You lie there, beached and breathless, your gargantuan belly rising and falling in slow, labored waves. It is taut, impossibly full, stretched so tight that each shallow breath presses against the limits of your skin. A deep, molten ache lingers beneath the surface, the weight of it pinning you to the mattress. Every shift sends a ripple of sensation through you—pleasure, pressure, satisfaction, strain. You groan softly as the sheer mass of your stomach restricts you, pressing against your lungs, your ribs.
From across the room, your feeder glances over their shoulder at the sound. Their hands work with practiced ease, preparing more, always more. Their voice is a mixture of amusement and adoration when they speak.
"Hope you can handle one last push, fat (girl/boy/one/pet)."
Heat rises to your cheeks. No matter how many times they call you that, it still sends a thrill through you. Once, a word like fat was laced with cruelty, wielded as a weapon. You grew up with it slung at you like a slur—criticism for your appetite, your body, your existence. The world had always spoken of your size with disdain, reducing you to shame, to excess, to too much.
You shake your head weakly, a half-hearted protest. Surely, you can't take any more. You're already past any reasonable limit, past what you ever imagined possible. You were never meant to be this big.
They only chuckle, stepping closer, a large tube-syringe in hand, filled with something thick and heavy. Caloric.
"Oh, come now. You didn’t get this big saying no, did you?"
The words send a shiver through you, that familiar mixture of humiliation and desire pooling low in your belly. You should say no. You should have said no a hundred times over. And yet—
Your feeder kneels beside you, pressing their fingers lightly against the crest of your distended belly. Even that feather-light touch is enough to make you moan, the sensation dizzying. Then, they press their palm down, firm and deliberate, sinking into the fullness of you. The pressure sends a wave of pleasure laced with discomfort coursing through your body, your breath catching in your throat. You're helpless beneath their touch, every sensation heightened by the sheer enormity of your size.
And then—before you can think, before you can protest—the nozzle of the syringe is against your lips. Instinct takes over. You part them, obedient, and thick shake floods your mouth, coating your tongue, sliding down your throat. You swallow. What else can you do? Every gulp pushes you further, stretching you, stuffing you, overwhelming you with its weight. Each swallow is another hundred, another thousand calories, adding to the obscene total packed inside you.
Your feeder watches, murmuring quiet encouragement as they empty the syringe, their free hand caressing the vast expanse of your belly. By the time it's done, you are utterly spent, your body a monument to excess. The tube is pulled away, and you sink into the mattress, leaden with fullness, dizzy with it.
Strong hands smooth over your belly, kneading gently, easing the ache of your overstuffed stomach. You let out a slow, shuddering breath, barely able to move, lost in the heavy, hazy bliss of it all.
"Well done," they murmur. "Good (girl/boy/one/pet)."
And that—more than the food, more than the fullness—is what you crave. You could hear it a thousand times and never tire of it. It makes all of it worth it.
Why you let them grow you as much as they desire.
2087
turnnoffyourmind
izzy806
yousharknotpass
jacobvanloon
