The thought of a feedee publicly being on a diet while secretly trying to stuff as much as possible is so hot. Like everyone cheering you on your doomed weight loss journey, having slowly all your peers turn concerned as you blimp up. Every time a friend visits they see you’ve made less then 0 progress . If it’s brought up in conversation all you can muster is “Yeah I’m trying, but I just COULDNT STOP myself” which gets more and more believable each time they see you.
if you aren’t driving 1.5 hours after work to a tiny town in the middle of nowhere to meet your long distance feedist lover, hand feeding them a box of cream-filled long-johns (after dinner) in a parking lot overlooking the lake… wyd?
I love when men become so fat that the influx of estrogen erases any sense of masculinity they once had. The fat softens out their once virile features so that they resemble more of a middle-aged housewife. Their hips widen, chest and thighs grow, cheeks round out like a girl going through puberty. Any agency and anger they once felt is replaced by submissiveness. All that masculine strength is gone and replaced by a body which resembles more of a giant pillow, unfit for any kind of heavy lifting. They're co-dependent, whimpery, just wanting to be jiggled and pampered.
I love the idea of somebody boasting about their partner feeding them so much.
E.g. somebody who’s noticeably gained weight patting their belly and saying “Haha, yeah, my other half keeps me pre-tty well fed~”
Or a little bashful “They just like to make sure I’m eating enough…”
Or maybe “Oof, I’m telling you, they’re handing me a different snack to eat every half-hour!”
And even “You should see the size of meals they make, I swear my portions are enough for two!”
A day late and a dollar short - not proofread and hastily jotted down on a lunch break. Apologies in advance.
A man and his wife attend a Halloween party. A sneaky stuffing ensues.
——
“You ready, babe?”
That was the second time in 10 minutes she asked. “Yeah, be out in a sec, just trying to get it perfect!” I lied, hoping it would buy me just a little extra time. In truth, I was actually laying on our bed, sucking in, holding my breath - all in an effort to get some stupid striped costume pants to zip. Thankfully, it seemed like laying down did the trick; I got the fly up and the button clasped. Phew. I breathed out a sigh of relief. I was going to have to control myself at this Halloween party if I wanted these to stay buttoned. I braced myself for an uncomfortable night.
——
By some miracle, we actually arrived with perfect timing. We wanted to quickly run through a drive-through on the way just in case the party food left something to be desired, plus the party was BYOB, so we had to stop and pick up case of 12 local IPAs (for me) and a 4-pack of High Noons (for the wife, who was driving.) The McDonald’s was probably a poor choice, considering the struggle I had to go through to button my pants earlier, but it would have a been a bad look to show up and immediately start tearing into pizza and wings meant to feed 20+ people. With the way my appetite had seemed to go off the rails lately, that was an increasingly dangerous possibility.
Instead of tearing into the food, I started tearing into my beers. After saying hi to the friends who beat us there, I popped open the first one and chugged it completely as my friends cheered on. “Leave it to you to get the party started in earnest, dude,” quipped my friend, who then gave me a firm pat on the back. It stumbled me forward a bit and knocked out a belch. “Whoops - sorry,” I feebly apologized before opening the next bottle.
——
Four more beers later, I was getting a pretty good buzz going. I found myself grazing at the snack table and not exactly paying attention to how many chips loaded up with queso and salsa I had packed into myself. No wonder I was starting to get a belly on me - I had just eaten on the way here!
Eventually my wife showed up and interrupted my daze. “They’re gonna announce the costume contest winners! We gotta go to the back yard,” she said, tugging me away from the table. I managed to pop one last loaded chip into my mouth before following her.
——
“And finally, in first place with the most votes…Beetlejuice and Lydia!”
My wife screeched with excitement beside me. “We won!” We won? I was a little surprised - I wasn’t feeling too confident in my costume, mostly because I was stuffed into it like a damn sausage. (Mmm…sausage. Hungry…need real food soon.) I had to admit, though, my wife’s Lydia costume was great. She had spent several hours crafting it by hand. We accepted our prize from the host (a $100 gift card to a nice restaurant in town and a bottle of wine), then all of us funneled into the kitchen for a round of shots. I took mine with a grimace and chased it with another one of the beers I brought. Damn, only 5 left…?
——
Two more beers down and I was feeling it now, especially after those shots we took. I was able to break away from the wife, who was tipsily chattering on with our friends, and found my way to the room I’d been waiting all evening to clear out: the dining room, where the majority of 6 pizzas sat as if they were waiting just for me. Surrounding the pizzas were copious boxes of chicken wings, each drenched in a different delectable sauce. With no one around to judge me, I started eating straight out of the boxes, not bothering with a plate.
First came two slices of pepperoni and sausage - a classic, not to mention my personal favorite. Then came two slices of thick-crust extra cheese. Delicious, stretchy, decadent. After four slices of pizza, I cleansed my palette with 6 wings, all traditional buffalo sauce…to start with. Those left my mouth tingling, so I soothed it by sucking down another beer. Probably due to the 9 of those I had guzzled down so far, this appetizer seemed to only kick my appetite into high gear, and I kept going as if I were ravenous. I grabbed the last 3 beers out of the box and placed them all on the table among the food - I wasn’t planning to leave my spot until they were all emptied.
Two slices of Hawaiian - not my favorite, but now I was a machine, cramming slice after slice into myself, unable to stop. I pulled up a chair so I could continue in comfort without my increasingly heavy gut weighing me down. Another slice of pepperoni and sausage. I vaguely got the sense that I somehow had more room, suddenly, and followed that feeling up with 4 more wings (hot honey this time.) Another beer. Another slice of extra cheese. There was only one slice of the pepperoni and sausage left, so I went ahead and ate that too. I opened my 11th beer. I ate another 3 buffalo wings, and finally, unbelievably even to myself, a final gooey and chewy slice of the extra cheese.
Finally feeling sated, I sat back in my chair, my distended stomach now threatening to pop the buttons off of my shirt. Now that I had stopped gorging, the feeling of just how full I was crept up and I began to ache. I groaned and patted my overworked gut with the free hand that wasn’t cradling a beer. I rubbed a bit and coaxed out a belch, which helped to relieve some pressure. I got the bright idea that keeping that up would make the pain disappear entirely, so I sat there in my glutted state, rubbing, sipping beer and burping for the better part of a half hour. I didn’t come to until I swallowed the last drop of beer in the bottle and realized, with much disappointment, that it was my last one. I had opened and downed it without even making a note of it.
——
Once I felt like I could, I used the table to help hoist myself up. I put my hands on my back and stretched, pushing my belly forward, and felt…a breeze? I straightened back up and felt my hands along the bottom of my stomach only for it to dawn on me with horror that, at some point, my pants button had fully flown the coop. The bottom of my now-heavy and overfed gut was spilling out of the front of my pants, peeking out of the bottom of my shirt. Shit. I called my wife from my cell.
——
I was able to slip out, sight unseen, and wait in the car for my wife, who said our goodbyes for the both of us and blamed my sudden disappearance on too much booze and not feeling well. Bless her. When she eventually got into the car to drive us home, her eyes nearly bulged out of her skull when she beheld the sight of me.
I was far beyond the point of caring how I looked. I had foregone decency and unbuttoned my shirt completely, so my distended gut was on full display. My fat had done the done the work for me already of relieving itself from my pants. It was currently spilling out into my lap, and I was lying back, seat reclined, sheepishly rubbing it, trying desperately to continue easing the pain from being so utterly full. Thankfully, I was making progress, and was feeling better by the minute.
“Oh, honey. Look at you,” my wife cooed lovingly, extending a hand to start rubbing my gut for me. When her cool hands touched me, I felt my dick twitch. “What did you do to yourself?”
My face flushed with embarrassment, but I couldn’t move - her touch felt too good. “I’m sorry, babe. I’m so fucking embarrassed that you’re seeing me like this. I don’t know what happened, I just couldn’t stop eating. I feel like such a fucking fat pig,” I rambled. Bizarrely, she smiled. “You say that like it’s a bad thing!”
Okay, now I was really confused. “It’s okay, honey. It’s Halloween. It’s all about eating, drinking, enjoying yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Bless this woman. “You aren’t mad I made such a fool out of myself? I’m obviously getting fucking fat, too, look at me, I’m huge-”
“Hush,” she said, cutting me off. “You‘ve never looked better. I’m tempted to take you for ice cream.” My dick twitched again. Huh?
She started the car. “Actually, screw it. That’s what we’re doing. And when we get home, I’m going to show you exactly how much I like it when you overindulge.”
