Welcome to Epigstolary, a place where I write about gaining, feeding, and all things fattening. My stories are usually at the higher end of the scale, with an affectionate emphasis on teasing, humiliation, and the consequences of extreme gluttony. If that sounds like your cup of tea, I think youâll enjoy whatâs in these pages, and I hope youâll check out some of the stories linked below:
CONTENTS
Signs â All the little ways you can tell youâll be getting bigger than you ever thought youâd be
Date Night â Your feeder envisions your likely future as the two of you make the rounds of your favorite fast food drive-thrus
Incubus â A shadowy creature has already made you eat yourself well past morbid obesity, and heâs not even close to being done with you.
Tough Guy â You may think youâre a manâs man, even if that waistline says otherwise. But your enabling partnerâs happy to let you keep thinking whatever you want.
On Your Own â What does the future have in store for your superchub self without your feeder?
Real Talk â Your friend has some âadviceâ to share with you about your weight and habits.
Rebound â Itâs easier to regain, and then some â as youâll soon find out.
The Middle of Nowhere â Part One â A gainer who chooses an idyllic life in the country with their feeder might have gotten more than they bargained for.
The Middle of Nowhere â Part Two â How does a rural superchub handle dinner guests and a trip into town?
Lecture â Youâre the focal point of a scientific teachable moment about the effects of hypermorbid obesity on the human body.
Deaf Ears â You havenât been listening to your feederâs warnings about your habits, and this is the result.
Step By Step â You donât become a superchub overnight. But there are signs thatâs where things are going.
Big Deal â Itâs time you gave your feeder a talking-to after they get cold feet from your recent gains.
The Makings of a Glutton â What makes a superchub? A menu of food thatâs terrible for you, apparently.
Too Much of a Good Thing â It may be wonderful, but the weight of your feederâs affection is catching up with you.
A New Home â A newly-immobile superchub gets used to life in a facility meant to help them lose weight, but the caregiver who fed them that size has other plans.
Sedentary â Years of poor diet and too much time on the couch has made it harder and harder to get around.
A Normal Life â You consider a return to civilian life after years as a live-in feedee.
Out and About â Your feeder recounts their favorite things about taking you out and showing you off to unsuspecting, shocked civilians.
Wish Fulfillment â You awaken to find yourself the immobile superchub of your dreams, but how long will you get to enjoy it?
The Look â Your feeder wants to make sure you understand your situation.
Weakness â Your feeder confronts you with how your weakness for food brought you to your current obese condition.
Best Intentions â Unsuspecting bystanders gape, mock, and try to help as you begin mysteriously and rapidly gaining hundreds of pounds.
Enabling Delusion â You and your partner still think youâre going to lose the weight. Your friends think differently.
Center of Attention â Your popularity as a superchub influencer wonât save you from humiliation when your gains finally catch up to you.
Consumed â A poetic exploration of how gaining grew to dominate your life.
Expressions â A feeder recounts a gainerâs progress through how they react to their burgeoning body.
The Biggest Size They Make â Youâve been fighting your wardrobe for a long time, and now youâre losing the battle.
Morning â Nothing beats a cozy, comfy morning being spoiled by your feeder.
Excuses â You always have an excuse ready for why your weight isnât a problem. But there are signs that youâre only fooling yourself.
The Deal â Your bodybuilding arrangement with a savvy gainer proves to be more than you bargained for.
Over The Edge â An admirer puzzles over how you let yourself get to the edge of the gaining abyss.
Just A Number â Thatâs all weight is, but yours has been going up alarmingly fast.
A Growing Problem â Your partner finally gets their concerns about your weight problem off their chest.
When, Not Whether â Gaining like you do isnât sustainable. Youâre heading for a crisis; itâs just a matter of time.
Realization â Your partner finally takes off the mask, revealing their inner feeder once itâs too late for you to do anything about it.
No Going Back â You thought you could experiment with gaining and lose the weight after youâd had your fun. You were wrong.
Trough â A shadowy feeder sets you up to eat like the farm animal you are, to see just how long you can manage.
Big and Tall â A rotund clothes shopper needs the help of a chaser sales clerk after a sartorial mishap.
Polite â Youâve gotten too fat to make fun of, but the polite restraint from your friends tells you everything you need to know.
You know youâve gotten fatter by the way your belly and chest and rump move when you try to jog now â resisting the pull of gravity just a moment longer than the rest of you at the apex of your stride, pulling down and bringing their excess weight to bear an instant after your foot touches back on the ground. It never used to do that when you were leaner and thinner and tighter all over. In a word, you jiggle now. And itâs obvious.
You know youâve gotten fatter by the way your thighs get so warm from your belly resting on them for too long. This wasnât a problem back when you had a lap â which I suppose you technically still do, but itâs so thoroughly buried by that sack of blubber hanging off your midsection that it doesnât really count anymore. You have to lift that thick flab roll any time you want to let your thighs and fatpad cool off, and you notice thatâs getting harder and harder to do by the day.
You know youâve gotten fatter by the way you get out of breath by the end of your walk to the bus now. Itâs not that far â a few dozen steps to the end of your street â but by the end of it, youâre having to work to get your breaths in and out, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks and the perspiration beginning to seep out under your arm fat and down your back rolls. The hunger, too, is telling; the sugary treat you used to save for your first cup of coffee at work now disappears by the second stop, a sacrifice to the rumbling in your stomach that inevitably follows this briefest of workouts. The crumbs of sugar and pastry, and sometimes daubs of icing, trickle down over the rolls and belly filling your lap and spilling over into the necessarily empty seat next to you. None of your fellow riders are surprised to see them there.
You know youâve gotten fatter when you go to stand up from your office chair, and the chair comes with you. Youâd tried to ignore all the splitting seams, the periodic blowouts in your pants seat, the groaning chairs, the growing inertia of all the weight sloshing around on your rump. But ignoring it is no longer an option, not now that you have to squeeze yourself out from between the armrests of this XL roller. Your hips and ass may not be the widest part of you, but thereâs no disguising the state youâre in now that theyâre bigger around than even most beer bellies. Youâre not gracefully squeezing past anyone on the way to the lunchroom â theyâre getting out of your way, fast.
You know youâve gotten fatter when clothes that can fully cover your body simply donât exist anymore. When your thigh rolls bulge and sag out of the biggest pair of shorts you can find, tumbling over one another in a shapeless cascade past where your knees would be, if you could still point them out. When you have to cut the sleeves off of your 8XL tee to make room for your massive doughball arms and the sideboob rolls that hang over whatâs left of the seam. When your belly hangs too low and wobbles too much with every minor movement to stay covered by your circus tent of an outfit. On the rare occasions when you still go out, you canât help but put on a mutually unwanted show for everyone in the vicinity, who try with greater or lesser success to hide how horrified they are at the sight of your unmanageable obesity. Fortunately, there are plenty of chasers and feeders out there happy to fill in for you on the grocery or takeout run.
You know youâve gotten fatter when you canât even manage to shuffle into the shower without getting stuck. You always thought the shower seat you started using, once it became impossible to hold your shameful bulk up for the pathetically short duration of a shower, was going to be the failure point. Instead, itâs the cold, rigid stainless steel of the shower doorframe pinching the unreachable extremity of your belly on one side and the stacks of lard-filled back rolls on the other. You can already feel the burn in your leg muscles, underneath the shapeless lumps of fat disguising them as useable extremities, that tells you youâre rapidly reaching your limit for physical exertion. The same burning spreads to your overworked lungs, fighting against the weight of your blubber-packed tits to keep you breathing, as you struggle in vain to get yourself free. Good thing your feeder is there to extract you and bring you a couple dozen cookies to help you calm down.
You know youâve gotten fatter when the slight pressure of your feederâs touch against your blubbery chest is enough to make getting up from the couch impossible. You can still just throw your weight forward with enough force to tip forward onto your feet, pushing your hundreds of excess pounds up from a squat until youâre in a standing position. But not when he doesnât want you to. It takes you so much effort, fighting against the flab smothering your body, that his halfhearted push is enough to send you rolling backward, out of breath and stuck in your divot on the couch. The perfect spot for him to caress your triple chins as he feeds you something greasy and fatty and soporific enough that you canât even consider trying to get up again. You were probably too big to try it in the first place anyway, or so you try to convince yourself.
You know youâve gotten fatter. You know youâre getting fatter. You know youâre never going to stop getting fatter. And you still have so much more growing to do.
Tw: Health issues, fat shaming, nonconsensual gaining
Whatâs the matter babe, something wrong with your food? It never takes you this long to polish off a family meal deal. Usually, I canât even get to the next drive-thru before youâre tilting your head back to choke down the last of the fries. You know I love seeing those pudgy hands pouring the crumbs and salt and grease down that blubber-covered throat of yours. But weâre almost there and youâve barely finished the second burger â whatâs going on?
Ohh, the cashier at the last place really got to you, huh? Yeah, they donât usually play along like he did when I try to fuck with them. Itâs always funny to see how uncomfortable they get when I talk about how big youâre getting, how hard it is for you to get around when youâre fat enough to take up the entire backseat of a car, how all this fast food is the last thing in the world you need but I keep getting it for you anyway. But not him, though. He was ready to give you a lecture about what all these processed foods â the ones loaded with saturated fats and sugars and sodium â are doing to your body. Called you a fatass right to your face! From the drive thru window! Man, I wish Iâd recorded it; your fans would have loved to see that, you getting redder and redder from blushing, shifting your flab around while he went on about diabetes and heart disease and fat, lazy customers.
Youâve got to admit thereâs something to what he was saying, though. I mean, you didnât used to have to take a break just getting into the car. It hasnât been easy for you for a while now, but to already be out of breath and panting like a dog by the time youâve barely gotten to the car, sitting on the edge of the backseat with your fat filling up the door frame? Itâs obvious youâve gotten a lot heavier and a lot more out of shape, really damn fast. You had to spend a good five minutes with one huge blubber-packed leg and a good foot and a half of belly and side roll hanging out of the car before you were ready to start scooting those hundreds of pounds into the middle of the seat. With all the rocking and jiggling and wobbling you had to do, I wasnât sure what was going to give out first: you, or the suspension. Iâm not looking forward to trying to get your fat ass out when we get back home, not after youâve stuffed ten or fifteen thousand caloriesâ worth of greasy junk into your bloated gut.
It has to be obvious to you how youâre steadily ruining yourself. Wrecking your body. Sabotaging any chance you might have left of living a normal life. If you had even a little self-control, you could probably level off your gains here, come up with some kind of a fitness routine that even a fat cow like you could manage, and start getting back down to just being regular fat instead of reality-tv fat. But you canât resist it, can you? However unsettled someone like that cashier makes you, however much they might make you stop and think about what youâre really doing to yourself, youâre going to have me drive us through our usual date night cycle of fast food, arenât you? Youâre going to stuff burgers and tacos and fried chicken and ice cream and donuts and chips and candy bars into that blubbery sack of fat in your lap, and wash it all down with sodas and milkshakes and slushies until you look like a tick ready to pop and youâre barely coherent anymore. And then I get to have my real fun.
So you may as well make your peace with all this. Know that youâre not going to be able to make your future anything more than an endless round of trips through the drive-thru until, finally, youâre too porked-up even to get hauled around for that anymore. Until youâre almost unrecognizable as a person under a belly thatâs heavier than most people. Until your arms and legs are so heavy with lard and bloated by your indulgence that you can barely lift them without help, let alone use them. Until thereâs not a car left anywhere thatâs wide enough for you to cram your dump-truck ass into. Until just sitting upright and staying awake is a workout that leaves you out of breath.
Thatâs when the food will start coming to you. Iâll miss our little outings like this, but having a date night at home will be a different kind of fun. The endless parade of delivery drivers, showing up every half-hour or so with enough from your favorite fast-food stops to feed a small party. Iâll be there to help you through the food coma, keep you focused and eating, even as you can feel the grease starting to flood your arteries and your breathing slow and your eyelids droop. Giving you all the stimulation you need to keep choking down more garbage and make it that much more impossible for you to do anything on your own again. Isnât that what dates are supposed to be for anyway? Bringing you closer together as a couple? I donât know about you, but I think itâs romantic.
Because weâre a team, and thereâs nothing sexier than knowing Iâm feeding you into the fattest version of yourself. Whether you like it or not.
Tw: Non-consensual supernatural feeding and gaining
Shadows crawl around the corners of the room in the shifting light of the tv, making the fast food wrappers and empty microwave meal containers appear to dance and flicker on the living room floor. Yet you hardly notice as you relentlessly, rhythmically, joylessly chew your way through the last of several enormous burgers. Your chins and cheeks and tits wobble with every bite, and your belly, spilling out well beyond your knees, rises and falls slowly with every labored breath you take. Finally choking down the last bite of burger, you lean back, letting your ample fat settle back on top of you; and you hear the chair cracking and resettling with the shift in weight. Just as you think youâre finally done with your dinner, having packed away an enormous meal, you clearly hear his voice â though where it comes from, you canât tell â and you know he has more planned.
âWouldnât you like to check and see whatâs in the fridge?â
His voice throbs in your ears â closer than close, muffled and distorted, forceful enough to be heard clearly and never disobeyed, yet still with a loverâs soft tenderness. Itâs been months since you first heard it, a quiet whisper at first, but one that grew steadily louder until you could no longer discount it as a figment of your imagination. The physical signs grew stronger along with it â at first, a light touch or a quick brush from thin air, but steadily increasing in force to a grasp or a pull, until finally it was a limb and a person you could see and touch. Except, not a person⌠and more than a person, you remember with a shudder. You remember, too, what you looked like when the voice started. Before you started eating like this. Before all this embarrassing, obscene weight. But the voice insists; it wonât be kept waiting, wonât be denied.
So no sooner do you hear it than you find yourself on your feet, all 700-plus pounds of you, wandering toward the refrigerator. Your body aches under the still-unfamiliar weight, joints screaming, muscles straining at their limit to move your tremendous bulk. You feel them working as the thick fat covering every inch of you now sways and wobbles with your steps â perpetually working its way out of your clothes, bulging out from under shirts and flowing over waistbands, gradually trying to undress you. You have to pull everything back into place, again, as you finally plant yourself in front of the refrigerator, breathing heavily and already beginning to sweat from just these short few steps.
It takes your eyes a moment to adjust from the darkness of the room to the gleaming light of the refrigerator, your engorged and bloated body casting an even larger shadow on the far wall in its harsh glare. As usual, the fridge is stuffed full except for a neat cubby where the beef patties you just finished used to be. Towers of pizzas, piles of wrapped sandwiches, cases of soda, heaps of burger patties and sliced cheese, and countless takeout orders fill the space, waiting for your appetite to turn them into more fuel for your constantly growing blubber. You donât buy it yourself; you donât even know where it comes from. But itâs always full now.
âDoesnât it all look so good? Maybe a pizza would hit the spotâŚâ
You feel a hitch in your side at the thought of eating anything else â your belly is already so full that your breaths are coming short and quick from the pressure. Itâs so painfully stuffed that even with your hand pressing into your side, almost buried under your topmost love handle, you can hardly catch your breath. You canât possibly eat more, you realize; thereâs no room.
âNo⌠no, I donât need a pizzaâŚâ you say weakly, wary of the response youâll get. âIâm already too fullâŚâ
A distant rumble pulses through the house, the lights of the tv and fridge dimming and flickering in tandem. The first sign that heâs here. You feel two strong, cold, impossibly muscular arms reach around from behind you, slowly wrapping you in an embrace despite your wide girth. One takes a loving but powerful grip of your blob of an upper arm, overwhelmed by fat and pathetically weak in comparison to his; the other sinks into the thick, flowing rolls at your side, lifting them to make room and squeezing them with evident enjoyment. At the same time, you feel a sensation thatâs become all too familiar â a tingling feeling like a limb waking up, part numbness, part stimulation â that spreads throughout your body. This is how it feels, you know, when he begins to take hold. You can see, too, the familiar but no less unsettling shadowy tendrils spreading down your arm, spidering over the hanging curve of your belly and into the folds of your sweeping rolls.
The first few times, you tried to resist â tear yourself away from him, run from the fridge, do anything to try and stop more food from going down your throat. Nothing worked. He always found you and always found a way, usually a much less pleasant one than just submitting would have been. Thatâs usually what you do, now that you know better, but he still likes to see you wrapped in those shadows. Maybe just to be careful â maybe just because he likes to see you bound.
âYou canât be full. Youâve hardly eaten anything. And youâre so thin, like youâre wasting away. You have to have somethingâŚâ
The hand releases its grip of your arm and slowly, fingers trailing over the blubbery bulges of your dimpled elbow and puffy forearm, cups the back of your hand, gently guiding it toward one of the takeout containers. The package is dense and heavy as you take it from its place, and as you open it, you see why: itâs filled with what must be at least five pounds of pulled pork, about half gobbets of fat mixed in with the shredded meat, all swimming in a pool of thick barbecue sauce. A fork slides gently into your other hand as the first brings the pile of food closer to your lips, close enough that you can smell the sweet, smoky sauce. The tendrils tighten around your blubber, your fat squeezing between them in plump bulges; and a buzzing thrill runs through your body.
Without even bothering to warm the food up, and now unmindful of the pressure in your stomach, you begin shoveling forkfuls of meat and sauce into your mouth. Nothing in you wants this food, but you feel something compelling, driving you to have more, using the aroma of the sweet, spiced sauce and the sensation of the unctuous meat sliding over your tongue to simulate a convincing-enough facsimile of an appetite for you to keep eating. Youâre dimly aware of your fat bulging more and more insistently beneath the shadowy, veiny grip; of growing bulkier and heavier with each bite; and of the tendrils spreading under your belly and up your thighs, sending waves of the tingling numbness rumbling through your very core. A gasp bubbles through a mouthful of sauce. Your heart races even faster.
You feel your body go limp but stay upright, your sense of time and place abandoning you. All youâre aware of is the dimness filling your eyes, the ringing in your ears, the muscular embrace from behind you pressing ever more insistently against your yielding flab, and of course the food passing through the hasty chewing in your mouth. It feels constant, endless, but kaleidoscopic, the taste of the barbecue blurring into greasy cheesiness, into the creamy sweetness of chocolate, into buttery pillows of potato, into the sweet rush of bubbly soda, into syrupy fruit and crispy crust, and on, and on, and onâŚ
âThatâs more like it. Thatâs how you should be eating. Youâre going to feel so much better after you finally start eating rightâŚâ
Amidst the meandering flow of flavors, you gradually become aware of a feeling of your surroundings closing in on you. The dimness feels that much more oppressive, the ringing that much more insistent, the heat that much more stifling as it seems to wrap you, envelop you, smother the breath out of you and sap you of what little energy you still have. You try to struggle up from the darkness, focus on something other than the flavors, catch your breath at last; and for the longest time, you feel muscular hands reaching out from the dark, trying to draw you back in, feeling and grabbing for you until you finally, somehow, dodge the last of them and break free.
When you come to, the dimness clearing and the ringing subsiding, you find yourself leaning against the frame of the open refrigerator, a labored wheezing rumbling in your chest. Rivulets of sweat trickle over your rolls⌠trickle, you notice, for a strangely long time. Only then do you realize that the refrigerator is totally empty, save for a few crumpled takeout containers that look as if they were savaged by a wild animal. Only then do you feel the changes: the unfathomable weight crushing the frame of your body, the heft of the inhumanly large belly now pressing against your shins, the rolls of gelatinous lard flowing over your ankles and wrists, the thick fat smothering you in all directions, and the sheer volume of blubber keeping you from bending hardly at all. You didnât break free â not even close.
However long you were made to eat, you can tell you must have eaten yourself most of the way to a ton by now. Your body is unrecognizable â as you, as human, as anything other than a literal pile of lard. You are easily more fat than person by now. Everywhere you touch, youâre met with rolls of heavy, jiggling blubber. Every time you try to move, a wall of fat feels like itâs in the way, the slightest movement taking the effort of a full workout. The enormous bags of fat hanging off your body everywhere continuously crush the air out of you, leaving you lightheaded, gasping, hardly able to stand. Each step is agony under this much weight, the hundreds of excess pounds not only taxing your frame to its limit but making you fight their wobbling inertia with every movement. In this sad state, youâre barely able to waddle backward a few inches from the refrigerator, heart pounding, stomach dropping at the blurred sight, reflected in dim stainless steel, of what youâve done and what youâve become.
The strobing light of the tv reaches the kitchen, illuminating your stretched, shapeless, impossibly fat body in a series of still images, as racing lines of shadow trace new dark channels over the yielding flesh. You feel your vast weight being pulled back now, tight against a tower of firm muscle â now grasping you not so gently, not so tenderly. An angular face settles into the crease where your double chins melt into a roll of neck fat running around your shoulders, hot breath coming in snorts down your nape. You feel his searching fingers, exploring your vast new bulk, clearly relishing the sight and feeling of your lard-packed body. Itâs clear to him, and to you, that youâve been fattened so completely as to be utterly helpless. And with the realization, you hear that deep, distorted voice, rumbling into a growling chuckle.
âThere, doesnât this feel so much better? Now youâre perfect. Now youâre MINE.â
You ate, bitch! You left no crumbs! You cleaned your plate! You went back for seconds, hunty! You cleared out the refrigerator AND destroyed the pantry! Sheâs a bariatric queen! Sheâs serving breakfast, lunch, and dinner, AND the buffet, AND the whole damn grocery store. Itâs giving morbid o-be-si-ty. Itâs giving mobility scooter. Itâs giving Dr. Now realness.
Tw: Fat shaming, toxic masculinity, gaining as femininity
I canât believe you still try to act like the big, muscly tough guy you used to be several hundred pounds ago. I mean, come on, who do you think youâre fooling? Youâre about as intimidating as a baby elephant. Sure, the deep voice and the sleeve tattoos probably probably made you look pretty tough when you were in shape and 200lbs of muscle; but baby, those days are long gone. Thereâs a ton of fat packed onto whateverâs left of your physique under there. Those tattoos have gotten stretched and folded over your fat rolls so much that I can barely tell what they are anymore. And I just canât take the deep voice seriously when it comes out so husky in between the labored wheezing that passes for breathing with you. Nobodyâs gonna be shaking in their boots when youâre out of breath just from sitting on the couch, are they?
And even when you do get up, you donât exactly look like the picture of health and fitness. A slow waddle is your typical pace, all your fat shifting from side to side with each intended step, your body clearly having to fight against it to keep moving forward. And all your indulgence has left you with a wide, bottom-heavy, pear-shaped physique more reminiscent of a well-fed housewife than a strong, buff gymbro. Nobodyâs going to be mistaking you for one anyway, though, since your lazy ass canât help but get red-faced and exhausted after just a couple minutes of walking around. You talk a big game about your glory days and everything you could do if you put some time into conditioning. But letâs face it: youâre about as out of shape as someone can be, and those wide hips and thunder thighs donât scream athletic or manly.
I know it must be hard for you, though, since thatâs still the guy you are in your head. The big, beer-drinking, meat-eating, football-watching manly man. Well, you missed the part where all that beer had a ton of calories, all that meat had a ton of fat, and all that football left your fattening ass planted on the couch all weekend, every weekend. I totally thought you were going to say something eventually about not needing me to bring you so much to drink and so many snacks, but nope, you never seemed to notice that youâd worked yourself up to eating an entire partyâs worth of food all on your own between Saturday morning and Sunday night. And itâs not like I was going to stop you, was I?
Iâd have thought your bros teasing you about how fat you were getting would be enough for you to at least start thinking about it, too. They may not be the cut jocks they were when you were younger, but aside from a couple with dadbods, theyâre all in reasonably good shape. But not you. And you let them pat and rub your belly to put you in your place every time they come over to watch the game, take their jokes about how the blobby flab inflating your arms is all muscle, let them snicker at you for finishing off the food they leave behind to keep to their diets. You think youâre still just one of the boys, when really youâre more like their fat, chubby mascot.
So here you sit, munching on nachos swimming in beef queso, eyes glued to the third match of the day. Love handles bulging over the waistband of your athletic shorts, overtaxed by the titanic rump, bulging hips, and bloated thighs anchoring you to your seat. Tits flopping across your beer belly as you shout at the refs on tv. Chubby, shapeless arms wobbling with your gestures as you criticize guys in peak physical condition, lecturing about how they should be playing when thirty seconds of that level of activity would leave you panting on the ground. And me, just smiling and nodding and agreeing, knowing those 2,500 calories of goo are going to be blowing you up even more by tomorrow.
This canât last forever, of course. Eventually, youâll wind up so fat, heavy, and hard to move that you wonât be able to ignore how far youâve fallen. Youâll have to confront the (at least) quarter-ton body youâve grown, and consider how blubbery you were when it stopped being manly. Spoiler alert: you passed that point a looooong way back. Youâll face the fact that thereâs nothing masculine about a guy whose manhood is buried in several inches of soft, yielding lard. That thereâs nothing macho about a guy who has to move fat out of the way so he can reach for the remote or his next meal. That nobody envies a former athlete whoâs so bloated and heavy he can barely make it to the mailbox and back. That youâve eaten yourself out of everything you used to know about yourself.
But donât worry; Iâll still pretend youâre my manly man, and youâll eat that up too so you donât have to pay attention to the last of your fitness slipping away. Iâll tell you that you look so big and strong, while youâre shoveling those pork rinds into your mouth. Iâll giggle that you seem so tough and stoic, while youâre planted on the couch, huge fat rolls flowing in all directions. Iâll whisper that youâre still so fit and athletic, after you come back huffing and puffing from hauling your big back from the next room. Iâll say all the things you want to hear. Just keep eating for me, baby. I want my tough guy to be big, and strong⌠and big.
The alarm buzzing on your phone announces another day of struggling to navigate your narrow, confined world. After a few minutes of burying your head under the pillow, you muster the strength to reach a heavy, puffy, flab-covered arm out to hit the snooze button. A couple of rocks back and forth with one of your shapeless legs and its bulging, wobbling sacs of fat, ready you to heave for the edge of the bed; and you feel your belly weight begin shifting and cascading over the side, helping to pull you toward an upright sitting position. You feel the now-familiar sensation of the thick layer of blubber burying every inch of your body sloshing with your movement, its weight pushing you down into a crater divoting most of this side of the bed. Your heart races and your breaths come shallow and labored as you recover from this extraordinary exertion, trying to collect yourself for the final push to stand up.
This hadnât been the plan, not by a long shot. You were supposed to have a feeder, someone to take care of all the details like prepping your vast meals, getting the extensive grocery list needed to keep the overworked kitchen full, tidying up and performing all the personal care rituals youâd gotten too fat to do yourself without it taking a literal workout. And for a while, youâd had one. Someone who was happy, even eager, to see you gain as much as you possibly could. Someone who would have been far from disappointed to see you overwhelm your bed with your lard-packed body and keep eating. And someone who was willing to put in the work to help you make it happen.
He was there, cooking before and after work, making sure you had the piles of alternately greasy or fatty or sweet or salty food you needed to keep your waistline expanding and the rolls covering your body growing. He was there restocking your snack cabinet and your soda fridge and your containers of prepped meals so you rarely had to do more than waddle to the kitchen to find a couple thousand calories waiting for you. He was there to admire your growing bulk, watching as that heavy swollen belly swallowed up your lap, that ballooning butt anchored you more and more firmly to the couch, that double chin and those tits and that bicep flab piled up around your chest as if to bury you.
Heâd eventually fed you to a point beyond what youâd have ever thought possible. He made sure you were tantalized by food 24/7, always able to have something tasty and fattening on hand at any moment of the day, never not thinking about your next snack or meal or indulgence. His encouragement left you with a permanent craving for something at all times â a craving he was always ready to satisfy. You didnât worry about what his doting attention was doing to your body, or your stamina, or your health, because he was there. He was taking care of you. Even if you wound up in bed and too fat to ever move again, heâd be there to make sure you had everything you needed. You could get as big as you wanted, and know that he would always find a way to make it work.
And then he was gone. It wouldnât do any good to dwell on how, again, for the thousandth time. The stark fact was that now you were on your own â no job, nothing like the amount of food heâd kept stocked up, struggling even to move under the 700 lbs heâd fed into you. You managed to avoid disaster â dusting off your resume and finding remote work, setting up a service for groceries, getting a monthly pass to keep your lifeline of fast food deliveries coming. But you knew how precarious your situation was, and how little it would take for your morbidly-obese, food-addicted self to be in real trouble, if you put on just a few pounds or had to try and travel hardly any distance.
Because you definitely werenât getting any smaller. Fear didnât keep you from picking up the fork; if anything, it made you shovel more junk down your throat. And how else were you supposed to lose weight, join a gym and start exercising? You knew you could bounce along on a treadmill for two or three minutes at most before your pounding heart and burning lungs would force you to quit. Youâd be reduced to a wheezing, overheated mound of blubber desperately trying to collect yourself in front of a gym full of fit, healthy, judgmental people. Youâd have to make do at this size for as long as your luck would hold out, hoping against hope that you wouldnât grow and lose what little mobility you still had.
And so you do your best to stumble through your morning routine â your ass and belly squeaking as they rub against the sides of the shower stall theyâre too big for, your chubby arms and bingo wings quivering as you reach into the grease-soaked paper bag for another fast-food breakfast sandwich, your couch creaking ominously as you settle in for work with your laptop and your chocolate-caramel-laced excuse of a coffee. You know, somewhere deep down, that thereâs a ticking clock counting down â this is not a stable situation that can last forever. You know you canât stop gorging and gaining. Things arenât desperate enough yet for you to want to; but even if you did, you know you couldnât. The day is coming when youâll be stuck here, too big to help yourself anymore, no way to save yourself from snowballing growth. You know you canât stop it.
And you realize why, for the first time. The voice you hear in the back of your mind, telling you how hungry you are, how tasty that little snack or dessert would be, is his voice. When you run your fingers across the soft, yielding flab spreading out from your body, itâs his touch, his hands that you feel. And when that yearning, aching, burning desire to eat even more and grow even heavier overtakes you, itâs his desperate lust that you feel. âI need you so much bigger, babe⌠I need you fat enough to fill this bed, so the real feeding can start.â
It doesnât matter that he isnât around anymore. That living independently and being a half-ton are a complete contradiction. That caring for yourself and being a bedbound lardpile are irreconcilably exclusive. You might be on your own, but he insinuated himself into your psyche a long time ago. After him, there was no going back to your merely chubby former self. His encouragement was corrupting to your very soul; and you were chained to him and his wishes as surely as if the ghost of his memory were the living, breathing man, delicately forcing another fattening morsel between your lips.
You were his. You are his. And he wants you fatter.
TW: Medical fatphobia, health issues, fat shaming, toxic masculinity
Dude, you say you want me to help you, but youâre going to have to get serious if you really want to start losing weight. Iâm a trainer, not a miracle worker. I mean, look at you; you know your bodyâs fucking disgusting, right? You let yourself get so huge that even your fat guy clothes canât hide your belly anymore. Every inch of you is covered in blubber. Everywhere you look. And you have to push all that fat around every time you want to walk or move. Itâs so gross watching you try to go anywhere. Youâre just waddling around under hundreds of pounds of fat, wheezing like you just ran a marathon. Like⌠people arenât supposed to get to the size that you have. And donât give me that âhealth at any sizeâ bullshit. Youâve got to have some serious problems to get this big and think itâs ok. Nobody your size is healthy. Your bodyâs a fucking disgrace, tubbo.
You gotta realize just how bad being this fat is for you, right? Think about it. All that fatâs wrapping around your organs. Either they work harder, or they just quit working. Your joints are getting annihilated having to move all that extra weight around. Your heartâs having to work so much harder just to do its thing because youâre so fucking big. Your bodyâs not supposed to work like that. It feels like itâs under attack 24/7 â because it is â so youâve got anxiety, youâve got inflammation, your hormones are all out of wack. Your body chemistry is basically fucked once you get fat. And fucking forget about it when you weigh as much as three normal people, like your flabby ass does.
Not that you seem to care, since you pay zero attention to your diet. Itâs just fucking scary, bro. Iâve seen you pound an entire pizza or a bag of burgers and be ready for more. And thatâs just, like, a regular lunch for you. Thereâs so much saturated fat and sugar in all the shit you eat for every meal, it blows my mind that youâre even able to function. Where do you think that shit goes after you cram it down your throat, meal after meal? Itâs blowing up your body even fatter. Itâs clogging up those arteries to make that overworked heart work even harder. Itâs running through all the insulin your body tries to pump out so that it can deal with the abuse you put it through. I bet if I went through your kitchen right now, I couldnât find one goddamn vegetable â all sweets, and takeout, and chips, and junk food, am I right? Yeah, you love kicking back on the sofa and working through a big pile of garbage like that, donât you, fatass? I bet you sit there just belly out, crumbs and shit all over your tits, like a big fucking blob, huh?
Keep eating like that, and you donât have a fucking chance. Youâre just gonna keep blowing up until you finally have the fucking big one. That shit is so, SO bad for you. You want to not be a total embarrassment, fatty? Youâre gonna have to throw the snack cakes in the garbage. Youâre gonna have to cook stuff thatâs not loaded with butter or grease or sugar. Youâre gonna have to eat something green that grows in the ground every once in a while. And yeah, youâre probably going to feel like shit for a while because your bodyâs used to getting fed lard nonstop all the fucking time. But you gotta get a little self-control. The whole reason why you look like a fucking enormous cow, why youâve got that belly packed full of fat fucking garbage, is that youâve never had any.
I guess what I canât figure out is, why the fuck did you do this to yourself? Itâs so much harder to make it through life when youâre this fucking heavy. You canât even go anywhere or do anything because youâre too fat to leave the house. Everyone you meet has to be shocked at what a lardass you are. Nobody who sees your disgustingly obese body is gonna want to fuck you, except the fucking weirdos who get off on that shit. Maybe thatâs who you have to settle for, since thereâs no way youâre reaching your dick with all that fat in the way. God, I canât even imagine letting myself get too fat to be able to fuck. Thatâs so fucking gross, bro.
Like, look at me. Look at this rock-hard bicep next to that big flabby fucking water wing of an arm you have. Look at these abs next to you and that belly hanging down to your knees. It doesnât even have a fucking shape. Look at these tight glutes next to that wide, wobbling, fat ass youâve gotten from sitting in front of the tv stuffing your fat face for years. With a body like this, I can fuck anyone I want. How do you think that same hookupâs gonna go for you, huh? Nobody out thereâs going home with a pile of jello like you Youâre going home, alone, to try and figure out a way to get yourself off.
And dude, Iâm not saying all this just to shit on you. Iâm worried about you. It sucks to see my bro blow up into a fucking whale and get all mopey âcause he canât get any ass. But you need someone to be real with you. Someoneâs gotta tell you how much of a fatass you are, and how much of a fatass youâre gonna be until you get to the gym and shut this fast food and shit down. You canât blame anyone but yourself for how you got this way. Keep complaining, and youâre going to keep being a gross fatty. Youâre gonna have to go out, get some fucking exercise, and deal with being embarrassed at being the fattest guy at the gym until youâve put in the work to fix it.
It has to hurt to see what you look like now. All the shapeless mounds of fat weighing you down, distorting what was, until fairly recently, an average figure. You were so close to getting back to a normal weight, too â years of struggling to come down from a size at which you couldnât lumber more than a few feet before getting red-faced and breaking out in a sweat. And you did it; somehow, you got yourself small enough to be able to shop in regular clothing stores again, and to not even need to buy their biggest sizes. Everyone was so proud of you. Telling you how good you looked. How much healthier it was to be this size. How much happier you had to be, now that you could move around and be active again. Youâd beaten obesity.
Except you hadnât, had you? Because every diet fails eventually, and fat doesnât go away. Fat cells shrink when you diet. They quiet down when you restrain your appetite. And then they wait, lurking in that slender body, disguised by loose skin. Waiting for their moment to come back with a vengeance.
You may not even remember what triggered it now â maybe it was a really rough couple of days at work, maybe a relationship disappointment, maybe drama with family or friends. But something made you take two cheat days in a row, just to treat yourself a little and make up for everything crappy youâd had to deal with lately. And that was all it took to wake the monster sleeping inside you.
A couple of cheat days turned into having snacks around that you hadnât allowed yourself since you started losing weight â because you had things under control, right? Portion sizes started creeping upward again, and fattier, carbier foods started replacing the lean meats and fresh veggies that helped you shed the pounds in the first place â because you lost it before, so you can lose it again if you need to, right? You went easier on yourself, skipping morning walks and trips to the gym with increasing frequency, giving yourself fewer and fewer opportunities to burn all the excess calories youâd started dumping down your throat again â because you were always going to make up for the missed sessions at some point, right? At least, those were the ways you rationalized your backsliding to yourself.
You probably didnât know this before, but regains are a bitch. Your bodyâs felt you starving for years â thatâs all a diet is, as far as itâs concerned â and now the famineâs over. Foodâs abundant again. Time to eat and try to get you ready for the next famine, which it has no way of knowing is never coming, unfortunately for you. Every calorie it can spare from keeping you alive gets absorbed into those fat cells that used to be dormant. The weight packs on faster than it ever went away. And almost before you realize it, your puffy belly is back, your ass is filling up more of your pants, and your thunder thighs and double chin are beginning to make their appearance.
Iâm sure you tried to get things back under control once you realized what was happening. You tried to get back out there and exercise again once your girth started popping buttons and tearing the seat out of pants, and you had to pull your fat clothes out of storage. You tried to eat better and ignore the cravings for everything high in fat and sugar and everything bad for you when your love handles and bingo wings and thunder thighs started rubbing against chair arms and door frames in a way they hadnât for a long time. And then, once all of that had failed, you tried to simply ignore what was happening â to pay no attention to how your body was ballooning up to fill even your fat clothes; how difficult it was to heave your hanging belly and plump ass up and haul it wherever you needed to go; how the face in the mirror wasnât the thin, lean, angular one youâd gotten used to seeing, but the bloated, pinched, bulbous fat face set atop a cascade of double chins that you thought youâd never have to look at again. Just muddle through, you must have thought, and eventually youâll get a handle on this.
Howâd all that work out for you? Not great, judging by the way you look now. Those legs that look like pinched sacks of custard, almost too blobby and bulky to move, donât exactly signal someone in control of their situation. Neither does the enormous, wobbling belly spreading out over your knee folds and across the bed, or the hips bulging out at either side like melting lumps of dough overflowing a mold. And the double chins, resting on two massive boobs each the size of a fat belly in their own right, squeezed by the fat of pillowy arms plopped uselessly at either side â well, all that hardly looks like someone keeping their weight in check with responsible diet and exercise. Iâm gonna guess youâre not, are you?
Thatâs why you had to call me in. Trust me, I see people just like you all the time. Weightâs bounced around for years, theyâve tried to diet and exercise, sometimes itâs worked for a while; but eventually, it spirals out of control. Like this. Really, you probably would have been better off if youâd just accepted being sort of fat. Beats wrecking your metabolism with a crash diet and dealing with the rebound effect â getting really, really fat like this. And now you need someone to help with all the things that youâre much too big, much too heavy to do.
Iâm also supposed to help you manage your diet, get some physical activity, see if we can keep what mobility you have and try to recover more. But⌠thatâs not really my style. See, Iâve also been around enough people like you to know that thereâs no real way of coming back from this. Sure, I could probably get you to lose some weight, get you down to a size where you can wedge your flab behind the wheel of a car or cram it into the seat of a mobility scooter, get you back into the world for a while. But we both know you canât stick to that, donât we? The same habits that got you into this situation to begin with are going to blow you right back up into the same helpless fatty again eventually, arenât they? Matter of time. And just imagine what a second rebound like this one would do to you! Youâre already most of the way to a half-ton; another yo-yo, and youâre down for the count, immobilized probably forever under more fat than even the two of us can hope to handle.
Iâd hate to see that happen to you; no lie, I really would. So Iâll make you a deal. You give up on trying to slim down to a normal weight, and you accept that youâre going to be a housebound blob from here on out. Forget about the diet and exercises, and make your peace with filling out most of a king bed by yourself. Do all that, let me take the wheel, and Iâll make sure you have everything you might need â and I do mean everything. I think youâll find it a lot more comfortable that way.
I take it thatâs a no? Listen, thereâs no need to be personally insulting. Remember, Iâm not the one who fattened you up like a prize pig, too big to reach the bottom of your belly, too fat to move without totally exhausting yourself â that was all you. So fine; weâll do it your way. Get you losing weight for a while. But remember how easy it is to gain weight back on the rebound. And remember whoâs really controlling your diet and your activity. Donât say I didnât warn you when your bellyâs down to your feet, your arms are too bloated to move, and youâre smothered under half a ton of lard.
I once said that my feeder didnât have to do anything to keep me on his farm. That I was building my own prison there, bite by bite. And thatâs still true â but only partly true. The farm may be a long way away from anything â town, other people, even the road thatâs our only real connection to society â and it may as well be a desert island for someone too big to drive a car or walk further than the yard, but it isnât my prison. Because my prison isnât a place.
Things started to change when it got difficult even to go outside to our porch. I donât mean they changed with my feeder; he was still as caring and doting as ever. He started bringing me my snacks once I got big enough that just shuffling out the front door took all my energy and attention. I had to watch where I placed every step of my bloated legs, laden with fat that looked like bags of cottage cheese, and hold on to the walls and the railing along the porch to keep my belly and chest fat from sloshing sideways and pulling me over. Even those few steps left me breathless and my heart pounding by the time I got settled on my bench; but it was worth it to have a plate of his biscuits and gravy or chicken and dumplings, under that big sky beyond our little farm, gilded with another sunset. And even when my bench finally gave way after one too many helpings of both, he dusted off his woodworking kit and put it back together, reinforced and better than new.
But by then, we both knew it was only a temporary fix. It wouldnât be long before thereâd be no way I could maneuver myself out there every day, and he could tell how being cooped up inside would drive me crazy after a while. If I was going to do anything other than sit mostly alone on the couch all day, we were going to have to find another way.
His first innovation was to invite people over for dinner â farmhands, friends, folks he knew from town that he could get to come to me even if I couldnât go to them. And they were good company, in a lot of ways; theyâd bring a taste of the outside world with them. They might talk about how the crops were doing, recount some recent anecdote from working out in the fields or going into town, opine on some petty local politics or gossip. And it was nice to hear about something other than what was going on within the confines of our little farm â an outside world that it was increasingly impossible for me to get to. But really, it was hard for the focus not to turn around to me. Nobody was ever rude the first time they met me; but it was rare not to see either a reaction of stifled surprise, or else a glassy look of unseeing, a conscious attempt not to notice the half-ton of fat flowing and bulging out of my ill-fitting clothes.
It didnât help that, with me never leaving the farm, there werenât many topics of conversation other than myself and food that our guests could engage with me about. When the conversation didnât turn to recent meals or my favorite foods, which usually elicited at least warm agreement about the country staples forming much of my diet, it turned to how I spent most of my day. Weâd do our usual face-saving song and dance about what I did to take care of the house while my partner was out working in the field â all of it lies, and increasingly transparent lies as my limited ability to even move became more obvious at higher weights â and how I was getting ready to start losing some weight. Iâd talk about how I really wanted to get healthier, get out and about more often; and theyâd smile and nod, giving tepid approval and encouragement.
The thing is, I really did mean it. I really did want to get down to a size where I could at least walk around outside again, maybe even drive a car into town and go to the little greasy spoon like I used to. It was becoming discouraging to have every step, every reach, every movement blocked or restrained by the fat smothering every inch of my body. But our guests knew full well I didnât have a prayer of keeping to a diet or an exercise routine. It was even more obvious to those whoâd visited before, and who saw me even more bloated, even more out of shape than the last time they were there.
The actual meals certainly made them think that, if they hadnât before. My partner would serve a spread fit for a dozen people â something like a barbecue buffet, a whole turkey with all the fixings, a tray of lasagna â and Iâd end up eating everything that was left after the others had their fill. Long after their places had been cleared away, Iâd still be gobbling up the heaping plates my partner would keep bringing me until every scrap of food was gone. Since I couldnât last very long at the dining table anymore, usually weâd sit around the living room, and they would basically watch me gorge myself â tits and chins wobbling as Iâd chew, plate sitting on my enormous belly so my blubbery arms could rest on the sweep of my side rolls while I cut and speared each bite. It was obvious to everyone, I guess even to me, that I was never going to drop a pound if I couldnât resist completely abandoning myself to food like that. By the end of the meal, Iâd be stuffed full, taking up the entire couch and looking enormous, almost too drowsy from overeating to notice the expressions passing between our guests, their looks of amusement or disgust or astonishment at what was apparently a typical dinner for me. Sometimes theyâd even whisper about it, thinking I was asleep. I wasnât.
From the front window of the house, I could watch them drive away, taillights receding toward that distant road where proper civilization began again. Probably recapping the dinner and my obscene size and appetite with horrified amazement. Theyâd been merely passing through, tourists in my isolated bubble, visiting their friendâs or bossâs blob of a partner out of courtesy but with no real desire to bring me into the fold. They could make things more tolerable, but theyâd never be any real help in connecting with the world again.
Then one day, my partnerâs beat-up old pickup disappeared, and he pulled into the yard in a gleaming new one, looking unusually excited for him and expectantly at me. I was puzzled â by that point, I was already too big to heave myself up into the cab of any pickup. But then I saw the truck bed â more specifically, the crane and winch rising from the front corner. My stomach did a somersault at the sight of him rigging up a harness meant for lifting cows and pigs into the bed; it was a way to let me get off the farm, sure, but at a pretty steep price in dignity. It was as good as an admission that Iâd eaten myself far too fat to rejoin the world like a normal person, probably for good.
But the temptation to be somewhere else, anywhere else, was too much. A day or two later, my partner was helping me waddle out the front door and down the steps toward the driveway. Months indoors had obscured just how much my body had changed in even that short amount of time. My legs had both bloated considerably and weakened since my last walk through the yard, making every step like having to lift heavy bags of molasses just to advance a few inches at a time. My belly hung lower and broader than I remembered, physically holding back my steps and making it harder to twist my upper body to steady my walk. My side rolls and bicep blubber fought one another for space, pushing my arms up and sending fat bunching around my neck and shoulders. I was an out-of-breath mess by the time I maneuvered myself around and collapsed into the harness.
The sensation of my weight being lifted slowly off the ground, suspended and moved by an object completely out of my control, sent a surreal thrill through me. My hundreds of pounds, cradled in the harness, wobbled and jiggled with its slow movements, and for the most part I had no choice but to be carried along with my bodyâs jostling inertia. Even more than usual, I was buried under my immense belly and tits, my bloated legs were lifted level with the rest of my body, and my flab-laden arms â if theyâd even been strong enough to do anything â had nowhere to grasp to help stabilize my sloshing bulk. The crane and winch cracked and creaked as it labored to move my weight, lifted me over the sides and into position facing the tailgate, and lowered me onto some foam padding my partner had arranged into a kind of makeshift couch against the rear window. I didnât fill the truck bed â but there wasnât room to sit next to me, either.
Iâve never felt a mixture of emotions like I did on that first drive back into town. On the one hand, it felt so amazingly free â finding myself on that once impossibly-distant road, our farm receding into the distance as fields and hills sped by. Fresh air, and the wind in my hair. But then, as buildings grew closer together and we started rolling into downtown, my blood ran cold â Iâm a half-ton blob taking up most of the back of a pickup truck, too fat to walk or move, coming to town like a circus attraction, I thought. People were going to react.
Iâm sure a lot of it was in my mind. Iâm sure I was self-conscious, reading intent into every glance and word and gesture, most of the time when it wasnât there. But it felt like every last person in the town had turned out to stare at my huge form being paraded down main street. Me looking out over the expanse of lard occupying the truck bed and smothering my body. Blubber sloshing uncontrollably every time we turned a corner. Kids pointing at the enormous fatty passing by, their shouts being stifled by nervous and disgusted parents. Skinny people casting sideways glances at the pickup, stopped at a stoplight, as they muttered to each other amid broad grins.
And that was when I realized. It didnât matter where I was â on the farm, in town, on stage with a million people watching. I had let myself get fattened past the point where I could exist in this world and connect with it ever again. Even when I was right in the middle of it, I was as far removed from these people as if Iâd still been back on the farm. Iâm never going to be walking around with them, shopping with them, just existing in the spaces they exist in. I literally donât fit in, even if I could haul around all the blubber Iâve accumulated under my own power. And Iâm just as alien to them â someone five times their weight, who canât control their appetite any better than to get this big, someone they can deride or pity or judge with impunity.
On the drive back to the farm, under a starry indigo sky and with a backseat full of fast food from the townâs only chain, I had to wonder about my feeder. Whether he really was trying to get me out of the house. Or did he know? Had he already figured out that I was too big for it to matter where I was â that the thick rolls dominating my body and the sacks of fat hanging off my limbs would keep me his, even if Iâd tried to get someone to help me leave? That this drive would do nothing more than to show me a world, a life, that my fat â his fat â would never let me go back to?
The thought lodged in the back of my mind as he gently helped hoist me, every inch wobbling and quivering, out of the truck bed. He led my bulk, step by exhausted step, back inside and to my usual divot on the couch. And as he got me comfortable, spreading the buffet of greasy, fatty food out before me, and as I bit into the first of ten thick double cheeseburgers, his too-kind smile and his gaze that lingered on my bulging gut for an instant too long told me everything I needed to know.
Something I always love is weight gain beyond your control. No matter how little you eat, how hard you exercise, the weight just keeps slowly creeping. Usually I see it in the form of a curse or some undiagnosed condition- but the thought of slow, irreversible, unstoppable weight gain slowly swallowing your bodyâŚ
Look in the mirror. No, really, stop and take a long look. Really see that enormous belly hanging down in front of your crotch. The plump tits flowing out on top of that. The soft, pillowy upper arms crushing those wobbling rolls running down your sides. Turn, and see the bulging ass and cottage cheese thighs that make you waddle around everywhere. Let it sink in: youâre much, much fatter than most people will ever get, and youâre still the thinnest youâll ever be.
You know somethingâs wrong. You know most people donât put on weight like this. You know you donât deserve the stares, the judgment, the whispered comments and stifled chuckling from the stick figures at the gym or the coffee shop. You eat like they do. You exercise like they do. And yet.
Every week, itâs a couple more pounds. A foregone conclusion that every scrap of clothing will be hopelessly tight a couple months from now. A certainty that the next year will see you in a totally different weight class â fatter, weaker, slower. Less and less able to exercise, less and less reason to resist blowing up the diet you hate. And that cold, chilly feeling in the back of your mind when you think about what a few more years of this will do to youâŚ
Gosh,, your stuff is always so intricate, and it makes me think about my favourite aspects,,
Fat hands becoming virtually useless, faces so puffy they're unrecognisable,, feet so bloated it's hardly apt to call them that... More like flippers than anything else, flippers on a fat, useless seal that helplessly grows more blubbery
Animalistic comparisons are such a blast,, cause, surely a normal human wouldn't be so fat, wouldn't GET so fat.... You're just something else...
Pig, hog, cow, elephant, whale⌠why does it seem like the only way to describe what youâve done â are doing â to yourself is to compare you to an animal? Plenty of people get fat; they grow double chins and beer bellies and thunder thighs. Nothing unusual in that. Nothing that defies ordinary description.
But youâre different. What youâve done is fundamentally transformative. Youâve let yourself get so fat that nobody who only knew you before your ballooning growth would be able to recognize the old you under those chipmunk cheeks and flabby jowls. Your frame is too laden with fat to walk upright; all you can do is wallow around wherever you last dumped yourself and let your pinched feet keep getting swallowed up by calf fat. With hands like a glove filled with pancake batter, you canât even write or type or handle a tool even as simple as a fork without your fat getting in the way. Youâre a different person than you were when you started gaining â if person can even still be used to describe you, when youâve traded so much of your humanity for a half-ton of blubber and the tons of food needed to maintain it.
So we look to comparisons with animals you more closely appear to resemble to make sense of whatâs happened to you. You lay around in decadent gluttony like your porcine cousin, eating and taking your ease. Your decadence turned to hoggish squalor once your size, and the obscene lard youâd accumulated, made the laying around compulsory. Then your indulgence took on a bovine quality as you started doing little other than graze constantly, your body filling out until your chest and belly and hips all swelled into a largely shapeless bulk, your fixation on chewing and swallowing dimming your senses. Finally, for sheer size, you reached a point where you could only be described as elephantine â too big, too bulky, too ungainly to ever make your way in a world built for humans. No choice but to retire from view, and keep consuming the massive amounts of food that got you this far.
The whale is about the only size up you have left. Fitting that in the end, youâd be compared to an animal known, and famous, for its blubber â immense, distant, unimaginably fat. Unfortunately for you, whales donât do very well on landâŚ
Hi! 1) I love all your stories 2) I'm super happy to see that your asks are open because I've been thinking of a scenario lately
Someone who likes gaining but promised themselves they'd only gain a few pounds, just to try it out, see how they like it. Turns out they love it even more than they anticipated.
But as fun as rapid gaining is, it's starting to scare them how quickly the weight is piling on when they hit 100lbs gained after just a year. They promise themselves to slow down a bit now, but they no longer seem to be able to control their hunger.
If anything their gain speeds up.
Itchy, red stretch marks cover their ever larger belly. And if they weren't already in enough trouble, their mobility is starting to take a nose dive.
At first they'd just get out of breath a bit easier and maybe they'd find their legs were a bit stiff after a day lots of walking. The distances that would happen at got shorter and shorter. Within a scarily short time going up just one flight of stairs left them panting. Then needing to take a break just half-way up.
Other things got more difficult too. Finding clothes that fit, replacing furniture that didn't stand a chance against their increasing weight. 'The couch was ten years old,' they tell themselves, 'the frame had to crack eventually.'
Embarrassingly even masturbating has gotten harder. Not only has their belly grown so much as to cover their thighs, no there's also a thick fat pad, that's buried the very parts they're trying to reach.
And worst of all? It turns them on more and more with every passing day.
Loveâs not really love unless it scares you a little, right? Thatâs been my experience in relationships, anyway. And the same goes for hobbies too. I love food. And⌠I even love getting fatter. But Iâd be lying if I said it wasnât getting a little scary.
Iâm probably being silly, though. Thereâs no reason to be scared just because youâre the fattest person in your friend group, right? Even if itâs by a lot? No reason to be worried that youâve outgrown all your clothes, twice over now. In about a year. Itâs really common to not be able to exercise like you used to, too â nothing to be worried about. Even when you canât make it upstairs all in one go. Or to the fridge and back without breathing heavily. Everyoneâs broken a chair or a couch sometime, right? Isnât that a silly thing to be concerned about?
Itâd be different if I were one of those really fat people â then Iâd need to be worried. If I had such a big belly I couldnât reach the bottom of it. But I still can, if I bend this way and reach⌠see? Even if there is more fat in the way than there used to be. Or if I needed something to help me carry my weight around. But I donât; and Iâve only fallen and needed help getting up once or twice. When I look at those really overweight people now, though⌠they donât seem to look that much bigger anymore for some reason.
But Iâm sure my gains will level off before I get that size. Wonât they? What am I saying, of course they will. Even if I canât get over how afraid I am they wonât stop.
I like the idea of a tailor helping a customer who's getting progressively larger each time they visit for new clothes. Setting the trousers over the belly to deal with an uncomfortable buckle, suspenders instead of a belt, offering easier to slip on shoes to deal with mobility issues, personally delighting with each larger waist measurement...
Every time youâve stepped through the door of my shop, thereâs been more of you to try to cover. And every time, Iâve dutifully found a solution. Iâve measured your belly as it widens and droops, making sure the buttons of your shirt wonât strain when you sit and your girth shifts. Iâve made extra room in your pants for your burgeoning fatpad, then for the belly hanging too low for your waistband to handle any longer. Iâve widened your sleeves and pant legs to make room for the growing rolls of fat hanging off your arms and thighs, following your instruction to make sure theyâre not too tight so your new weight isnât obvious. Iâve let out your collars and waists and the seat of your pants more times than I can count, until thereâs no give left and the pressure of your ever-increasing blubber is leaving the seams screaming. And Iâve hidden my excitement at seeing the new pounds pile on, handling your fresh lard as we figure out what your expanded dimension are.
But the most exciting visit is the one where you donât step through my door at all. Iâve never tried to measure someone too fat to get out of a power chair before. But as you roll inside, a wobbling blob that your clothes can barely contain, I know today is going to be a very fun session.
Kinda want to try something different after not being super motivated to write lately. Anon asks are open â if anyone wants to send a prompt theyâre interested in, Iâll take a look and see if I can come up with a paragraph or two to riff on it. No promises, thoughâŚ
Hey! Love your stories, originally found you from an audio reading on the sirens lair YouTube channel. The way you set the scene and describe detail is easy to read while also being descriptive. I was just wondering why you donât add the âread moreâ button your posts? I like to reblog your stories to read later but I also wanna find the other stuff I reblogged faster
Thanks so much! Glad youâre enjoying them đ The incredibly dumb answer is that when Iâve looked for it before, for some reason, I couldnât find it. I donât know if it was harder to find in older versions of the site, or I just missed it hiding in plain sight; but having now found it after looking again thanks to your ask, and hating those wall-of-text long stories, every longer post now has a âread moreâ button to make them more manageable.
TW: References to medical fatphobia and health conditions.
Your eyes dart nervously back and forth, from one side of the lecture hall to another. Surely theyâre not going to see you like this and just sit there? Surely someone is going to step in and help?
But your hopes are disappointed. Youâre met, to the extent the audience looks you in the eyes at all, with blank or half-bored stares. The uncaring look of people who see you and the half-ton of lard filling your body as a technical exercise, and little more. The lecture drones on next to you, and after a few minutes, youâre finally able to focus on whatâs being said.
ââŚrecall that yesterdayâs subject exhibited signs of severe morbid obesity with excessive deposits of adipose tissue almost exclusively at the anterior abdomen. Todayâs subject, by contrastââ at this, you feel the lecturerâs gloved hand grasp one of your bulging love handles, squeeze a solid handful, and lift as he continues ââsupplements this distribution with deposits throughout the inguinal, gluteal, and posterior thigh regions, and to a lesser extent, in the pectoral and inframammary regions.â You feel one of your tits being lifted as the lecturer holds it in the palm of their hand, pointing out further details with the other. âSo as you see, adipose distribution can vary significantly, based on a number of factorsâŚâ
The audience continues listening and taking notes. Occasionally, you see two of its white-coated members whisper to each other, gesturing at some point or other on your expansive body. Your mind wanders from the lecture again, and you begin to look around the room, to the extent the restraints on your bariatric exam chair allow. Despite the audienceâs lack of direct attention to you, youâre keenly aware of how exposed and on display you are.
The angle of the chair allows your wide, doughy belly to spill down your lap and between your knees. It spreads your lumpy, shapeless legs into a split that leaves the bulging sacs of fat on your thighs and calves in full view. Likewise, because of the backward tilt of the seat, your head is also tilted back, bringing your chin level with your triple chins and emphasizing them along with your wobbly cheeks and jowls. Restraints tie your arms against padded extensions on either side of the main chair, holding them in a T-pose that causes the flab on your forearms to hang down in puckered globs and the bulk on your upper arms to pool around your shoulders, further squeezing the fat around your face. Itâs a position in which, if there were any doubt, youâre shown off as the thoroughly, completely, and probably irrevocably fattened blob you are.
Eventually, the display screens on either side of the hall catch your eye â specifically, the unfamiliar shape appearing next to some inscrutable pixelated numbers in black and white. Then, suddenly, something in the lecture strikes you and the image clicks into stark comprehension.
ââŚ86% body fat, with the result that additional strain on the musculoskeletal structure produces the characteristic bend in the vertebral column to compensateâŚâ
The ill-defined shape on the screen, viewed through the lens of an MRI machine, is a person â is you. You knew you were huge, of course, but your breath catches in your throat to see your gluttony presented in this way â the cross-section showing the muscles and organs and skeleton of a normal person, but floating, buried, smothered in a sea of white-yellow tissue, spreading out shapeless in all directions. Hundreds of pounds of fat, dominating your body, captured with the indisputable precision of medical imaging. You are an anomaly. A curiosity. A pathology. A disease, needing to be treated.
You barely have time to process all of this before you feel two attendants beginning to undo the restraints holding back your arms and legs. You feel your feet spring forward slightly, no longer held down and now pushed out by the bulk of the fat hanging off your calves and thighs. Your arms fall immediately to your sides â or, at least, as close to your sides as the tremendous piles of rolls fighting your bingo wings and forearm flab for space will allow. You slide down from the tilted half-chair/half-gurney to a standing position, and feel a hot ache radiate through you, your body crying out at your full weight being put on your frame for the first time in a long time.
âWeâll see if we can get a demonstration of mobility. Clearly, physical activity isnât this subjectâs strong suit.â A stifled but derisive laugh ripples through the audience at this first flush of color commentary from the lecturer. You turn to look at the lecturer, standing at the lectern, and they gesture to the far side of the hall. A set of double doors, wide enough for you to go through, with a bright âExitâ sign above them, stand about thirty yards away.
Is this it? Are you free to go? After being fattened and poked and prodded for so long, are they finally going to let you just walk out?
You have to try. Slowly, deliberately, and with a shock of pain at every step, you lift your blubber-laden legs one at a time, putting your bare foot down with a wet-sounding plop, as you work your way closer to the door. You look around from the door to the audience to the attendants, eyes widened almost to the point of panic. You see all the audience now paying close attention to you, many of them looking back with genuine surprise, apparently somewhat impressed to see a person as fat as a small cow able to walk at all. But seeing nobody move to stop you as you continue your degrading waddle forward, you try to pick up the pace. Your flabby arms swing in a wide circle, trying to counterbalance the movement of the vast bulk hanging off your midsection, the belly and tits and side rolls wobbling chaotically with each step forward.
âAs you can see, mobility is diminished as a result not just of the added weight, but also the severe limitations on range of motion caused by the excess adipose tissue.â
Barely halfway toward the door, you can hear the sound of your heart beating over the drone of the lecture, pounding as if itâs about to burst out of your chest. Sweat dims your eyes, and the heat radiating from your body â but, it feels like, especially from your florid face â makes you realize how fatigued you already are from walking just this limited distance. Walking this distance â but with an extra eight hundred pounds or so more than youâre used to, you think to yourself.
âNote, too, the compounding effect of the excessive weight and the lack of resiliency in the subjectâs cardiovascular and respiratory systems due to a prolonged deficit in physical activity. Blood pressure and body temperature rise precipitously, stamina diminishes, breathing becomes labored, blood oxygen plummets. Hence, the elevated risk of cerebrovascular accident, embolism, myocardial infarctionâŚâ
You barely have the energy to feel angry at the lecturerâs patronizing indifference by the time you reach the door. Breathing ragged, soaked with sweat, barely able to concentrate and on the verge of collapse, you stumble into a lean against the door frame, desperate to catch your breath so you can finish your escape. Itâs right there â you can reach out and touch the push bar, hear what sounds like street noise outside â but your body wonât let you. Your clouded mind wonât focus, your bloated legs wonât lift, your wobbling arms hang limp by your heaving, flabby chest. Exhaustion and despair rise within you in equal measure as you hear the gurney chair being rolled across the room, feel your body being jiggled and manhandled back into a sitting position, and see the exit doors and all hope of help receding as youâre rolled back to center stage, defeated.
Numb and indifferent now, you offer no resistance, sensing the tube and mask being fitted into your mouth as if watching it happening to someone else from a distance. You utter little more than an involuntary groan of complaint or protest â it doesnât concern you, any more than does the flow of something cold you can feel pooling in your stomach.
ââŚtypical example has a maximum capacity of barely two to four liters. However, consistent overfeeding with a diet that includes a sufficient volume of fiber at appropriate intervals has demonstrated the ability to reliably expand stomach volume to a maximum capacity of 14-16 liters, with p of .05 in our internal studiesâŚâ
The sound of the lecture flows past you, mixing with the buzz of the pump filling you with more and more of the chilly slop, and the low creak of the gurney as it takes the added weight. Your eyelids droop, drowsy with the food and your exertions; and you drift away to sleep, the gaze of the audience trained on the slow, relentless expansion of your tumescent belly the last thing you see before your tired eyes close shut.
Credit to the incomparable Mairari/@hyenaddict for the original post that inspired this story
