I want to get fat. Not just a little chubby… but breathtakingly obese. I want the walls to shake, the floors to quake if I decide to waddle my hefty ass out of bed in the morning. That fear, of course only accomplished if my one or two hunky feeders help me up. They’ll maneuver my doughy love handles and mountains of fleshy rolls just to sit me up… and then tug on my soupy, fat-laden arms until I finally rise to my round, blubber-filled feet. Though the journey from bed to kitchen is short, it can be exhausting nonetheless, as I slowly waddle, panting and puffing, my body under stress as it carries hundreds of pounds of excess lard. Just a few more steps and I’ll make it, to plop my ballooning ass down upon the steel-reinforced bench rated for 1500 pounds. Today the bench creaks as I lower my great heft onto it… and I just think it’s a shame we spent so much money on something that’s going to be useless in a few short months, when I’m packed away on the bed for good. But in the meantime it’s just easier to feast in the kitchen… the food is right there, spread out on the vast table in front of me, and I don’t have to be shy about making a greedy hog out of myself, because cleanup out here is so much easier. When all is said and done and I’m a burping, food stained, pathetic pig… my boys will pick me back up again and help me back to my bed, where I’ll rest after that exhausting, albeit short waddle.
Sometimes my feeders complain that they have to devote more time to the gym just so they can help me move anymore, but I always remind them that it’s sort of their fault in the end… they’re the ones that keep feeding and feeding me plenty. Never mind that I’m the one greedily sucking down every last crumb and guzzling back ice cream by the bucket. But they love it. They fucking live for it. Nothing makes them harder than seeing their blubbery fatboy stuff himself even fatter… even now after that big meal. We’re nearly to the bedroom, and I’m sweating and gasping for air… one of them let’s his big cock sink into my pillowy thigh and says “c’mon piggy, just a few more steps and you can have your bedtime cakes…” Ah yes, bedtime cakes. I get a little spring in my step as I fondly let my mind wander so I can focus less on the physical pain and exhaustion I’m in from hauling my tubby ass around and more on the sickeningly sweet tradition that’s ended every meal since I crossed 700 pounds. What started out as one, chocolatey, gooey, absolutely FATTENING three-layer cake right as I settled into my bed had recently become two and even sometimes three when my feeder boys were really excited. I greedily chow down on them with my face and bare hands… often getting crumbs and frosting lodged in my double chin and plump, heavy moobs. The boys just clean me up (sometimes getting the crumbs and frosting off of me with their tongues) and rub my belly until I fall fast asleep, destined to do it all again tomorrow, until the day comes when I can’t leave the comfortable bed.
With a ritual like this, it’s no wonder that I could go out in public a month and a half apart and be absolutely unrecognizable from the man I was before. The stares, the comments, the pure humiliation I get from wearing a shirt that’s 50 pounds past it’s prime while eating like a pig… that’s what I live for. I want to be fat. I want to be called fat. And I want to be made even fatter.
janainaart
jacobvanloon
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