If I were your feedee, I would never ask you to stop.
I’d want you to walk into the room, look at my mass spilling heavily over the edges of the bed, and I wouldn’t want you to tell me I was beautiful. I’d want you to look at me with the same cold detachment of an engineer inspecting a structural failure right before the collapse. I’d want you to make me feel like a biological error that can’t be unseen: massive, heavy, unforgettable, and unforgivable. And then I’d want you to absolutely forbid me from correcting it.
I’d want you to use food not as a reward, but as a rope. I want you to cook me a meal so obscenely dense, so oversaturated with butter, melted cheese, and pure cholesterol, that just the smell of it steals the breath from my lungs.
And when you bring me the tray, I don't want you to set it down in front of me.
I want you to rest it on me. Right on the tightest, highest curve of my distended belly. I want to feel the burning heat of it searing through the stretched skin and the purple stretch marks. I want you to force me to eat without my hands. No forks, no spoons. Make me lean forward, as much as my lard buried neck will physically allow, to bite into the grease like a sow gorges in her trough, while the grease and the dippings run down my obese unhealthy chest, hiding in the sweaty crevices underneath my obese flat breasts.
While I fight to swallow, panting, struggling against my own diaphragm crushed by the visceral fat, I want you to take the exact measurements of my breakdown.
Put a heavy hand on my stomach, right where the tension is absolute. Press down. Make me feel it, that dull, throbbing ache of a capacity violently exceeded. And make me repeat out loud, with my mouth full, that I am chewing away my mobility, bite after bite. That I am burying every last remnant of my humanity under nothing but overfed and overgrown layers of lard at its purest.
I want you to force me to do something simple: walking, getting to stand up, try to touch the bottom of my belly, or raise my arms. And when I fail, when my knees groan and my joints scream for mercy under the crushing load, I want you to show absolutely zero compassion. Just order me to sit back down and finish the plate.
Make me a container. Isolate me from the world. Make it so my entire radius of existence is reduced to the distance between my open mouth and the hand feeding me my next dose. I want the wet, heavy sound of my chewing and the wheeze of my shallow breath to be the only soundtrack to my own ruin.
Destroy me until the mere thought of getting out of bed becomes mathematically impossible.
And in that exact moment, when I know there is absolutely no escape from my own greed... I want you to bring me the final dessert.
baratheonpilled
dailybridgerton
titsay
theartofmadeline
yousharknotpass
