your skin has torn and is weeping in several places but have no way to find out. You are certain that there is no way to separate yourself from your mattress, and sometimes, there is this awful waft of something rancid.
There are only twenty seconds left.
Your lungs are starting to be in pain. They contract as best they can and try to suck in air but there is nothing they can do except drown you. Everything inside of your body is on fire.
You remember when I'd brought you here for the first time. I led you, struggling to walk and shaking with every step, to bed, having told you for months that you'd have to put off immobility until you could bear to stand no longer. You remember that day clearly — it was the last time you saw anything but the inside of this room, and there has not been much to remember since then.
I took control of your addiction to food for my own pleasure. I never really entertained the concept of your consent — I simply knew how to get you to do what I wanted. What I wanted was for you to eat, and that you did. I raised you like a lamb for slaughter.
There are only ten seconds left.
You can feel the front of your head start to tingle. Your brain is starting to feel numb and it's hard to think. How much oxygen does the body need? What about when that body has been physically unable to catch a full breath for months because its lungs have been partially crushed by the fat pushing up from underneath?
Once, you wished for this. You wished to be stuck somewhere, alone with a feeder, someone who only wanted you to be bigger. And now you have exactly that, and it is horrifying. You are about to die. This chain of experience is about to end. And what have you made of it? You were born, you studied, you got a degree and a job, you met your feeder, you gave everything up to be fat for them. I made you my pig and you grew and grew and grew. Everything that you once were, everything that made you you, is long gone. Your only personality feature is fat. Your only defining trait is how much you eat. You have no friends and no one else. I took away everyone you cared about so I could have you all to myself, so I could make you as fat as I wanted without consequence. You could have had your own life but I claimed it and played with it like a toy. You gave it to me willingly; even eagerly. And playtime is almost over.
Your entire brain has gone numb. Your vision is starting to fade. It's been so long since I started feeding you, right? This was only supposed to take a minute.
You wish that, just once, you had been able to take a full lungful of air.
1900 words · 7 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · January 2020
It's nice to feel the angle of the seat gently slope, knowing that the car's suspension is slowly breaking under your mass. You're sitting in the back seat, on the left side. You'd be sat in the front next to me, were it not for the bulk of your thighs pushing your legs apart and necessitating that you keep your right leg in the other footwell. You don't mind, though — it gives you the chance to spread out, and god knows you need the space. Plus, it means you can reach to gently run a finger through my hair whenever the fancy strikes you. I smile, and briefly raise a hand from the steering wheel to touch yours.
It's been a long night. Date night. A couple of times a week the two of us go out. Myself, trim and fit, a rancher parading my prize cow. I'll dress you up in whatever clothes I like — the longest shirt you have, or a cow-print leather jacket, or something that barely covers your stomach and raises an inch after every mouthful — and you'll go to an eatery that I've picked. I am swift and decisive. Wherever I pick, that's where you're going, and you know better than to argue. You've always been the decision-maker in your family and you hated it. My assertion is refreshing. You used to get so stressed about what clothes to wear and where to go, and I solve that problem in less time than it takes you to open the wardrobe. You wear what I want and you feel beautiful. You go where I want and you feel like all eyes — but especially mine — are on you. You feel wanted. And you eat what I tell you to.
You recall a time that you counted calories. 1500 a day, no more and no less. It took months to get out of that mindset. When you met me, you had some trouble adjusting — you were strict about your diet, but I was stricter. You put up resistance initially but I was amazingly stubborn. You began to follow my new diet for you, and eventually that turned to eating when I told you to, and eventually that turned to eating what I told you to. And you love it. You would never have realised that your self-control was one of the biggest stressors in your life. Now that's gone — it's all me. You feel like a floating gust of wind, gently guided by my loving hands, when before you were a jagged rock trying to roll up a muddy hill. Sure, you've gained a little weight — but it's not like that matters. You don't need standards anymore. They're a thing of the past. You only need me.
Date night, as it so often was, had been a buffet. You'd waddled from the car to the restaurant, wearing what I had chosen for you — tiny shorts that exposed the lumps and rolls of your legs, sandals through which your swollen feet and ankles extruded, a tight shirt that compressed your tits, cut into your fleshy arms and left your stomach hanging out in front of you, eclipsing the view of your shorts from the front. A small collar ringed your throat, covered by fat from above and below, so even while the passersby stared and took photographs of you, very few of them noticed the lead stretching from your neck to my hand. You could feel it digging in, though, a constant reminder that I am in total control of this situation and that you do not get a say even if you wanted one.
By the time you reached the door the redness, initially on just your face, had begun to cover your entire body, with a thin layer of sweat forming everywhere. Your inner thighs and the back of your hanging stomach were sore from rubbing against each other and you wanted nothing more than to sit down. You step sideways through the front door, the wooden frame pressing into you from both the front and back as I push you through, and then I led you to a table, pulling it out so that you could sit on two chairs that I've put together. You know the rules. You obediently sat, and I head to the buffet to prepare your first plate. You will have to eat every plate I bring you or I will not be happy.
You don't recall exactly what I brought you — only that the plates never seemed to stop coming. You entered a focused haze, paying attention only to continued consumption. You knew that if you pause, you'll realise how full you are becoming, and then you won't be able to eat as much as I want you to — so you've learned not to think while you eat, to turn off all higher functions except the shoveling of food into your mouth.
At one point your fork slips from between your fingers and clatters onto the table. You struggle to pick it up but your fingers, fat as they are and slick with something that once decorated the food, couldn't find leverage and scrabble uselessly as if it was a playing card. But it was too late. You recoiled in pain as the tension in your stomach caught up to you, the pressure overwhelming you, your lungs struggling to find room, the gurgling in your intestines predicting a storm. You look up to gauge my reaction — disappointed? angry? — and see only a smile.
"A record," I say. You look at the pile of plates. I could be right.
You glance around. There's barely a face in the restaurant that's not staring at you. Behind the counter, a chef's face echoes defeat, knowing that you've eaten far more than their twelve dollar entry fee predicted. I place my hand on yours and struggle to mesh my dainty fingers between your colossal ones. "Let's go home."
You nod, and try to stand. Your belly pushes the table forward and your legs push the chairs backwards. You begin to tilt forward and the pressure in your stomach seems to double. I reach forward and catch you just before you reach your tipping point. You always forget just how unbalanced you are when your stomach is full — and with me constantly pushing the limits of your capacity, that problem is only going to get worse.
I start towards the door and you try to follow. You are forced into a hunch, your stomach refusing to stretch any further even as you're made to lean back in order to not fall over. You move one leg, then the other, with the first quivering worryingly as your entire weight passes over it. One step at a time. You slowly shuffle your way towards the door, acutely aware of how much of you is on show and of how many people are watching. The restaurant is deathly silent.
I tell you I am going to bring the car to the door. If I had offered, which I never do, you would have gratefully accepted — you know there's no way you're making it there on foot. By the time you've pulled yourself to the entrance with some poor patron having to hold the door open for a full minute before you squeezed yourself through, the car is waiting for you. Getting into the car is always a struggle, and today especially so. By now there is sweat building up in the folds all over your body and you are beginning to look — and smell — shiny.
And that brings you to now. One foot in the left footwell, one foot in the right, stomach spread across your lap and the pressure inside you is just immense. But it's okay. You don't need to worry. I'm in control.
You arrive at home, parking on the roadside. I get out and open your door. I reach down to lift your swollen leg and dangle it outside the door and at the same time you move your other leg into the left footwell. You begin to heave your stomach to the left, bit by bit. Your left foot dangles, and you know that it's a few inches above the sidewalk, and that once you have enough weight over there it will be pushed down onto the floor and you'll be able to pull yourself out.
You continue shifting yourself, and suddenly you're not doing anything anymore but you're still moving. Your centre of mass, in an unfamiliar place given your stuffing, is over the tipping point and you start to fall. Your foot has still not touched the ground, and you're able to see that I've parked a little further away from the sidewalk than I would normally.
And then you touch down, and try to stop yourself, but it's too late. There is no way you can stop yourself moving; you could barely support your weight when you're standing still, let alone in freefall with the full force of gravity driving your motion. You slip from the car and for a moment you are suspended in the air, but then you come crashing down, your fat splashing against the concrete and your left leg hitting the corner of the sidewalk with a sickening crunch. I was unlocking the front door but now I run back to you, placing my hand on your face, then your stomach, then your leg. "I'm so sorry," I whisper, and for the first time you can see panic in my eyes, for the first time I do not know what do to do.
I grab you by the wrists and try to lift you but we both know it's useless. You reach for the car door and begin to pull yourself up with my help. You get to your feet and try to put weight on your left leg, and cry out in pain. Something is deeply wrong in there. I take your arm and put it over my shoulder and begin to walk you back to the house. Your right leg is fine, but your left is out; and every other step your entire body weight is routed through me; I yelp in agony, but stay standing.
I bring you to bed and lay you down. The shock has worn off and the pain has begun. You know the damage is bad.
"Do we need to call the hospital?" you ask.
"No," I say, quickly and assertively, and it comforts you, and that's my intent — but you know it's just habit. You know that I am panicking and don't know what to do. And you also know that once I've made a decision, you can never protest it. It is final.
So you know that you will never be fixed.
Now a wave of dread passes over you. You suddenly realise that this was your last date night. This was your last time getting into bed. You are fat, morbidly obese, and have been pushing your limits for far too long. They've finally caught up.
And you've never had a real conversation with me, really. Just a series of indisputable instructions. So now you're trapped in a broken body with a complete stranger — one who wants nothing more than to make you fatter. And there's no escape.
800 words · 3 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · January 2020
I thought I was lucky when you told me that you wanted to make me fatter. Just a little bit, you promised. I said yes. It's what I'd always wanted, you told me.
You cook, and I eat. Every meal drips with butter and oil. You want more, and I say yes. I quit my job. You tell me that you've prepared the basement with everything I need. It's a struggle getting down there, but I rejoice — no more stairs, at least not today. You bring me meal after meal, day after day. Every morning I get up to shower, and every morning it is a little harder to hold myself up. You watch as I spend ten minutes shuffling myself out of bed, and back in.
I'm sure the days are becoming shorter, but I only have your word to go by — there's no window down here, and I've not yet needed to go upstairs. You keep bringing me food, and I struggle to raise my arm to my face to eat it. You sigh, and take over. My arms stay by my side. I try to get up to shower and feel my legs quivering, sharp pains shooting up my legs and my spine. I sit. You tell me it's okay, this is what I wanted. I look wistfully towards the stairs and know that I will never again see them from the top. You tell me to get back into bed.
It's only been a few months, you say. I know that's not true but I say nothing. You've stopped hand-feeding me and now each meal is liquid, entering me with a tube, bypassing my mouth and pouring directly down my throat. I don't recall the last time I chewed. I wonder what my family thinks. You assure me they don't mind. Every day seems a little shorter and you have started injecting me with something to help me sleep. I suspect my family doesn’t think much at all. I suspect you have told the world that I am dead.
The fatty sludge keeps coming — it stopped tasting of food long ago — and you insist it's always been like that. For once I say no. I've had enough, this has gone too far, you've lied and manipulated me for too long. You say I'm just moody. You inject me with something, say it will calm me down. I lose focus. My vision becomes blurry. I say yes. I keep sucking down the sludge. You put me to sleep a little sooner every day and in the morning I consume. You keep the drugs topped up. I am not aware of how much time is passing.
There's the occasional moment of horrifying lucidity, as the drugs wear off from my growing resistance to them, and I'm able to look down and recognise what I've become. I am sweat and flesh, a haulk of fat that spreads over what used to be the bed. I am decorated by dark patches, every fold is highlighted with irritated red skin, and you've put bandages where the skin has split down the sides of my lumpy legs that have long since turned grey. Sometimes I'm lucid when you roll me over onto my side, and I suffocate as my weight crushes my lungs and windpipe, physically unable to complain as you rub some liquid into the folds on my back that stings like sweet hell before you drop me and I fall back onto the bed, raising a cloud of damp dust that fills my lungs as I try to catch a breath that always eludes me. I try to say something, but I can't — my mouth is rusty, the muscles have atrophied from never needing to chew or speak, and my lips can form no shape but the outline of my feeding tube. But you notice my feeble attempts and, with no change in expression, you press a syringe into me somewhere that I can't feel it — some grossly overused narcotics entrypoint — and my mind recedes back to that blurry place.
I have become your plaything, nothing more than a mouth to feed and a body to grow. My mind was a distraction, from your perspective, and you are slowly killing it off, making me your bloated doll, trapped forever in your dark dollhouse. I try to raise my hands to my face — anything to hide the tears — and can't, my arms locked to my sides in the sticky embrace between my weight and gravity. I cannot call for help, my vocal chords have long since withered. I cannot remove the tube from my mouth. I desperately want to quit your game but I cannot. One by one you took away my every option. You have checkmated me. The only way out is to keep playing until you win.
head empty; stomach full @emptyheadedhousecow - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
