Every day starts with my feeder waking me up, my mind already foggy and empty from the weed he pumped in overnight through the tube, keeping me too dumb, lazy, and spineless to even think about resisting. He props up my flabby, 507-pound body against the pillows, my enormous belly flopping out like a sack of disgusting lard that overflows everything, and begins the morning stuffing right away, forcing stacks of greasy hash browns loaded with cheese and bacon past my lips. Spoon after spoon, he shoves it down my throat, laughing at how my triple chin quivers and my fat cheeks puff out, calling me a pathetic, greedy sow who drools like the worthless pig I am, too stupid to chew properly without making a mess.
Mid-morning ramps up the humiliation, making me crawl on all fours like a farm animal to beg for snacks, my knees sinking under layers of blubber as he stuffs greasy donuts and fried junk dipped in chocolate straight into my gaping mouth. Sometimes he grabs a funnel, yanking my head back and pouring thick, fatty shakes down while taunting me about my cracking stretch marks and how I’ve ruined myself into this immobile blob, a total failure begging to be mocked for getting so grotesquely fat. Lunch turns into a degrading marathon, him hand-feeding piles of oily burgers, overloaded pizzas swimming in cheese, and pasta drowned in sauce, controlling every bite so I can’t stop, recording the whole thing to expose later how this wheezing whale pleads for more despite the shame, my rolls jiggling with each forced swallow.
Between courses, he slips me more weed edibles to dull my brain even further, ensuring I stay compliant, mindless, and too foggy to care about the endless ridicule, just a lazy lump craving the next hit of destruction. Afternoons bring more torment, squirting full tubes of whipped cream into my mouth or cramming oily chip slop down my gullet, then weighing me and berating me if the scale doesn’t climb fast enough, slapping my swollen belly to watch it ripple like jelly while he calls me a disgusting project only fit for breaking. He ties my hands to make sure I gulp every crumb, hurling insults about how my once-decent body is now a sweaty ruin of folds and flab, humiliating me for letting it happen.
Evenings hit with massive dinners like family-sized buckets of fried chicken tenders drowned in sauce, heaps of french fries soaked in fat, and bucket desserts, him roughly rubbing my distended gut to cram in extras, whispering how he’s sculpting me into a shamed slob no one would touch except to laugh at my pathetic state. Nights end with the feeding tube slipped in as I doze, flooding me with calorie sludge laced with weed to lock in that empty-headed, faul state, so I wake up heavier, more broken, and ready for another day of piling on the pounds until I’m a total wreck, surrendering to his plan to destroy me completely until my body finally gives out and fails under the endless abuse.
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