feeders, i’m actually not gonna hold your hand when i say this.
if you cannot engage with fat people outside of a fetish context, you should not be engaging with fat people within a fetish context.
if you are unable to walk the line of differentiating a sexual fetish from how you fundamentally view & experience fat bodies & the vast complexity & deep humanity of fat people, you are not trustworthy with that fetish to begin with.
essentially: if fat people are so fused with fat fetish in your mind that it all blurs together & you can’t connect with us without the fetish being present (& we can always tell when it is, even when you think you’re being slick)…
then frankly you do not deserve access to fat people at all.
Why would we buy you more clothes when you're just going to outgrow them anyways?
I’m about to school you fools.
Do you want your fat girl to grow? Then you must make her comfortable. If she’s comfortable/ feels good wearing something, you make it happen. Oh that doesn’t come in her size, but she’s super adamant she needs/wants it? Time to go to the tailor. She wants to take a bath but the tubs not big enough? Time to save up and upgrade. She wants to go out to eat but most booths aren’t accommodating? Time for you to go out and find somewhere that works. Oh she keeps breaking every bed frame? Time to get one specially made.
Like as a fat person if getting big is uncomfortable or sacrifices the things that make me happy, I’m gonna actively not wanna be fat. If you’re a feeder, your job is to make getting bigger and enjoyable comfortable experience.
All inclusive cruises are the most feederism coded vacations there are. Yes honey you will spend 2 months on an enclosed swimming vessel with me where all you can do is eat and yes honey you will be too obese to wear the clothing you brought with you to begin with
🥗 preparing yourself dinner while your belly is in the way, still bloated and gurgling from lunch
🧁 eyeing dessert even though your stomach is so tight it feels like a drum, convincing yourself there’s always room for something sweet
🤰🏼 unbuttoning your jeans for relief, but still reaching for another bite because "it’s too good to stop now"
🍽 snacking nonstop while cooking, so by the time dinner is ready, you’re already stuffed—but still finishing a full plate anyway, absentmindedly rubbing your stretched belly
🏠 eating at home before meeting friends, then acting starved as you order—hoping no one notices how ballooned your belly ends up by the end
💫 feeling your stomach actively churning and gurgling, stretched to its absolute limit, yet still considering just one more bite because "it’s already this full, what difference will it make?"
🧋 feeling really thirsty but unable to sip even a bit of water because you'll just burst right away
🍒 finishing a portion meant for two, then leaning back as your belly, now doubled in size, presses firmly against the table
🫧 swallowing air on top of an already full stomach, feeling it pushing further outwards
📍 wearing slimming underwear that's hugging your stuffed middle tightly, making you feel like you're on the line between hurt and comfort
👀You won't find studies to say 'feeling like you're not fat enough' will increase weight gain- but studies DO show mental perspective affecting the body in countless ways- so let's shape your perspective to pack on weight!
📈⚠️DISCLAIMER: These tips are largely extrapolating the ways your subconscious effect you, so know this isn't directly backed up! However, due to the lack of scientific interest in intentional obesity... Extrapolating from related studies is the best we'll get
🍝EXCEPT THIS ONE: Use larger plates! Weight loss studies show you'll get full less quickly if you eat from larger plates and bowls, since your brain sees the portion sizes as more 'normal.' eat out of a cooking pot or mixing bowl if you can!
👘Wear oversized clothes! You'll more easily feel like your body isn't big enough if you're not stuffed tight into your clothing all the time, shifting your subconscious to see your body as having room to grow
☺️Stay comfy! The less your body struggles, the more you'll feel comfortable growing. Ironically there are two ways to go about this:
〰️🦵The healthier option being to spend a little time doing squats and other light calisthenic strength training to make moving your heavier body feel easier, so there's less strain telling your body and mind you've gotten too heavy
〰️🦥The reckless gaining option is to move as little as possible, so that your body more rarely feels the increased strain of moving your heavier self. This has the extra benefit of burning fewer calories, at the expense of health
〰️🛋️If you want that second option, set up your space so that as many if your needs are in as small a space as possible, and potentially use a wheeled chair to move around. These tips have been gone into in further detail before on this blog if you want more advice !
👥Shift your perspective- try to look at very, VERY, large bodies as often as possible. This might seem silly, but what you see deeply affects your subconscious perspective of your own body. If you're spending several hours a day staring at people fatter than you, your subconscious will see gaining weight as far more reasonable than if you're fatter than everyone you ever see. Browse Feedist Tumblr, set the background on your PC to someone very fat (or better yet, a slideshow of them), use mods to fatten video game characters- whatever you can get away with without embarrassing yourself, add fat bodies to it
🧘♀️Use affirmations! Yes, affirmations seem silly and new agey- but studies show they can have real effects. Here are some affirmation options:
〰️🍕Try telling yourself you're so hungry while eating, or that you need to eat more, no matter how full you get. Or even get more direct, and tell yourself you CAN eat more
〰️🤰While digesting tell yourself you're getting fatter, or need to get fatter. Tell yourself you're getting hungry again, and you'll be eating more soon.
〰️🪞If dysphoria isn't a concern for your mental state, try grabbing your belly in the mirror and telling yourself it's too small, and/or that you need to be fatter or should be fatter. If it feels easier or more effective, try to positive "I will get fatter"
〰️🗣️Whatever feels right- saying these things in your head when I'm public helps, but when you can get away with it, saying affirmations out loud (and with a certain tone) is usually far more effective. Even if the less positive options feel easier to commit to mentally, try and end with positive (I will or I can statements) for the greatest effect! Speaking of effective...
〰️📢If you're submissive, chances are your subconscious might be vulnerable to suggestion. If you have a partner, consider asking them to help with your affirmations, phrasing them as commands if you feel it will help more! (as always, safe words can be a good idea, even if it's unlikely to be needed)
💬Lastly: talk to feeders and feedees! The more you talk to people who also have a skewed perspective of normal, the less your unconscious mind will see the way you love your life and eat as abdnormal, making it easier to commit to your lifestyle!
The train station was a cacophony of hissing brakes and echoing announcements, a world away from the quiet, familiar streets of their hometown. Jenny stood on the platform, a duffel bag at her feet, her heart thumping a nervous, excited rhythm. She scanned the crowd, and then she saw her.
Tara. Her big sister. Her hero.
It had been a year since Jenny had seen her in person. Tara looked… more. More woman than girl, her curves softened and filled out since her move to the city years ago. She wasn't thin like the girls in magazines, but strong and solid, her shape hugged perfectly by a simple knit dress and a denim jacket. She looked happy, confident, and real. A beacon in the chaotic station.
“Jenny!” Tara’s voice cut through the noise, a sound Jenny had known her entire life.
They ran toward each other, and the hug was everything. It was home. It was safety. It was the scent of Tara’s perfume mixed with the city air. Jenny buried her face in her sister’s shoulder, and for a moment, she wasn't a nervous nineteen-year-old in a new city; she was just Tara’s little sister.
“Look at you,” Tara murmured, pulling back to cup Jenny’s face. “All grown up.”
“Look at you,” Jenny countered with a grin. “You look amazing.” And she meant it. Tara’s confidence was a better accessory than any outfit.
Tara laughed, a warm, rich sound. “City life agrees with me. Come on, let’s get you home.”
She slung an arm around Jenny’s shoulders, steering her through the crowds to a beat-up, beloved sedan. As they pulled into the stream of traffic, the towering buildings a dizzying spectacle outside the window, Jenny’s stomach let out a loud, traitorous growl.
Tara glanced over, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Sounds like someone’s hungry. Let’s fix that. Welcome to the city, kid. First lesson: we eat.”
Before Jenny could suggest something sensible, like a salad, Tara was pulling into the glowing drive-thru of a burger joint infamous for its enormous, decadent meals. The air in the car grew thick with the smell of grease, salt, and frying potatoes.
Tara ordered with the practiced ease of a regular. She turned to Jenny, “You still like cheese, right? And bacon? And that weird onion ring thing they do?” Jenny just nodded, mesmerized by her sister’s take-charge energy.
A few minutes later, Tara handed her not a meal, but a large, heavy paper bag, warm and fragrant. “Don’t hold back,” Tara said with a wink, passing her a giant cup of sugary soda. “Dig in.”
Tara herself took a single burger and a small packet of fries, nibbling on them as she navigated the city streets. Jenny, however, was presented with a feast. A double bacon cheeseburger, a container of crispy onion rings, a large order of fries dusted with seasoning, and a handful of sauces.
It was delicious. It was fat and salt and addicting. Each bite was a rebellion against the sensible meals of home. She ate the onion rings, their crunchy exterior giving way to sweet, soft onion. She devoured the burger, juice and special sauce dripping down her chin, making her laugh. She finished every last fry, scooping up ketchup until the paper container was clean.
By the time Tara pulled up outside a charming brownstone, Jenny was slumped in her seat, breathing deeply. She felt overwhelmingly full, her stomach stretched and content, a pleasant bloatedness settling in.
“You okay in there?” Tara asked, her voice laced with amusement.
“So full,” Jenny groaned, but she was smiling. “That was incredible.”
“Told you,” Tara said, grabbing Jenny’s bag from the back. “Come on. Let’s get you inside and horizontal.”
They climbed the stairs to Tara’s cozy apartment. The moment they stepped inside, Jenny didn’t even wait to tour the place. With a sigh of pure relief, she popped the button on her tight jeans and tugged down the zipper, letting her swollen belly breathe as she sank onto Tara’s soft couch.
Tara just laughed, dropping the bag by the door. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?” She tossed a soft, knitted blanket at her. “See? This is what sisters are for. No judgement.”
Jenny wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, the warmth and the fullness making her drowsy and utterly happy. She was in the city. She was with her sister. And for the first time in a long time, she felt completely, unapologetically herself.
-Part 2-
The nap was deep and dreamless, a coma of contentment induced by grease, travel, and the profound safety of being near Tara. Jenny woke slowly, consciousness returning not with a jolt, but with a scent. It was that same delicious, greasy aroma from earlier, but richer, more potent, swirling into her nostrils and pulling her fully awake.
She blinked her eyes open. The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp Tara must have turned on. And there was Tara herself, perched on the edge of the coffee table, a silhouette of loving mischief. In her hands was another large paper bag, this one even bigger than the last. Dark, translucent spots of grease bloomed along its bottom rim.
Jenny’s stomach, still pleasantly full from the first feast, gave a deep, internal groan of protest. It was a dense, heavy feeling, a reminder of the onion rings and burgers already working their way through her system.
But the smell… it was addicting. It bypassed all logic and fullness, speaking directly to a primal part of her brain. Her mouth began to water instantly.
She pushed herself up on her elbows, the movement making her full belly slosh gently. Tara’s smile was a flash of white in the dim light.
“You looked so peaceful,” Tara said, her voice a soft tease. “But then your little stomach started rumbling in its sleep. Figured my growing girl must be hungry again.”
She playfully shook the bag, the rustle of paper and the soft clunk of food containers inside making Jenny’s heart beat faster. “So I got you a little something. Burgers. Nuggets. Extra sauce. Enjoy, my sweet sister.”
The offer was irresistible. Jenny leaned forward, her tight stomach pressing against the waistband of her still-unbuttoned jeans as she reached for the bag. It was warm and heavy, promising pure, unadulterated satisfaction.
She unpacked it on the blanket like a treasure hunt. Three massive burgers, their buns visibly glistening with butter, cheese oozing from their sides. Then four large cartons, each containing ten golden chicken nuggets. And finally, a small army of dipping sauces, with sweet and sour taking center stage.
Her belly gave another loud, protesting gurgle, a clear ‘are you serious?’ But her hands were already moving, unwrapping the first burger. She brought it to her lips and took a huge bite.
The flavor was insane. It was hotter, saltier, and juicier than the one from before. Greasy juice and special sauce immediately dripped down her chin, and she didn’t even care. She took another bite, then another, her hunger roaring back to life with a vengeance, overpowering the initial fullness.
Tara watched with fond amusement, then got up and returned from the kitchen with a full two-liter bottle of cola, condensation already beading on its plastic surface. “To wash it down,” she said, placing it on the floor next to the couch.
Jenny nodded, her mouth too full to speak. Halfway through the first burger, she paused, unscrewed the cap, and tilted the huge bottle to her lips. She took several long, deep gulps. The cold, sugary fizz filled the spaces between the rich food, a perfect complement. She let out a satisfied gasp and went right back to the burger, finishing it in a few more ravenous bites.
She moved on to the nuggets, dipping each one generously in the bright red sauce, the sweet and tangy flavor making her crave the next one instantly. She plowed through a dozen before reaching for the second burger. The pattern continued: a few bites of burger, a handful of nuggets, a massive swig of cola to create room where there was none.
Her pace began to slow after the second burger. She was breathing heavily now, each breath a conscious effort around the solid mass in her stomach. But she was determined. She ate the last burger, more methodically now, savoring each bite despite the pressure building inside her. She finished the remaining nuggets one by one, until the cartons were empty and the sauce cups were scraped clean.
Finally, she lifted the two-liter bottle one last time. She drank until the last of the cola was gone, a final, monumental effort that left her feeling liquid and solid all at once.
She fell back against the couch cushions with a deep, gurgling groan. Her stomach was a taut, rounded dome beneath her shirt, visibly stretched and straining the fabric. It gurgled and churned audibly, a busy, pulsating engine working hard to process the enormous volume. She could feel every digestion, every shift and squeeze, a constant, internal reminder of her incredible feast. She was impossibly, immovably full, and in the warm, dim light of her sister's apartment, she had never felt more content.
-Part 3-
Jenny lay back against the couch cushions, a monument to contentment. Each breath was a conscious effort, a gentle rise and fall that made her swollen stomach shift and gurgle in protest. The room was quiet, save for the low hum of the city outside and the occasional, deep rumble from within her.
Tara shifted on the couch, settling herself closer to her sister’s side. She looked down at Jenny’s bloated middle with a soft, knowing smile. Slowly, carefully, she placed her cool hands on the crest of Jenny’s belly, right where her shirt was stretched taut.
Jenny let out a soft, involuntary sigh at the contact. The coolness was a shock at first, then a profound relief against the hot, overstretched skin.
“There we go,” Tara murmured, her voice a gentle hum that matched the city’s. Her hands began to move in slow, deliberate circles, applying just enough pressure to be soothing without adding to the discomfort. “You must feel so full. So… complete.”
Jenny could only manage a weak nod, her eyes fluttering closed. The sensation was incredible. The pressure from Tara’s hands seemed to calm the frantic digestive churning, replacing it with a deep, spreading warmth.
“It feels so good to finally see you eat like you want to,” Tara continued, her tone laced with affection. “No one watching. No rules. Just… enjoying it.”
A soft, pleasure-filled moan escaped Jenny’s lips. “Yes… I feel… I’ve never felt like this before in my whole life,” she breathed, her words slightly slurred by her fullness. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten this much fast food in one day.”
Tara’s quiet laughter was a lovely sound. “Oh, sweetie,” she corrected gently, her hands never stopping their rhythmic motion. “That’s not fast food. That’s junk food. There’s a big, delicious, addicting difference between the two.”
The distinction was so silly and so perfectly Tara that Jenny laughed too, a jiggling, breathy chuckle that made her belly wobble and sent another wave of intense fullness through her. The wave crested, leaving a heavy, aching pleasure in its wake, and she moaned again, longer this time, sinking deeper into the cushions.
Seeing her sister’s blissful state, Tara’s smile grew more satisfied. Gently, she hooked her fingers under the hem of Jenny’s straining shirt and pulled it up, exposing the pale, dramatically rounded dome of her belly to the cool air.
Jenny’s breath hitched.
Then Tara’s cool hands were on her bare skin, and the sensation was electrifying. The direct contact, the smooth, slow circles on her sensitive, overfilled skin, was almost too much. A deeper, more heartfelt moan was pulled from her chest.
“Shhh, just relax,” Tara whispered, her touch both confident and incredibly tender. “My poor, stuffed little sister. Just let it all settle.”
Jenny did. She melted under Tara’s ministrations, every moan and gurgle a testament to her feast, and every gentle stroke of her sister’s hands a promise of comfort and unconditional love. In the dim light of the apartment, surrounded by the evidence of their indulgence, she felt utterly, perfectly at home.
-Part 4-
The first thing Jenny felt was the soft, heavy warmth nestled in her lap. She blinked awake, the grey morning light filtering through Tara’s apartment windows. Slowly, she pushed the blanket down and looked.
There it was. Not the flat plane of her stomach from just two days ago, but a soft, pudgy mound, resting gently against her thighs. She poked it experimentally. It was real. Supple and yielding. The events of the previous day—the epic feast, the painful fullness, Tara’s soothing hands—flooded back to her. It hadn’t been a dream.
A shy smile touched her lips. She carefully slid off the couch, her body feeling different, softer. She left her too-tight pants in a heap on the floor and, dressed only in her long t-shirt and underwear, padded quietly toward the kitchen, hoping not to wake her sister.
But Tara was already there. She was sitting at the small kitchen table, cradling a mug of coffee in her hands. She looked perfectly at ease, her own curves comfortably nestled in her chair. Her eyes, warm and knowing, immediately dropped to Jenny’s midsection.
“Good morning,” Tara said, her voice husky with sleep but full of affection. She took a slow sip of her coffee, her gaze lingering. “Seems like you don’t mind the softness.”
Jenny blushed, a faint pink spreading across her cheeks. She instinctively crossed her arms over her belly, then, seeing Tara’s gentle smile, let them drop. There was no judgement here. Only understanding.
Tara pushed a large, frosty glass across the table. It was filled with a thick, pale pink liquid, a straw poking out of the top. “Here. For you. Strawberry. Enjoy it.”
Jenny approached the table and took the glass. The first pull on the straw was a effort; the milkshake was incredibly dense. It was sweet and creamy, bursting with the flavor of real strawberries, but it was also undeniably heavy. It wasn't a light breakfast drink; it was a meal in itself, cold and rich and filling. She drank it steadily, the cold a contrast to the warm, sleepy feeling in her core.
As she drank, Tara stood up and moved to the counter. She took out thick slices of artisanal bread and began assembling breakfast. She slathered mayonnaise on both sides, then layered on slices of sharp cheddar cheese, generous handfuls of shredded roast chicken, crispy bacon, and finally, two fried eggs, their yolks still glistening and runny.
She placed the massive, towering sandwich on a plate in front of Jenny just as she finished the last of the milkshake. Jenny’s stomach, which had been peacefully empty, now felt cool and full of the sweet, creamy weight.
“Dig in,” Tara said softly, retaking her seat with her coffee. She didn’t make one for herself. She just watched, a quiet, satisfied look on her face as Jenny picked up the hefty sandwich.
It was messy and delicious. Egg yolk and mayonnaise dripped onto the plate with every bite. The flavors were incredible—salty, savory, rich. Jenny ate steadily, her hunger from the night's digestion returning with a surprising urgency. She felt Tara’s eyes on her, not watching with scrutiny, but with a kind of proud care. It was a silent encouragement, a permission slip to enjoy this, to fill herself up, to accept this new softness.
And under her sister’s watchful, loving eye, Jenny did exactly that, finishing every last crumb of the sandwich, feeling a new, comfortable fullness begin to settle in, a feeling that was quickly becoming familiar, and deeply cherished.
-Part 5-
The morning’s comfortable fullness had settled into a gentle, soft pudginess that Jenny was still getting used to. She was curled on the couch, her hand resting absently on her stomach, when Tara plopped down beside her, her phone already glowing in her hand.
“Alright, lunchtime,” Tara announced, her thumb scrolling through a delivery app filled with pictures of glistening food. “What’s it gonna be? Delicious, greasy burgers? Or tasteful, cheesy pizza?”
Jenny’s eyes widened slightly. She glanced down at the soft curve of her belly, still evident even as she sat. “I… I don’t know, Tara,” she said, her voice hesitant. “Look at me. I’ve already way overdone it since I got here. Maybe just a salad or something?”
Tara didn’t even look up from her phone. Instead, she reached out and laid her hand flat on Jenny’s belly, giving the softness a few gentle pats. “Oh, shut up and tell me already,” she said, her tone dripping with affectionate dismissal.
Jenny just shrugged her shoulders again, feeling a flush of self-consciousness mixed with a thrilling, secret desire.
Tara took the non-answer as an answer. “Both. Okay.” Her thumbs flew across the screen. “Two large pizzas, extra cheese. Four big double cheeseburgers, extra bacon. And…” She added a few more taps. “Two two-liter bottles of soda. For you. I’ll just have a little side salad.”
Jenny’s jaw went slack. “Tara! That’s… that’s way too much! There’s no way I can eat all that!”
Tara finally looked up, a mischievous glint in her eye. She waved her hand dismissively. “You got it, no worries. It’s about the option. The… abundance. Just enjoy it.” She finalized the order and set her phone down, the deed done.
Jenny sat in stunned silence, her mind reeling at the sheer volume of food that was on its way. Her stomach, which had been quietly digesting the massive breakfast, gave a low, interested gurgle.
After a while, the doorbell rang, followed by another almost immediately after. Tara grinned. “That’ll be us.” She sprang up and went to the door, returning a moment later laden with two large, flat pizza boxes stacked on top of each other and a heavy paper bag smelling powerfully of grilled meat and bacon. She made a second trip for the two giant bottles of soda.
She deposited the entire feast on the coffee table in front of Jenny, opening the boxes and the bag to release a cloud of addictive, greasy aromas. The pizzas were a landscape of molten cheese and pepperoni. The burgers were massive, wrapped in paper, already leaving grease stains.
“Your feast awaits, little sister,” Tara said, settling back with her own small, conspicuously green container of salad. She picked up a single leaf of lettuce with her fork and smiled. “Don’t keep it waiting.”
-Part 6-
The guilt was a faint, buzzing whisper in the back of her mind, completely drowned out by the symphony of smells in front of her. It was a losing battle. With a resolve that surprised even herself, Jenny reached out and grabbed a slice of pizza. It was so heavy, so laden with extra cheese and pepperoni grease, that it flopped over her fingers. She watched, mesmerized, as strands of cheese stretched like golden elastic from the pie to the slice.
She didn't even bother to chew properly with the first bite. It was a primal act of consumption. The flavors of salty cheese, tangy sauce, and spicy pepperoni exploded on her tongue. She pushed the slice deeper, taking two more huge, rapid bites, her cheeks bulging. A soft, involuntary moan of pure satisfaction escaped her, muffled by the food.
The dam had broken. Any pretense of hesitation was gone, replaced by a ravenous, single-minded focus.
She ate half the pizza in a matter of minutes, her movements swift and efficient. Without pausing, she unwrapped one of the colossal burgers. The paper was slick with grease. She took a big sip of cold cola, the fizz sharp and sweet, then brought the burger to her mouth. She took a few enormous bites, the flavors of beef, bacon, and special sauce merging into one glorious, greasy whole. She washed it down with another long pull of soda.
She finished the first burger quickly, barely stopping to breathe. She chased it with a massive gulp of cola, and the carbonation mixed with the food in her straining stomach. The pressure built until it couldn't be contained. A deep, guttural, growling burp erupted from her, echoing in the quiet apartment. She didn't even apologize, just gave a breathless, slightly dazed sigh of relief.
She kept going, attacking the second half of the pizza with a newfound greed and lust. She folded slices and shoved them in, her lips shiny with oil. She drank more cola, the liquid sloshing audibly in her full stomach with every movement. Soon, the pizza was gone, nothing but a few crumbs and congealed grease in the box.
She unwrapped the second burger. This one was eaten even faster, almost mechanically, as if she were on autopilot, driven by some deep-seated need to finish what was presented to her. She washed the last bite down with the final dregs of the first two-liter bottle, tilting her head back to get every last drop.
The combination was volatile. The carbonation had nowhere to go. It built and built until it forced its way out in a long, devastating, window-rattling burp. It was a profound, multi-toned eruption that carried the distinct, powerful aroma of melted cheese, fried bacon, and sugary cola.
Jenny slumped back against the couch, her eyes wide and her hand flying to her mouth in a belated gesture of embarrassment. But across from her, Tara just beamed, looking utterly delighted.
"Now that," Tara said with a proud laugh, "is what I call a welcome-to-the-city burp." She pushed the second two-liter bottle of soda closer to her sister's side of the table. "You've got another bottle to go. And two more burgers. Don't stop now."
-Part 7-
Jenny was adrift on a sea of fullness, each breath a conscious effort. Moving seemed impossible, but the feast still called to her. With a groan that was half protest, half anticipation, she forced herself forward. Her fingers, clumsy and slow, fumbled for the third burger. The paper stuck to its greasy surface.
Each bite was a monumental effort. She could feel it—the skin of her belly, already stretched taut, straining further. It was a strange, tight sensation, as if her stomach was being pushed to its absolute limit, the fullness expanding with every chew and swallow. A part of her brain screamed to stop, but a deeper, more primal part couldn't. She took a sip of the sweet, citrusy orange soda, the cold liquid a shocking contrast to the hot, dense food, and it created just enough space for another bite. She finished the burger, the last of it disappearing almost against her will.
Then her bleary eyes turned to the second pizza. It was a daunting, cheese-laden monolith. She picked up a slice, the cheese a heavy, gluey mass that made her stomach lurch with a preemptive wave of nausea. But something pushed her on—a need to please Tara, a desire to fully surrender to this new, overwhelming experience. She managed about half the pizza, her movements becoming slower, more labored.
That's when Tara took over. She moved from her chair to sit beside Jenny on the couch, her presence both comforting and commanding. "Shhh, let me help," she murmured, taking the pizza slice from Jenny's limp hand.
Tara began to feed her, holding each heavy bite to her sister's lips. With her other hand, she rubbed slow, firm circles on the crest of Jenny's impossibly distended belly, as if trying to soothe the contents into settling. After a few bites of pizza, she would bring the bottle of soda to Jenny's lips, tilting it so she had to drink.
"Just a little more, sweetie. You're doing so good."
The pizza and half the bottle were gone. Jenny was past full, past bloated. She was on the precipice of pain, each breath a sharp, shallow thing. She whimpered, a soft "no" forming on her lips.
Tara didn't accept it. "The last one. For me." She unwrapped the final burger, holding it up. "Open up."
Defeated, mesmerized, completely under her sister's spell, Jenny obeyed. She took bite after forced bite, the flavors now a blur of salt and fat, until the last of the burger was gone. Tara then held the near-full bottle of soda.
"All of it. Wash it down."
Jenny drank, the carbonation a fiery agony in her packed stomach. The final gulp was too much. The pressure hit a critical peak and erupted out of her in a massive, sick, wet burp that ripped through her body, leaving her shuddering. She let out a groaning, pathetic moan of pure, uncomfortable agony, tears pricking at her eyes.
But Tara didn't stop. Her hand never left Jenny's belly, rubbing and pressing with a relentless, soothing rhythm. "It's okay, it's okay," she cooed. "Just let it happen. Just sleep."
The combination of the intense pressure, the rhythmic rubbing, and her sister's hypnotic voice was too powerful. The world began to fuzzy at the edges. The groaning discomfort began to morph into a heavy, numb warmth. Her eyes fluttered closed, her head lolled back against the couch cushion, and she fell back, sinking into a deep, total, and utterly helpless food coma, her sister's hand still resting proudly on the vast, conquered expanse of her stomach.
-Part 8-
Awareness returned slowly, seeping in through a haze of deep, digestive sleep. The first thing Jenny felt was the gentle, persistent pressure on her stomach. She opened her eyes to see Tara still perched beside her on the couch, her hands still working in slow, kneading circles over the vast, swollen dome of her belly. It was still incredibly full, tight as a drum, but the sharp, painful edge had subsided into a heavy, warm numbness.
A wave of guilt washed over her. The empty pizza boxes, the burger wrappers, the two empty two-liter bottles—it was a monument to her gluttony. "Tara," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "I... I can't believe I ate all that. It's too much."
Tara didn't even pause her ministrations. She looked down at Jenny, her expression one of pure, unadulterated pride. "Not a little bit," she said, her voice firm and loving. "It was perfect. You were perfect." Her hands pressed a little deeper, eliciting a soft, gurgling churn from the depths of Jenny's stomach. "And you know what? You're probably getting hungry again. All that work your body's doing... it burns calories."
The suggestion was insane. Monstrous. Jenny opened her mouth to refuse, to say it was impossible, but the words died in her throat. Because the gnawing sensation that had pulled her from sleep wasn't just a memory. It was still there, a faint but undeniable hollow feeling beneath the immense pressure. Her body, stretched and softened and utterly changed in just a day, was sending her a signal she’d never truly felt before: a true, deep, bottomless hunger.
She was so full she could barely breathe, yet a part of her was empty, craving more. The city had changed her. Tara had changed her.
Before Tara could list off restaurants, Jenny heard her own voice, small and amazed, murmur a thought that seemed to come from somewhere else entirely. "All... all you can eat...?"
Tara’s face lit up with a brilliant, triumphant smile. She leaned down and kissed Jenny’s forehead. "Now you're talking! That's the spirit!" She gave the enormous belly an affectionate pat that made it jiggle. "We'll have to roll you out there afterwards, but it'll be worth it."
The guilt, which had felt so heavy a moment ago, began to melt away under the warmth of Tara's approval and the strange, powerful new need growing inside her. It wasn't replaced by shame, but by a thrilling sense of anticipation. A strong, insistent need to fill this new, deeper hunger, to see just how much she could truly hold.
A slow, hesitant smile spread across Jenny’s face. She looked from the mountain of empty containers to her sister’s excited eyes, and then down at her own profoundly full stomach. She was truly, completely different now. And she was ravenous.
-Part 9-
The light of a new city morning filtered through the window, but Jenny didn’t wake to an alarm or a sense of purpose. She was pulled from sleep by a symphony of delicious sounds and smells. The rich, nutty scent of melting butter. The sweet, greasy sizzle of something cooking in a pan. It was a familiar lure now, the soundtrack to her new life.
She blinked slowly, the remnants of sleep clinging to her. Her hand drifted down, resting on the soft, substantial curve of her belly. It was still full from the night before, a permanent, padded warmth that had become her new normal. For a fleeting second, she felt a sense of being out of control, like she was riding a wave she couldn't steer.
But the feeling wasn't scary. It was thrilling.
She had moved to the city with a plan: find a job, be an adult, be productive. But from the moment she'd stepped off the train, that plan had been gently, firmly, and deliciously dismantled by Tara. Now, her days were a cycle of waking up, eating, napping, and eating again. Her greatest exertion was moving from the couch to the table. Her most important decisions were between burgers and pizza.
And she loved it.
She loved the feeling of surrendering to her hunger, of letting Tara guide her into deeper, more profound levels of fullness. She loved the lazy, hazy afternoons spent in a food coma, her sister rubbing her stomach until she drifted off. She loved the way her body felt—softer, heavier, more substantial.
The sizzling in the kitchen stopped. Tara appeared in the doorway, a spatula in one hand, a plate in the other. On it were two thick, golden Belgian waffles, steam rising from their grid-like pockets. A river of maple syrup glistened on top, pooling around a generous pat of butter that was slowly melting into a creamy lake.
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," Tara sang, her voice bright with affection. "You need to keep your strength up."
Jenny pushed herself up, her movements slower, more weighted than they used to be. She didn't think about resumes or job applications. She thought about the syrup, and how perfectly it would soak into the soft waffle. She thought about the crisp, buttery edges.
Tara set the plate on the coffee table in front of her, along with a tall glass of chocolate milk. "I was thinking," Tara said casually, leaning against the doorframe. "After this, we could check out that new bakery down the street. I hear their cream puffs are the size of your fist."
A smile spread across Jenny's face, unforced and genuine. She picked up her fork and knife, the metal cool in her hands. The guilt was a distant memory, a ghost from another life. This was her life now. A different type of life. One of delicious smells, sizzling pans, and her sister's encouraging smile, forever beckoning her to eat, rest, and be blissfully, wonderfully lazy.
-Part 10-
The victory of squeezing into her jeans was short-lived. The denim dug into her softened waistline, creating a sharp, tight band of pressure around her middle. When she stood, a soft roll of belly pushed up over the waistband, exposed by her now-too-short shirt. It was uncomfortable, but she’d managed it. It felt like a last, fleeting connection to her old self.
“Ready to go?” Tara asked, already grabbing her keys.
The bakery was, as Tara had noted, barely a ten-minute walk away. But Tara just smiled, jingling the car keys. “No sense in tiring ourselves out,” she said, ushering Jenny into the passenger seat.
The drive was over in less than two minutes. Tara parked right outside a charming little shop with a striped awning, the air around it sweet with the smell of sugar and baking dough.
Inside, Tara pointed with the confident authority of a seasoned general. “We’ll take six cream puffs, four chocolate croissants, and… let’s say six of your large cinnamon rolls.”
Back in the car, Tara placed the large, white cardboard box on Jenny’s lap. It was warm and heavy. Tara herself plucked out one cream puff, the chantilly cream spilling out the sides as she bit into it, and a single, gooey cinnamon roll.
“Oh, wow,” Tara groaned theatrically, finishing the last bite of her cinnamon roll. “I am brutally stuffed. I couldn’t possibly eat another bite.” She patted her own flat stomach for effect.
Then she turned her attention to Jenny. “Your turn,” she said, opening the box again. The smell was intoxicating. “Can’t let these go to waste.”
Jenny, her tight pants already feeling like a vice, reluctantly took a cream puff. The pastry shell shattered, and cold, sweet cream filled her mouth. It was divine. She took another, then a bite of a croissant that flaked apart into buttery, chocolatey shards. Tara watched, encouraging, handing her pastry after pastry.
“Just one more, you can do it.”
Jenny was lost in a sugar-haze, her belly swelling against the constricting denim. She felt a profound, aching fullness, but the pastries were so good. As she reached for another cinnamon roll, leaning forward slightly, the pressure in her midsection reached its breaking point.
There was a sudden, sharp ping!
A small, plastic button shot through the air like a bullet, ricocheted off the windshield with a cheerful ding, and landed somewhere in the footwell.
A moment of stunned silence hung in the car. Jenny looked down. The button of her jeans was gone. The zipper strained open, and the tight fabric gaped, immediately relieving the painful pressure and allowing her full stomach to spill forward into the newfound space.
Tara stared at the spot on the windshield where the button had struck, then burst into peals of laughter. It wasn't a mean laugh; it was a laugh of pure, unadulterated triumph.
“Well,” Tara said, wiping a tear from her eye, still grinning. “I guess we know what we’re doing this afternoon. Shopping for new pants.” She started the car, her smile soft and satisfied. “Comfy ones.”
-Part 11-
The relief from the burst button was immediate, a sweet release for her overstuffed stomach. But it was short-lived. Instead of turning towards the shopping mall, Tara simply drove around the corner and pulled into the drive-thru lane of the building next door—a place famous for its "Gut-Buster" burgers and liquid cheese sauce.
"Tara, no," Jenny groaned, her hand instinctively resting on her now-visible belly, the red, deep marks from her jeans waistline etched into her skin like a brand. "I can't. I'm so full."
"You can," Tara said, her voice breezy and final as she studied the massive menu board. "You just need to make room for the new clothes. It's like packing a suitcase." The logic was absurd, but Jenny was too full to argue.
Tara leaned towards the speaker. "Yeah, hi! We'll have four Extra-Large Gut-Buster burgers with everything, extra cheese sauce on the side. Two large chocolate milkshakes. And for me, just a small, sugar-free cola. Thanks!"
Jenny slumped in her seat, the cardboard box of pastries still sitting heavily on her lap. She felt a wave of self-consciousness as they pulled up to the payment window. The young employee taking Tara's money couldn't help but let his eyes flicker down. He saw the vast, pale expanse of Jenny's belly, the clear evidence of the feast that had just broken her jeans, the red pressure marks telling a story of their own. His eyebrows raised slightly before he quickly looked away, a faint blush on his cheeks.
Jenny's face burned with a fresh wave of guilt and shame. She looked down at herself, exposed and overflowing, and felt a pang of something like regret.
But then Tara was handed the bags. The smell of grilled meat, bacon, and rich, salty cheese sauce flooded the car, overpowering the sweet scent of pastries. Tara placed the heavy bag on Jenny's lap, right on top of the bakery box, and handed her the two thick, frosty milkshakes.
"See? Nothing to worry about," Tara said, as if she hadn't just noticed the employee's stare. She took a sip of her diet cola and pulled forward, finding a spot in the corner of the parking lot. "Go on. You don't want it to get cold."
The guilt was still there, buzzing faintly. But as Jenny unwrapped the first burger—a monstrous thing dripping with cheese and special sauce—it began to fade, replaced by the familiar, addicting urge. She took a bite. Then another. The savory, fatty flavor cut through the cloying sweetness of the pastries perfectly.
She ate as Tara drove them towards the clothing store. She ate through the first burger, then the second, washing down the rich, dense food with long pulls of the cold, thick milkshake. She dipped fries in the tub of liquid cheese, the salty goo making her thirstier, driving her to drink more. The third burger was harder, a monumental effort, but Tara’s encouraging presence was a catalyst she could no longer resist.
By the time Tara parked at the mall, the bags were empty. Every burger, every fry, every drop of cheese sauce and both entire milkshakes were gone. Jenny was submerged in a deep, silent food coma, her body a testament to absolute fullness, her belly a taut, rounded globe that rose and fell with each shallow breath. The guilt was gone, completely erased by the sheer, physical reality of the feast. She was simply full. And for now, in this new life with her sister, that was all that mattered.
-Part 12-
Tara gave Jenny’s shoulder a gentle shake. “We’re here, sleepyhead.” Jenny blinked, swimming up from the depths of her food coma. The world outside the car window was a sprawling concrete landscape—the mall.
True to her word, Tara had parked directly in front of the main entrance, minimizing the walk. She helped Jenny out of the car, her sister moving slowly, her steps careful and measured under the weight of her colossal fullness.
As the automatic doors slid open, a wave of sound and light hit them. The mall was a vast, buzzing hive of people, a stark contrast to the quiet, food-filled cocoon of Tara’s car and apartment. Shops stretched in every direction, but Tara’s eyes, sharp and focused, scanned past clothing stores and electronics kiosks. They landed on a small, brightly lit shop with a giant, pink-frosted donut sign.
“First, fuel,” Tara declared, steering Jenny by the elbow towards the counter. She ordered a dozen assorted donuts—glazed, jelly-filled, chocolate-frosted with sprinkles. The employee handed over the large, flat box. Tara opened it immediately, plucked out a single powdered sugar donut for herself, and then pressed the entire rest of the box into Jenny’s hands.
“You can’t properly shop for clothes on an empty stomach,” Tara said with a wink, taking a neat bite of her donut.
Jenny looked down at the eleven remaining pastries. Her stomach, already packed to its absolute limit, gave a low, gurgling shudder of protest. But the sweet, yeasty smell was irresistible. As they walked further into the mall, her hand moved almost autonomously, picking up a glazed donut and taking a bite. The sugar crust shattered, and the soft, airy bread inside seemed to dissolve on her tongue. It was easy to eat, too easy.
They passed a pretzel stand; Tara bought a giant, salty pretzel with extra cheese sauce. They passed a Chinese food kiosk; Tara got a large container of greasy orange chicken and fried rice. They passed a candy store; Tara filled a bag with gummies and chocolate. At each stop, Tara would take a single, symbolic bite before handing the rest to Jenny.
“Try this, it’s amazing.”
“You have to taste the sauce on this.”
“Here,finish this for me.”
Jenny ate. She ate as she walked, her movements becoming slower, more ponderous. She ate until her mind felt foggy and stupid with fullness, until the only thing she was acutely aware of was the immense, heavy sphere of her stomach. It pushed forward, round and tight, straining the fabric of her shirt, its curve so pronounced and low-slung that it altered her center of gravity. She walked with a slight, waddling sway.
They passed a trendy boutique, but the clothes inside were all slim-cut and narrow. They passed a department store, but even the largest sizes in the junior section couldn't hope to contain her. Jenny felt a pang of despair, looking at her distorted reflection in a store window. She looked… pregnant.
Tara, however, was undeterred. Her eyes lit up as she spotted a store at the end of the corridor with a soft, flowing script above the door: "Motherhood Maternity."
"Perfect," Tara breathed, guiding her sister inside.
The environment was calm and soft. The clothes were all designed for comfort and expansion. Tara immediately began rifling through a rack of stretchy, empire-waist dresses. She held one up against Jenny—a soft, jersey-knit material in a dark blue.
"This is it," Tara said, her voice triumphant.
In the fitting room, the dress slid on effortlessly, the soft fabric gliding over Jenny’s swollen belly without a hint of resistance. It flowed down from a seam just under her bust, gracefully accommodating the vast, round bulge she carried. For the first time all day, nothing dug in, nothing squeezed. She looked in the mirror. The dress didn't hide her fullness; it complimented it, framing the impressive result of her day-long feast.
Tara clasped her hands together, her smile wide and genuine. "You look beautiful," she said, and she meant it. "It fits you perfectly."
Jenny looked at her reflection, at the woman with the softly rounded figure in the maternity dress, and the last vestiges of guilt finally vanished. In this store, made for mothers-to-be, she finally had clothes that fit her new, well-fed reality. She nodded, a slow, contented smile spreading across her own face.
"It does," Jenny agreed, her voice a soft sigh of relief. "It really does."
-Part 13-
The soft, dark blue fabric of the maternity dress felt like a blessing against Jenny’s skin. It was the first thing she’d worn in days that didn’t bite or constrict. As they gathered up a few more of the cute, flowing dresses and soft, stretchy leggings, Jenny turned to Tara with a hopeful look.
“Do you think… could I just wear this one out?” she asked, gesturing to the dress she had on.
“Absolutely,” the cashier said with a warm, understanding smile, as if it were the most common request in the world. She quickly snipped the tag, and Tara paid for their new haul.
Feeling liberated, Jenny walked out of the store with a new grace. The dress swayed gently around her legs, its empire waist sitting perfectly above the massive, rounded dome of her stomach. It was a feeling of such profound comfort that it seemed to erase all the struggles of the morning.
But their journey through the mall was far from over. Tara, with the strategic eye of a general, now began a second sweep.
“Oh, we missed that place!” she’d say, steering Jenny towards a kiosk selling giant, soft-baked cookies. She’d buy two, take one neat bite from a chocolate chunk one, and hand the rest to Jenny. The warm, gooey cookie practically melted in her mouth, and without the cruel pressure of denim, eating felt almost effortless.
Then it was a smoothie stand. Tara ordered a large “Tropical Blast,” drank a sip, and passed the thick, cold cup to her sister. “So refreshing,” Tara commented, as Jenny drank the sweet, fruity slush, feeling it find a space somewhere amidst the burgers and donuts.
A pretzel stand was next. Then a stall with gourmet, extra-buttery popcorn. Each time, the ritual was the same: Tara would initiate, take a symbolic first taste, and then bestow the remainder upon Jenny, who accepted it all with a dazed, compliant gratitude.
She was stuffed to the absolute brim, a walking repository of every calorie the mall had to offer. Yet, the beautiful, forgiving dress didn't protest. It simply expanded with her, the soft fabric stretching gracefully over her ever-growing middle. There was no button to pop, no zipper to strain. Just comfortable, uninterrupted fullness.
By the time they finally reached the car, Jenny’s belly was significantly larger than it had been in the fitting room. It pushed the dark blue fabric into a taught, smooth curve that blocked her view of her own feet. She moved with a slow, careful waddle, one hand instinctively supporting the bottom of the heavy bulge.
As she lowered herself into the passenger seat with a deep, gurgling sigh, she looked over at Tara. There was no discomfort, no shame. The dress felt as comfortable as it had the moment she’d put it on. It was designed for growth, for change, for accommodating a body in flux.
Tara started the car, her smile soft and satisfied as she glanced at her sister’s profoundly full figure. “See?” she said, her voice full of love and triumph. “I told you we’d find something that works. Now you’re ready for anything.”
And as they drove away from the mall, Jenny, nestled deep in her food coma and swathed in soft, stretchy fabric, believed her completely.
-Part 14-
The weeks that followed melted into a blissful, hazy routine of indulgence. Jenny’s initial guilt had not just vanished; it had been replaced by a profound and eager acceptance of her new life. The scale climbed, and her body softened and expanded with a rapidity that would have shocked her old self, but now felt only natural. Tara was her constant companion, her cheerleader, her provider, her eyes gleaming with ever-increasing pride at each new soft curve, each gentle roll that settled on her sister's frame.
The beautiful, flowing maternity dresses they had bought began to tell the story of this transformation. What had once been loose and forgiving now hugged Jenny's body, the soft fabrics pulled taut, especially across her belly, which had become a permanent, prominent swell. The dark blue dress, her favorite, was the first to show the strain. The seams at the sides were now thin, stressed lines.
One lazy Saturday morning, Jenny woke to the irresistible smell of garlic, oregano, and baking dough. Tara had been busy. On the coffee table sat three open pizza boxes, each containing an extra-large, cheesy masterpiece—one with pepperoni, one with sausage and mushrooms, and one drenched in a four-cheese blend.
"Breakfast is served, sleepyhead," Tara sang, already handing Jenny a plate.
Still groggy, Jenny settled onto the couch, the tight blue dress straining as she sat. She ate with the practiced ease of those past weeks, slice after greasy, delicious slice. Tara watched, sipping her coffee, her gaze fixed on the way the fabric stretched over Jenny's middle, a satisfied smile playing on her lips.
Jenny was on the final slice of the four-cheese pizza, the rich, gooey blend of cheeses stretching in long, glorious strings. She was utterly full, her stomach a heavy, contented weight, but the habit was too ingrained to stop. She leaned forward slightly to take the last bite, and that was when it happened.
A sharp, decisive rrrrrip cut through the quiet morning.
The overstressed side seam of her favorite blue dress, right at the curve of her belly, had given way. A long, vertical tear opened up, revealing a pale, smooth strip of skin beneath, the fabric curling back on itself.
Jenny froze, the last bite of pizza halfway to her mouth. She looked down at the torn dress, then at Tara.
But there was no shock in Tara's eyes. No surprise. Only a deep, glowing triumph. She set her coffee cup down with a soft click.
"Don't stop now, sweetie," Tara murmured, her voice thick with affection. "You're almost done."
Jenny looked from her sister's proud, loving face down to the torn fabric, a final, undeniable testament to how much she had changed. And in that moment, she felt nothing but a warm, thrilling sense of rightness. She pushed the last bite of pizza into her mouth, chewed slowly, and swallowed, the movement making the tear in the dress gape just a little wider.
-Part 15-
The transformation was now complete. The energetic, slightly self-conscious nineteen-year-old who had stepped off the train was gone, replaced by a creature of profound softness and insatiable appetite. Jenny existed now in a perpetual state of heavy, blissful fullness. The world beyond Tara’s apartment had faded to a distant murmur; her entire universe was the couch, the constant parade of food, and her sister’s adoring face.
Dressing had become a forgotten chore, an impossible task for a body that had long outgrown every garment. Most days, Jenny didn't even try. She lay propped against a mountain of pillows on the couch, a magnificent, immobile testament to Tara's devotion. Her body was a landscape of soft, heavy curves, her belly a vast, groaning dome that rested on her thick thighs. Her face, framed by a soft, undeniable double chin, was often glazed with a hazy, contented smile.
Tara moved around her with the reverence of a priestess tending to her idol. Today, she held a large ceramic bowl filled with a rich, creamy pasta carbonara, the scent of bacon and parmesan thick in the air. She sat on the edge of the couch, a spoon in her hand.
"Open up, my beautiful girl," Tara cooed, her voice dripping with love and pride.
Jenny’s mouth opened obediently. Her mind was blurred, floating on a cloud of fat and carbohydrates, her thoughts simple and primal: hunger, eat, full. Tara fed her a spoonful of the decadent pasta. Some of the creamy sauce smeared on Jenny’s chin, joining a faint, shiny trail of chocolate from a earlier milkshake. Tara didn’t wipe it away; she seemed to cherish these marks, these visible proofs of her sister’s consumption.
Another spoonful. And another. Jenny’s stomach emitted a deep, gurgling groan, a sound of immense effort, but she never refused. She couldn't. The need was too deep, the pleasure of being fed too great. Each swallow was an act of surrender, and each of Tara’s encouraging smiles was a reward.
"This is how you were always meant to be," Tara murmured, scraping the last of the carbonara from the bowl and feeding it to Jenny. "So full. So perfect. So mine."
Jenny just sighed, a soft, breathy sound as her head lolled back against the pillows. Her body was a prisoner to its own weight and its own hunger, and in Tara's loving, controlling care, she had never felt more free.
-Part 16-
The passage of time was no longer marked by days or weeks, but by the relentless, visible expansion of Jenny’s body. Tara’s mission had evolved from simple indulgence to a dedicated, scientific process of maximum gain. The junk food was now a foundation, but the real growth came from the specially concocted "weight gain shakes"—thick, viscous blends of heavy cream, protein powder, peanut butter, and sugary syrups, designed to pack thousands of calories into a single, digestible gallon.
Jenny had transcended "plump" or "chubby." She was now a monument to sheer size. Her body was a series of deep, soft folds; the rolls on her belly had themselves developed rolls, cascading down her torso. Her double chin had blossomed into a triple, a soft, pillowy shelf that rested on her collarbone. Her breasts, heavy and pendulous, now rested on the vast shelf of her stomach, their areolas wider, her nipples slightly enlarged from the hormonal shifts of her rapid weight gain. Below, the mound of her pubis was entirely swallowed by the overhanging apron of her belly, a seamless, immense curve of fat that reached her upper thighs.
She lived in a permanent, hazy twilight on the reinforced couch, her world shrunk to the space she occupied. A meal was no longer a few burgers; it was a family-sized pizza, a tray of pasta, and a platter of bacon-cheese fries, all washed down with a gallon of the heavy, custom shake. She ate with a blank, placid obedience, her mind too fogged by the constant digestion and the sheer physical pressure of her body to form complex thoughts. Hunger was a constant, dull roar in her gut, a fire that Tara expertly stoked with endless fuel.
Tara managed it all with the efficiency of a master architect. She timed the meals, perfected the shakes, and celebrated every new stretch mark that appeared on Jenny's luminous skin like a badge of honor. There was no doubt, no rethinking. Seeing Jenny grow, seeing her become this immense, helpless, and purely indulgent creature, was the ultimate expression of Tara’s love. She wasn't just feeding her sister; she was sculpting her, building her into a masterpiece of soft, immobile abundance, and every pound was a testament to her success.
-Part 17-
The approach of Jenny’s twentieth birthday was more than just a date on the calendar; it was an anniversary. For nearly a year, Tara’s world had revolved around a single, glorious purpose: the expansion of her little sister. The results were breathtaking.
Jenny was now a prisoner of her own magnificent body. Her once-slender legs were thick pillars of fat, forced perpetually apart by the colossal, hanging swell of her belly. It draped between her thighs like a soft, warm blanket, its lowest folds brushing the couch. Her breasts, heavy and pendulous, hung low on the vast curve of her stomach, their sheer weight pulling them sideways. The constant, gentle friction of her sensitive nipples against the stretched skin of her belly kept them in a state of perpetual, hard arousal, a small, unnoticed detail in the grand scheme of her immensity. Her face was framed by a triple chin so pronounced and heavy that it hung down past her collarbones, jiggling with every swallow.
Her world had shrunk to the immediate space around her on the couch. She hadn't seen her own feet in months, not that it mattered. The concepts of walking, of dressing, of doing anything for herself were distant memories. Her entire existence was a cycle of eating, drinking, and the heavy, groaning digestion that followed.
Tara’s role had evolved into something instinctual, symbiotic. She was no longer just a provider; she was the external embodiment of Jenny’s own hunger and thirst. A subtle restlessness from Jenny, a soft sigh, and Tara would be there with a bowl of creamy macaroni and cheese. A faint, dry smack of Jenny’s lips, and Tara would bring the straw of a gallon-sized jug to her mouth, filled with a new, even more calorie-dense shake recipe.
The control was absolute, and Jenny accepted it with the placid trust of a well-loved pet. When Tara decided it was time to feed, Jenny’s stomach would miraculously rumble with hunger. When Tara pressed the heavy shake to her lips, a profound thirst would surface. There was no will to resist, only the deep, primal need to consume, to grow, to fulfill the purpose Tara had so lovingly designed for her.
And so, in the final weeks leading to her birthday, Jenny’s growth became less a process and more an unstoppable force of nature. Each day, she spilled a little further over her own boundaries, growing faster, softer, and more utterly dependent, a living, breathing monument to her sister’s boundless, all-consuming love.
-Part 18-
The air in the living room was thick and heavy, saturated with the greasy perfume of a feast that defied imagination. The space around Jenny, a monumental island of flesh on the reinforced couch, was a fortress of indulgence. Empty pizza boxes formed a cardboard wall. Grease-stained bags from burger joints and boxes from extra-thick, cheese-oozing mozzarella sticks were piled high. A large tray of creamy fettuccine Alfredo sat half-eaten next to a platter of glistening, fatty sausages and bacon. This was Tara’s masterpiece, a humongous breakfast designed to push the very limits of consumption.
After ensuring Jenny was deeply engrossed in the process of eating, her movements slow and automatic, Tara had slipped out. Now, the key turned in the lock.
“Surprise!” Tara called out, her voice bright with excitement as she re-entered, her arms laden with even more bulging, fat-spotted paper bags and grocery sacks filled with heavy cream and weight-gain powder. “Look who I found, Jenny! Mom came all the way from home to see her birthday girl!”
She stepped aside.
Their mother stood frozen in the doorway, her small travel suitcase dropping from her hand with a dull thud. Her face, expectant and smiling moments before, underwent a horrifying transformation. Her jaw went slack, her eyes wide with disbelief, then dawning horror.
“Jenny?” she whispered, the name a breath of shock.
The girl she had waved goodbye to a year ago—a fit, active nineteen-year-old with bright eyes and boundless energy—was gone. In her place was a colossal being, a near-immobile mountain of soft, pale fat. Her massive belly dominated the room, her legs forced apart by its girth. Her face, nestled deep within a heavy triple chin, was glazed with a vacant, contented haze, a string of cheese stretching from her lip to a half-eaten burger in her hand.
“My God… Jenny… what… what happened to you?” their mother stammered, her hand flying to her mouth.
Jenny just blinked slowly, her chewing never ceasing. She seemed to register her mother’s presence on a distant, unimportant level.
“What happened?” Tara repeated, her voice taking on a narrative, almost proud tone. She moved to the couch, unpacking a fresh, grease-soaked burger from one of the new bags. “What happened is that she’s happy, Mom.” She gently pressed the burger to Jenny’s lips, and Jenny took a massive, obedient bite.
“When she first arrived,” Tara continued, stroking Jenny’s vast shoulder as she fed her, “she was so hungry. The city life agreed with her appetite. Remember how she never ate enough at home?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I just made sure she never had to feel hungry again. A burger here, a pizza there… she just couldn’t get enough.”
Their mother watched, paralyzed, as Tara expertly fed Jenny another bite, then held a large cup of soda for her to drink from.
“It was like she was finally free to be who she really was,” Tara explained, her eyes shining with fervent love. “And look at her now. So peaceful. So well-fed. So beautiful.”
Jenny, prompted by some internal signal or Tara’s subtle cue, let out a deep, resonant burp, the smell of grease and cheese filling the air. Their mother flinched.
“She… she can’t even… she can’t get up?” her mother asked, her voice trembling.
“Why would she want to?” Tara replied, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. She unwrapped a new, dripping cheeseburger, seamlessly replacing the finished one. “Everything she needs is right here. I take care of everything. I always will.”
The mother could only stand and watch, a silent witness to the horrifying, intimate spectacle. Her youngest daughter, a helpless giant being fed like a prize animal, and her eldest, the proud architect of it all, narrating the tale of systematic, loving destruction as if it were a fairy tale. The birthday surprise had become a waking nightmare.
-Part 19-
The initial shock for their mother didn't fade so much as it transformed. The first day had been pure, unadulterated horror. But as the hours bled into identical, food-saturated days, a new, unsettling understanding began to dawn.
She watched Tara's routine, a relentless and loving ritual of feeding. She saw the steady stream of pizzas, the towers of burgers, the endless parade of creamy pastas, all washed down with gallon after gallon of the thick, beige shakes that Tara mixed with the care of a chemist. At first, she tried to protest, to suggest a salad, a walk, anything.
But then she looked at Jenny.
Not at the immense, hanging belly that forced her legs into a permanent V, not at the heavy breasts with their prominent, constantly erect nipples, not at the cascading chins that now threatened a fourth layer. She looked into her daughter's eyes.
There was no distress there. No shame. No longing for her old life. Instead, there was a placid, deep-seated contentment, a glow of pure, uncomplicated happiness she had never, ever seen in Jenny before. The ambitious, sometimes anxious girl she’d raised had been replaced by a woman radiating a profound sense of peace with every soft, contented sigh.
Each time Tara brought a dripping cheeseburger to Jenny’s lips, the happiness seemed to grow. Each time Jenny swallowed a huge mouthful of shake, a soft, blissful smile would touch her sauce-smeared lips. Her body wasn't a prison; it was a testament to her satisfaction.
The mother realized, with a jolt that rearranged her entire world, that the fit, active girl she had raised had been a performance. A attempt to fit a mold that had never felt right. This—this immense, immobile, constantly nourished being—was who Jenny had always wanted to be, even if she’d never had the words for it. Tara hadn't corrupted her; she had liberated her.
And so, the mother’s resistance crumbled, replaced by a hesitant, then wholehearted, acceptance. She stopped seeing the forced spread of the legs as grotesque, and instead saw it as a stance of stable comfort. She stopped flinching at the hard nipples and saw them as a sign of a body constantly thrumming with pleasure from its own state. She watched the fourth chin begin to softly form, and instead of seeing it as a disfigurement, she saw it as another layer of her daughter's happiness, another ring on the tree of her contentment.
She accepted it. All of it. Because for the first time in her life, her daughter Jenny was genuinely, completely, and radiantly happy.
-Part 20-
The morning of Jenny’s twentieth birthday dawned not with the chirping of birds, but with the hum of mixers and the rich, sweet scent of sugar and butter. The living room, already a shrine to indulgence, was transformed into a cathedral of gluttony. Tara and her mother worked in a harmonious, bustling tandem, a shared mission having united them.
The coffee table groaned under the weight of the birthday breakfast. There were multiple, towering buttercream cakes, their surfaces a pastel riot of rosettes and swirls. Boxes upon boxes of donuts formed sugary mountains next to trays of cupcakes, each one drowning under a lava flow of chocolate sauce and a snowy peak of extra whipped cream. Bowls were filled to the brim with baked, cheese-stuffed bites, and coolers stood packed with uncountable gallons of milkshakes and the specially formulated, ultra-caloric weight gain shakes.
At the center of it all sat the birthday girl herself. Jenny was propped on her couch-throne, her eyes glassy with anticipation, a blissful, vacant smile on her face. Her body, already a masterpiece of immensity, seemed to sense the coming feast, her stomach emitting low, eager gurgles.
The feeding began. Tara and her mother took turns, a well-practiced team. A slice of dense, moist cake was followed by a handful of cream-filled donuts. A cupcake, eaten in two bites, was washed down with long, deep pulls from a shake held to her lips. They didn’t speak, their actions a silent, loving liturgy.
With each massive mountain of food consumed, Jenny’s body responded. Her stomach, the primary recipient, began to distend further, pushing forward and downward with a profound, heavy insistence. The sheer weight of the new contents forced her already-spread legs wider apart, the pressure a constant, deep-seated ache of fullness. The vast apron of her belly hung lower, more pronounced, its lowest curve now brushing the couch between her thighs.
The sweet breakfast seamlessly faded into a salty, greasy lunch—an endless caravan of pizzas, double-cheese burgers, crispy fries, and platters of deep-fried everything. The shakes kept coming, the cold liquid sloshing audibly in the solidifying mass of her gut.
By late afternoon, Jenny’s stomach was a terrifying spectacle. It was no longer just full; it was critically overstuffed, a taut, deeply red globe that looked as hard as a rock, straining the skin to a shiny, painful-looking gloss. Yet, Tara and her mother didn’t stop. They fed her with a gentle, relentless determination, as if they were trying to imprint this ultimate birthday onto her very cells.
Finally, it was too much. Jenny’s eyes, which had been half-lidded with pleasure, rolled back completely. A soft, wet burp escaped her, smelling of cake, cheese, and shake, and then her head lolled to the side. She had fallen into the deepest food coma of her life, her systems shutting down under the monumental task of processing the feast.
Silence descended, broken only by Jenny’s heavy, slow breathing.
Her mother, exhausted and smeared with frosting and grease, leaned forward. Gently, she rested her head against the hard, heated curve of Jenny’s belly, feeling the incredible, solid fullness within. She listened to the gurgles and groans of the epic digestion underway.
She looked up at Tara, who was watching them both with an expression of pure, undiluted triumph.
“I am so proud,” her mother whispered, her voice thick with a complex emotion that was no longer horror, but awe. “I am so proud to have you both as my daughters.”
In that quiet, post-feast moment, surrounded by the wreckage of their celebration, a new family dynamic was cemented, built not on traditional aspirations, but on the profound, unsettling, and unconditional acceptance of what Jenny had become.
-Part 21-
A few days after the seismic event of Jenny’s birthday, a new quiet settled over the apartment. It was the quiet of aftermath, of contentment, of a new understanding. Their mother stood by the door, her suitcase packed, her eyes now clear of the initial shock, replaced by a soft, if still slightly bewildered, acceptance.
Tara drove her to the train station, the city streets passing by in a blur. As they stood on the platform, the air thick with the sound of idling engines and echoing announcements, Tara pressed a small, printed photograph into her mother’s hand.
It was a picture from the birthday, taken from across the room. In the foreground, Tara and their mother stood smiling, their arms around each other. But the focus, the stunning centerpiece of the image, was Jenny on the couch behind them. She was a vision of absolute overstuffing, her face blissful and vacant, her stomach a colossal, hard-looking globe that dominated the frame, visibly distended and straining. She looked like she had been stuffed to the very point of bursting.
"To remember her special day," Tara said, her voice a mix of pride and playful conspiracy.
Her mother looked at the photo, her thumb tracing the image of her immense, comatose daughter. She shook her head, a small, wondering smile on her lips. "It's... a lot to take in."
"I know," Tara said, leaning in. "And it's getting really exhausting to feed that blob alone all the time. I hope you visit more often. She eats so much better with her mom here."
The statement was delivered with such casual, loving sincerity that their mother could only nod. "I will," she promised, tucking the photo safely into her purse. She gave Tara a final, long hug before boarding the train.
As the train pulled away, Tara didn't linger. She turned on her heel, her mind already racing, not with sadness, but with purpose. She pulled out her phone, a list already open. The journey home was a strategic mission, a plotted course from one drive-thru to the next, from one grocery store to another, maximizing efficiency.
She returned to the apartment laden with bags, the sheer volume of food ludicrous. There were multiple family-sized buckets of fried chicken, a dozen sub sandwiches dripping with oil and mayonnaise, two full bags of greasy Chinese takeout containers, and a cardboard caddy holding eight large, thick milkshakes. It was enough to feed a small party for a week.
Back in the living room, Jenny was right where she’d been left, still soft and massive from the birthday, but now with a faint, restless hunger returning to her eyes. The moment Tara stepped in, the scent of the food triggering a deep, gurgling rumble from Jenny's stomach.
"Don't worry, my beautiful blob," Tara cooed, unpacking the feast on the coffee table, surrounding Jenny with a new fortress of temptation. "Mom's gone, but the fun's just starting."
And as Tara began feeding her, unwrapping a chicken leg and holding it to her lips, Jenny ate. She ate with the same blissful, mindless devotion, her fat heart joyfully gorging itself on the mountain of food, once again proving that in this apartment, there were no limits, only more.
-Part 22-
The passage of time in Tara’s apartment was no longer measured by clocks, but by the relentless, geological growth of Jenny’s body. Her world had shrunk to the dimensions of the couch, a throne she no longer merely occupied, but one that was now becoming a part of her own form.
Her most defining feature, her belly, had undergone its own evolution. What was once a heavy, hanging apron of fat had now, through countless meals and gallons of shake, consolidated into a vast, solid shelf. It was a plateau of pale, stretched skin, crisscrossed by a roadmap of silvery stretch marks, that extended from the base of her breasts down to her thighs. It was so massive, so firm and full of packed-in food, that it now rested flush against the coffee table in front of her, a perfect, living extension of its surface.
Tara had discovered a new, delightful efficiency in this development. She no longer had to carefully balance plates on Jenny’s unstable curves. Now, she could simply set the food directly on the shelf of Jenny’s belly.
The moment was a daily ritual of profound intimacy and grotesque practicality. Tara would place a whole pizza box on the warm, rounded plane of Jenny’s stomach. The moment the weight settled, Jenny’s gut would respond with a deep, liquid gurgle, a resonant tremor that ran through the entire mass. The pizza box would quiver slightly with the internal commotion.
“There we go, nice and steady,” Tara would murmur, patting the taut skin beside the box.
She would then load the "shelf" with the day’s provisions: a platter of burgers, a bowl of pasta, a lineup of donuts, all resting on the very body they were meant to enlarge. Jenny’s hands, small and pudgy, would wander over the landscape of her own stomach, picking up food and bringing it to her mouth with a slow, automatic rhythm. Each bite she took caused a corresponding shift and groan from the foundation beneath the feast, a constant, noisy feedback loop of consumption.
Tara moved around her like a devoted attendant, constantly refilling the edible landscape. As soon as a pizza was finished, she would replace the empty box with a full one. As donuts vanished, a new dozen would appear. She would pour shakes directly into Jenny’s mouth between bites, the cold liquid adding to the sloshing, churning symphony within.
Jenny, for her part, was a picture of blissful utility. Her mind was a soft, happy blank, her entire universe the taste of the food in her mouth and the heavy, pressing fullness that supported it. Her body was no longer just her own; it was a living table, a testament, the very engine and evidence of her sister’s love. And as Tara placed yet another cheeseburger on the trembling shelf of her belly, Jenny could only moan in pleasure, her body gurgling its noisy approval, a constant, digesting anchor in their shared, insatiable world.
-Part 23-
The world had narrowed to a single, sacred purpose: consumption. Jenny was no longer a participant in her own life; she was a vessel, a channel through which a relentless tide of food flowed. The concepts of pain, discomfort, or being "full" were now meaningless, archaic words from a forgotten language. Her body was a testament to a different truth—that her only reason for being was to eat, to expand, to accept whatever Tara gave her.
Her belly, that colossal shelf, had long since overgrown the coffee table. It now spread across the floor of the living room, a vast, pale continent of fat. Its surface was a landscape of strained, shiny skin, throbbing with the effort of perpetual digestion. It was so immense that it pinned her to the couch, a geological weight that made the slightest shift an impossibility. She was a prisoner in the most loving of dungeons.
And Tara, her warden and goddess, was relentless. Each day was a new experiment in capacity, a challenge to push the boundaries further. The meals were no longer discrete events but a continuous, day-long feeding session. The food was richer, heavier, more calorie-dense than ever before. It was engineered for maximum gain, and Jenny consumed it all with a blank, soul-deep devotion. She ate not with hunger, but with a profound, existential need to fulfill her purpose.
There was a terrifying beauty in her surrender. It was clear now that she would not stop. Even if it meant eating herself to immobility, to illness, to death, the food would keep coming in and she would keep accepting it. It was what she was for.
Every few months, the rhythm would intensify. Their mother would return, her initial horror now fully transformed into a zealous participation. She saw the deep, placid happiness in Jenny's eyes—a happiness that seemed to grow in direct proportion to her circumference—and she embraced her role in sustaining it. Together, the two women would work in a synchronized frenzy, a feeding assembly line designed to pump calories into the monumental blob that was their daughter and sister.
They would prop Jenny's head up, and while one held a funnel of thick, sweet shake to her lips, the other would feed her handfuls of rich, fatty meats or spoonfuls of creamy pudding. They would talk to her in soft, encouraging tones as they worked, celebrating each swallow, each gurgling, strained groan from her digestive tract.
"Just a little more, my beautiful girl," Tara would coax, wiping a strand of chocolate from Jenny's multiple chins.
"Look how happy you are," their mother would echo, her voice filled with a kind of awe as she watched another pound of pasta disappear. "You've never been more yourself."
And Jenny was. In her state of near-total sensory deprivation, where the only input was taste and the overwhelming pressure of fullness, she had found a nirvana. She was being fattened faster every day, pushed into ever-greater realms of bliss and fullness, a cycle with no end in sight, hurtling towards a final, catastrophic, and utterly desired satiety.
The track from work is usually unpleasant, especially because the usual 15 min drive stretches far too long with traffic. Usually, the amount of cars failing to drive on and stopping just shy before you bother you into a unnerving aggression, the way only traffic can. Usually, you'd be sitting on the edge of your seat, hand held close over the horn, waiting for the next moron to cut you off.
Today, tho? It's different. A special day, a day where every minute you take longer promises more fun in the end.
3 years ago, you got married. You both have been young, excited, and so incredibly in love. The celebration, distant past now, still feels like a blur of emotions and white dresses. Harder to grasp, feeling stray from reality. What doesn't feel stray, and stays in your mind sharp like glass, is the conversation in your honeymoon.
Even before the wedding, in the time of getting to know each other, you never kept secrets from each other. You never lied about your interests, your fetishes, your wants. Your wife never lied about her pleasures, her sweet tooth, her indulgent tendencies, or her revel in letting go. So, to the keen observer, it wasn't a surprise that your wife returned just a few kilos heavier from the 1-month honeymoon. "Just until the wedding to keep face" you've promised each other. "Until you don't need to present yourself publicly in the white dress, like your mother always dreamed of", we've said.
It was the first night of the honeymoon, the first night in the hotel shared in a new light of pleasure. "I don't need to hold back anymore" your wife said, standing over you, her body on full display. "Remember it, the way I look now. It'll be the last time im dieting" she whispered in your ear.
The night itself was the hottest you two have ever shared. From that day on? Your lives changed drastically, and for the better.
The last turn on the road, your sign to switch off autopilot in your brain, pulls you back from the pleasant dreams of your indulgent wife. The way she raided every buffet, ending every day with a hurting tummy still lingers in your mind like a warm light when you turn off the car.
Anniversaries have been the best time of the year for the both of you. You've never decided on any weight goals for your wife. The only line? She keeps growing and you keep her feeling divine, an agreement you both have been more than happy with, and more than happy keeping up. The reason why the anniversary was special, the only reason? It was the time where she allowed you to track her progress. The scale, normally stored away high and out of sight, the tape, usually lost in the sewing kit, would be in use again today.
The key fits into the lock with a familiar and satisfying click, the door opening smoothly. The house you and your wife call home is pleasant, discreet and modest; yet spacious for the two of you. The gentle light in the hallway manages to keep the veil of surprise closed, only the feint smell of takeout, wine and comfort hinting at what your wife has been up to as a surprise for today.
You take your time taking your shoes off, hanging your jacket. Comfortable pants and pullover hanging in the hall, something your wife has introduced for her "hard working provider husband", her way of making the house you worked for a home for the two of you.
"Baaaabeee~" you hear the gentle voice of your wife drifting over to you from the living room, stable and soft against what you expected. She ordered you to bring wine the last few days, and you've expected her to be a little less "together".
"come heeeereeee" you here again, this time recognising the lull in her tone. So she has been enjoying her wine. Wonderful.
You softly make your way to the living room, pushing the door open gently. Inside, the odor of takeout and wine hangs thick in the air, filling your nostrils with desire and want. You don't speak yet, rather taking in the sight in front of you.
Empty wrappers litter the floor, couch, table. Copious amounts of takeout, enough to feed a family of six or more. Two empty wine bottles lining the table, a half filled glass and next to it, the third bottle, only about half a glass left.
Your eyes gaze over to your wife, and the warmth in your chest makes its way down towards your crotch. She is sprawled out on the couch, covered by a set of lingerie that may have hidden something 30 kilos ago. The red lacing leaves nothing to imagination, its presence merely a failed attempt at modesty. Her long, brown hair falls long along her shoulders, waving slightly. She washed it this morning, and yet you can see crumbs of food stuck in the tips. In your mind, the old image of her flickers to life, and immediate comparison for you. Her face has softened immensely, her chin losing sharpness, then doubling. Her neck is still there, faintly visible. Her shoulders and arms have softened out recognisably, softening with the years as their purpose was reduced to shoveling food in her mouth. Her lips, thick and curled into a warm smile, have no memory of her stark demeanor from when she had to hold up to the scrutiny of her mother. She has long since dropped the act of high struck perfect model, and over the years reduced her thinking to a minimum. On her own wishes, but nothing you'd stop her from anyway. Your pretty lady doesn't need thoughts when there is food, and you both know it.
Her heavy chest rises underneath the traces of her lingerie, containing the last word anyone would find. She always had shapley breasts, the size early on her most valued feature among her admirers. Now, the stiff and round breasts have pooled over with fat, oozing to all sides around her in a feeble attempt to store the excess fat she's gaining. They throne upon her belly, held up by the massive girth of her midriff. It leaves and lowers heavily with every breath, visibly exhausting her with the sheer amount of food she has consumed over the day. It spills out far and wide to her sides and front, already breaking in the middle over a fold. Her love handles, the size of guard rails at this point, jiggle slightly with every hiccup and giggle she lets out, lulling you in to just rest your hands there. Her fupa, oh her juicy fupa, is merely a dream from this position. You couldn't see it now, even if she attempted to lift her folds for you. Her tree trunk sized thighs, soft and yielding under your touch, pliable and lost of all shape, jiggle faintly as she stirs to rest and greet you. One of her legs is almost the size of your width, and they keep growing. She keeps them growing for you.
As she manages to rise, a difficult task given not only her size but also her intoxicated mind, she stumbles slightly. She uses her chubby hand and sausage-like fingers to stabilise on the soft couch, pushing her massive backside up on full display. You so desperately want to bury your face in her massive ass, the thought of it depraving you of breath for a heartbeat, before you collect yourself and step forward.
"My love, please, take it slow" you whisper, guiding your outstretched arms around her massive frame, steadying her as she sways. You can hear her breath deep and hard, the mere task of getting up exhausting for a woman of her size. You feel her stomach rising and sinking with every breath.
"I... I wnt to- hic." She starts, a violent hiccup stopping her sentence. "... greet my hubsbend" she continues, her glossy and unfocused eyes scanning your face as if trying to recognise you. I chuckle slightly and put my hand on the warm flesh of her upper belly. "But youush... Arr here alreadsy" she continues, her words slurring into ineligible mumbles. You press your lips on hers in a warm, demanding kiss, tasting the wine and takeout on your tongue as you press deeper into her.
As you finally pull back, you smile gently. "But my wife, you don't do that like this. Don't stand up so much, your wasting precious calories" you whisper, your mouth grazing the lobe of her ear.
You gently sit her back down, the couch groaning under her massive weight. Her face dazzled with drunkenness and confusion.
"let me make you comfortable" you smile. As you grab the glass of wine, you know. There's not gonna be a lot of measuring done today. But she is all yours. Your perfect wife. Perfect anniversary.
The whole "this cute guy across the bar brought this drink for you" film trope but it's me and it's drink, bread sticks, another drink, a burger, nuts, more drinks, some shots, another burger, a drink, 16 singular green beans, a shot, chicken nuggets I smuggled inside, a beer...
1. Breakfast stuffing: get a dozen donuts and eat every last one (if it's Krispy Kreme make it 18).
2. Worth the weight: hop on the scale and take a picture of the number. Do it again at the end of the day. Share the results (and impress whoever you share it with)
3. Moisturize Me: get comfy, get naked, and get in touch with your body as you slowly lotion every inch of yourself.
4.Consequences: for every 200 steps you take today you need to eat 1000 calories. Be mindful of how much you're moving your body.
5. Planks: set a timer for 3 minutes and get in plank position. Every time you have to pause the timer for a break is another 500 calories you need to eat today (make it 1000 if you're under 200 pounds).
6. Pizza party: get a large pizza and finish the whole thing (make it 2 if you get thin crust)
7.Low Hanging Fruit: Get on all fours and take a picture. Show someone how low your belly is hanging these days.
8. Self care day: get comfy and surround yourself with your favorite snacks. Relax today and graze while doing all your favorite low effort activities.
9. Probable pounds: Roll 2d4. You need to weigh that much more (in pounds) before you stop eating tonight.
10. Empty calories: get at least 2500 calories from drinks today (you're probably going to want a milkshake or 2).
11. Extra large thighs… I mean fries: treat yourself to your favorite fast food and make sure it's over 5000 calories (it's okay if that means you need to treat yourself for 2 meals, you deserve it)
12. Find your max: count calories and stuff yourself until you physically can't anymore. That's your max. If you've already done this once, make sure to beat your last score.
13. Quiet contemplation: turn off all media and set a timer for 10 minutes. I want you to lay down, get comfy, close your eyes and just spend this time exploring your body. Has it gotten bigger? Softer? Where do you feel most sensitive?
14. Touch yourself while you stuff yourself: get in touch with your hedonistic side by masturbating while you eat. Don't cum until you've had at least 2000 calories.
15. The best shape you'll ever be in: do as many situps or pushups (your choice) as you can. Subtract that number from 20 and then multiply by 500. That's your calorie goal for today (if it's a negative, multiply by -1 and add 2000 calories)
16.Just Desserts: in addition to your normal meals today, you're going to eat at least 2500 calories of desserts.
17. Cupcake game: find your favorite piece of feedist porn/fic/etc. Every time you start getting turned on, eat a cupcake. No touching yourself until you've finished all of them. (This works best with longer stories/videos)
18.This still fits: put on your tightest clothes that still “fit” (you can actually get them on your body) and take a picture from whatever angle makes you look fattest. Post it if you feel comfy or share with someone privately.
19. It's about the process: cook your favorite recipe and eat the whole thing for one meal. The dishes can be future-you’s problem. Just enjoy yourself for now.
20. Double trouble: Roll 2 more times and do both!
You need a reason to eat or drink? DM me now and I'll let you know my secret!! as to why you should get pants breakingly stuffed and/or stumbling on the floor drunk today!
I think user u/swelling__cow is using pictures / morphs of you. Just fyi.
yup!! they’re an impersonator using shitty morphs of me… it’s honestly funny as fuck—this person has also been at it for over a year :// they’re on discord as well.
be aware.. the morphs aren’t even good, it’s insane how well they’ve fooled ppl lmao
