❗️Okay, so I have this dark fantasy that I just can't shift lately...you have been warned.❗️
I want to be fattened and treated like a pig and I don't mean playfully, I mean like livestock...fattened up to be turned into food.
Perhaps I'm kidnapped or maybe I sign up to be taken to a fat farm where I'm locked away from the world. I'd have my own pig pen with everything set up for me to make my life as comfortable as possible.
In my pen, I'm hooked up to a feeding tube that pumps me full of a thick, dangerously addictive, delicious slop. I can't describe the taste...I don't even know what it is they're feeding me but...fuck it. It tastes way too good to stop guzzling it down.
Weeks of merciless feeding, gorging and gluttony pass by...The relentless feedings riddle my body with fat and turn me into a cascading mass of lard. I can't move. I'm trapped. Consumed by gluttony. Beyond the point of no return. What have I done? How could I let this happen? How did I let things get this out of control?
A couple of feeders on the farm walk into my pen...they're here to inspect me. To see how quickly I've been swelling up. Unbeknownst to me, they've been keeping a close eye on me...They're impressed with how quickly I've been piling on the lard. They tell me that I've been packing on the pounds quicker than any other piggy on the farm and that I'm actually the fattest now, despite being the smallest when I first arrived.
With a devilish look in their eyes, they start grabbing handfuls of the blubbery flesh hanging off my body. My meaty gut. My wobbly thighs. My flabby arms. Then...they start salivating...
"Oh yes we're going to get plenty of bacon off of you, aren't we?"
"Mmm yes, there's plenty of meat on this piggy to go around. I'm thinking bacon, burgers AND hot dogs."
"You're right...and just think about how good it'll all taste...dripping with grease and packed full of lard.
I begin to panic. "B-Bacon? Burgers? Hotdogs? How good it'll all taste? What? Wait...Surely you aren't talking about-"
"Oh yes we are, piggy. You've done such a good job at piling on all that lard...It'd be a shame if it went to waste, wouldn't it? Well just know that you're going to be going to the waists of all the other greedy piggies in the world...They're not gonna be able to get enough of you"
Without giving me a chance to respond, they cart me away to the slaughter house where they begin processing me with automated machinery. Turning all the lard on my body into slices of bacon, burger patties and hot dogs that pass by on endlessly long conveyor belts. Off to be packaged and served up to their next unsuspecting victim...
Da Hänsels Mutter den Jungen bei Süßigkeiten karg hielt, weil er zu Pummeligkeit neigte, wünschte sich der Junge mal endlos mit Süßkram vollgestopft zu werden. Sein Wunsch ging in Erfüllung – aber anders als er dachte.
As Hansel's mother kept the boy short of sweets because he tended to be chubby, the boy wished to be stuffed endlessly with sweets. His wish came true - but in a different way than he thought.
Thinking back, you really should have realized what he was doing long before you felt the pinch of his mouth on your neck.
Things had just been such a blur of food and pleasure for all the time you'd been around him. It had been something a food-induced haze. His dark, compelling eyes and gentle touch giving you little reason to resist his generous meals and attentive demeanor. Your belly was always so full, but you always seemed to eat when he was there. How long had it been? You'd gotten so big…
He'd brought you to this comfortable room, let you sink into the plush mattress and you'd rarely moved since then. The silk sheets smooth on your body as more and more of you grew out of your clothes. You knew he was feeding you for his own purposes, but you didn't seem willing or capable of doing anything about it. You found yourself really enjoying this feeling of being cared for. Fed. Grown.
It only clicked into place why he was fattening you up when the soft feeling of his lips on your cheek drifted into the slightest pinch as his fangs sank into your plush neck, his hands gripping the generous heft of your belly with passionate fervor.
"Thick…" he groaned softly, tasting the fruits of his labor.
You wondered if you'd turn. Become like him...
But all his bite gave you was this… hunger.
You felt the need to eat. Constantly. Well past when you were full. If you tried to hold yourself back, stem the tidal wave of excess calories, your body craved food more and more intensely. Eating was a much preferable feeling. He made it easy for you, too. His sultry voice rubbing and coaxing more and more food into your mouth. Every bite tasted better than the last. His body seeming to float weightlessly over yours, your soft, tired arms running down his toned body as he fed you.
You barely noticed that he a habit of bringing you the most deliciously fattening stuff, too. Everything greasy, sugary, and decadently loaded with more calories than anyone should have. Second and third helpings. Not so much discrete meals as unending plates of food that seemed to appear as he willed them for hours at a time, each looking more deliciously irresistible than the last.
So you ate. And ate. And ate. Your body swelled with fat, day after day. His hands lifting food to your mouth, the glint of the light off his fangs as you obediently opened for yet another bite, ignoring the protests of your stomach as you feasted from dusk until dawn when he relented so you could rest until he returned to satiate your appetite. Your mouth watered at the smell of the food. Your body growing eager and needy for his touch.
You thought you'd gotten fat, but he fed you even larger.
You felt you were already enormous, but he continued to grow you.
Pounds piled onto your frame each day as your blissful, sedentary existence contracted towards fulfillment from food alone.
The weight of your body keeping you comfortably pinned down, sinking into the bed and your own plump frame, luxuriating in the soft lard that encased you more and more deeply, like the warmth of his tender embrace was there at all times.
"The taste… so rich," he would tell you, pulling back from the two small bite marks on your thick neck. His hands running down the extensive mass that you'd grown into. You could feel the pumping of your thick, buttery blood pumping through your fattened body. His bite always left you woozy with hunger, eager to eat.
"Won't you grow even more for me?" he would ask, sliding his thumb against your lips, gently opening your mouth for you. "You become more delicious by the pound," he would say affectionately, lifting and plopping down one of your rolls. You knew he was right, you could feel it too.
It had always been your dream to be the one chosen. It was everyone's dream, really, to have you and your family raised high, whether you were farming a scrubby little patch in the hinterlands or shaping bronze for the king, but few people in your town actually made the trek to the temple to throw their name in. You always did, no matter what the cost, not when your sister was pregnant, not when your brother got drafted into one of the wars and your family needed the help at home. You always took that week to yourself to make the long, lonely trip upward through the hills, paid the silver coin to have a scribe write your name on a slip of reed paper, pushed to the enormous stone oracle bowl to toss in your name, and then crammed yourself into the crowded shrine to see the drawing.
You hated it, honestly. The long, cold, muddy road, dangerous downhill as it was up, the stink of the crowd, the faint but piercing sense of loneliness as you saw each year that you were one of the only ones there alone. But all that faded when the priestess would appear from behind the curtain. She was massively fat, with long, oiled braids of black hair and a skirt that cut into the enormous, soft cliff of her belly, and when she spoke her voice was limned with power, bringing the crowd to a hush. She would begin the chant to honor Proserpina.
"For the stalk bending with grain, for the spring welling with water, for the grapes heavy on the vine," the priestess chanted.
"We thank you, Great Goddess," the crowd answered. You knew the words by heart and chanted loud. You wanted the Goddess to know that you'd practiced. Back and forth the priestess and the crowd went, harps and drums and flutes joining in, until at the fever pitch the priestess snatched a torch from an attendant, held it up high as the flame greened and towered, then threw it into the oracle bowl. The paper burst into flames, like a giant gasping for air, and then the priestess stirred the ashes with a long stick, looking for the one name that remained unburnt.
"Úrana," the priestess said, her chubby fingers black with soot.
You stood. You thought you would feel something, that an angel would carry you to the altar, that a voice would whisper in your ear, but the only sound was the tap-tap of your footsteps as people made way for you. The priestess looked down at you, her expression blank on top of her many chins.
"You are Úrana?" You nodded, and reached high as she bent to hand you your name. The paper burst into green fire as soon as it touched your hand, and the temple burst into music and cheers as the priestess hefted you up next to the altar with her. You could smell the faint, delicate perfume of jasmine oil rubbed in between her rolls, and your year dedicated to the Great Goddess began as she kissed you on the forehead and brought you into the back of the temple.
/
There was so much that happened that year, but mostly, you ate. Or, you were fed, rather, from waking to sleeping. Your attendants quickly trained you to talk with your mouth full, to tolerate unwatered wine at all hours of the day, to slowly yield the use of your legs to a sedan chair, the use of your arms to their food-filled hands, the use of your brain to the menus and schedules they created. You heard news that your family had been exalted—hands from the temple had been sent to enlarge and enrich their farm, changing them from subsistence farmers to tiny barons—but they didn't come to see you, which didn't bother you. Who you were now was who you were always supposed to be.
The fat piled on you quickly, and it seemed even faster from how weak you were, how quickly you became dependent on them to lift you out of your enormous bed to relieve yourself, but you weren't worried. Finally, after a life of toil and misery, here was rest. Lamb served with mint chutney, white fish on a bed of rice and cream sauce, skewers of fatty beef, the whitest loaves you'd ever seen dripping with honey, roast chicken and potatoes triple-fried in tallow, flatbreads stuffed with soft cheese, apricot pies, honeyed pigs, blackened broccoli dripping in olive oil, infinite varieties of cake and pie and candied nuts, all of it pushed into you all the time. You'd never eaten so heavily before, and at first your stomach complained, but the priestess would appear, say something in the ancient language of the gods and lay a fat hand on the tender crown of your stomach, and you'd be as hungry as if you hadn't eaten all day.
All of you was fat in very short order, but it was your bottom half that took the brunt of it, your thighs and ass swelling up with new, bouncy fat so that you quickly had a pronounced waddle, and your attendants called you "Anja," pear. Soon the rich food and lazy lifestyle turned you squishy and useless, with very little muscle, and little rolls sprang up everywhere, at the tops of your thighs, around your elbows, tiny little ones under your chin that an attendant would pinch to prompt you to open your mouth for a bite.
The last few months before the festival were intense. You were constantly brought delicacies, as always, but a giant bowl patterned with growing calves was brought you now at the beginning of the day, filled with a thick, almost-paste like porridge of cream and grain that was forced into you roughly, not fed to you daintily. Then twice a day, then three times. Your figure changed from soft and pillowy and curve to round, your stomach almost always full to bursting, your mind addled with food and wine and feasting.
Finally, the day of the festival came. The priestess's bronze sickle was melted down, re-cast, inscribed with your name, polished to a mirror finish and ground to a razor keen. The priestess entered your room, and your attendants left you.
"Stand, and come with me," the priestess said, her face somber. "The Great Goddess is calling you."
Knowing it was useless, you tried to stand anyway, barely managing to push a leg out from under the enormous dome of your gut. You turned smiling to your attendants, but they were gone.
"Stand," the priestess said.
"I can't," you said. She smiled, hefting you up, your legs instantly burning, the fat wobbling across your entire body as they began to shake. She pulled you as you stumbled forward a few steps, then collapsed, falling backwards onto your ass with a loud smack.
The priestess laughed, and your attendants rushed forward from behind the pillars, rolling you onto a newly built sedan chair. You needed a larger seat, and the poles had been extended to accommodate the extra men to lift you. Slowly, they marched you to the shrine. The moon poured in from the skylight, and the temple was silent and filled with the many acolytes of Proserpina. A great drum beat slowly to the pace of your attendants as they sat you in front of the oracle bowl.
The priestess stepped forward, breaking open a fresh amphora of oil and pouring it onto you as the attendants rubbed it into your skin and your rolls, the scent of mint and thyme overwhelming. Some of the cheekier ones took this as chance to sneak in a last kiss, a last feel of your breast, and you felt your favorite snip off a small lock of your hair as a memento. The priestess chanted, the whole temple chanting quietly with you, until she spoke in mortal language.
"Oh, Great Goddess, we thank you for your blessing. On this day, the ancient anniversary of your gift of grain to us, we show our gratitude by giving you the gift of your gift, the fruits of our prosperity funneled into a single mouth." She broke away from tradition in her next lines. "It is rare you call one as you have this year, Great Goddess, and we thank you for sending us such an appetite to be filled. It is clear you are anxious to receive her. We give her to you, and she gives herself to you, with great joy."
Your attendants picked up your chair for the last time, spinning you so you faced the crowed, and then seven of the strongest priests lifted the oracle bowl and pressed it into the expanse of your fat. Your stretched your head out the rim of it, and with a blue light in her eyes, the priestess took the bronze sickle in her hand and looked down at you. There was a long pause, and you realized she was waiting for you. You nodded, slightly, a smile stealing to your lips. The entire temple called out as one, over and over, "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you," as the priestess cut your throat in one sharp, quick motion, pushing you forward so you blood drained into the bowl. You'd wondered if you'd feel the sickle pass through your joints, if you'd feel the fire as you were made into a burnt offering. But you felt nothing, then a burning, then a coldness, then darkness.
I want my belly to become twice as big. So that it hangs below my knees and touches the floor. And inside me everything always gurgles and bubbles from maximum fullness!
What does a perfect life look like to you? Money being no problem, health issues being slim-to-none, and no need to concern yourself with “normal” life circumstances like a job, taxes, social responsibilities, etc.?
If you could fully indulge in every single one of your kinks, fetishes, and fantasies, what would you want that to be like?
Oh well if money was no issue I’d find a few pigs to feed till slaughter. I’d make sure they’d live a short, lazy, gluttonous, and pampered life. I’d live a luxurious life myself. I’d keep myself dolled up so that I can use every avenue of myself to seduce pigs into growing till their hearts explode. Then once I’ve gotten my fill there I’d find a feeder of my own. Someone nice and submissive. Someone who will worship the ground I walk on. I’d want to grow into a massive goddess of gluttony and see how far I can push myself while letting my feeder servant/s do everything for me. I’d want to leave my mark on being the most influential feedress and then go out the most dedicated feedee myself. ☺️
I absolutely love death feedism. I love seeing the effects of gaining on your life.✨
Like - each time you stand, the weight presses down on your joints, forcing you to rely more on others. Making it harder and harder for you to move, or perform menial tasks.✨
You feel your heart working overtime, pumping harder and faster as the pounds pile on. Every beat feels heavy, like it's trying to keep up with the demands of your growing body, but it's a losing battle. You can feel it in your chest.✨
The slow, inevitable decline.✨
The decline of your fitness, the ability to have sex, to walk, to be independent…✨
And yet, it feels too good to stop. The idea of giving in, of letting go completely, feeds into the very desire that has overtaken your life. To grow bigger and bigger.✨
The thought of your heart eventually giving out no longer scares you-it's almost a part of the fantasy now…✨
A final surrender to this life you've chosen.🦋
The life where you’re being taken care of. A blissful existence full of food and sexual pleasures with nothing to worry about🦋
Spending a few hours in the smoker was so relaxing, and now it was dinner time! Letting the farmers take him in was the best decision Peter ever made, he only wished he would have done it sooner.
