Keep eating for me sweetie. Just keep stuffing more and more food in. Let your body fill up and swell with more and more fat. Keep indulging sweetie, always order more than you could possibly need, surround yourself with your favourite snacks, don't think about how much you're eating, how much you're growing. Just keep putting more in. Switch to sedentary hobbies. Anything that lets you stay on your flabby butt for as long as possible. Think of all the delicious foods. Make sure your social feeds are filled with pictures of greasy burgers, decadent cakes, the cheesiest pastas, fresh muffins and pastries. Anything to get you salivating and your stomach growling. Sign up to as many delivery apps as you can, getting discounts to encourage you to order even more food. Indulge in all of it. Never say no. Keep your bloated belly stretching out further and further. Whenever someone offers you food, always tell them you can eat. Even when you're struggling to waddle around don't slow down. Just keep eating. Keep indulging and enjoying and growing fatter and fatter. Give in to your gluttony. Keep eating sweetie. Eat for me.
Having fat on your body is not enough, becoming a fatty should be a permanent lifestyle change like a black hole that only sucks you in deeper.
Let food become the answer to every situation.
Celebrate every victory with over indulgence, eat your feelings when they hurt, pass the time with snacks...
Food is beautiful.
Food is your true best friend and is always there for you.
The warm feeling of stuffing yourself is pure happiness and bliss.
Isn't it great that being truly happy is always at your finger tips?
Don't think about it, just give into it.
Whenever you get a craving indulge it immediately.
Get used to indulging your cravings all the time and forget what it's like to have self control..
Get addicted to your favourite foods and keep reinforcing that addiction until it's impossible to break.
Every day that you give in pushes the possibility of turning back away.
The process should become so automatic that even if you are trying to show restraint and debate over whether or not to indulge, you mindlessly have started eating without even realizing.
The realization that you've become a slave to food might upset you at first but it's so hot to see how you've degrading and it just gets you so horny that you end up eating more instead.
Soon you will train your mind to crave food just from the thought of losing weight.
You will condition yourself to meet all forms of resistance to your new fat self with more eating.
Feeling a lack of confidence from your fat and considering dropping some weight to fit your clothes better?
Go stuff yourself.
Worried about the negative effects this lifestyle might have on your health?
Go stuff yourself.
And when it comes to physical activities you will always choose the path of least resistance.
If you have to decide between being lazy or putting in effort you will choose the fuzzy, cozy, happy feelings of lazing around.
Being lazy and sedentary feels sooo good. It's your other best friend after food after all.
Remember when you used to like going on walks? Now the thought seems horrid to you.
All of your interests have grown to revolve around being lazy and eating.
Watching shows, playing games, hanging around the computer or lying in bed on your phone...
The further you go, the more permanent this lifestyle is becoming.
You will condition yourself to meet all opportunities to give effort with being lazy.
Left the light on in the living room?
It's too far away now, you'll just stay in bed.
Friends getting together for a night out?
Maybe next time, it's too comfortable and happy hear on the couch with snacks and good shows.
You no longer just have a fat person's body... Now you have a fat person's brain.
You are wired to be lazy and you can't even comprehend the idea of anything else.
You relate to all the fattest people around you who got that way by accident and struggle with daily life.
There struggles have become your struggles.
You've become such a natural fatty that everyone will assume you've been this way all your life.
And as far as anyone is concerned, you have... because you are now exactly the same as someone who has been fat all their life.
Your muscles have all atrophied and left you weak.
You swear you used to know how to flex your muscles but now when you try nothing happens, it's just jiggly fat everywhere.
This is you forever now.
The habits have become permanent and you're only going to gain more fat habits along the way.
reading my texts and getting off to my blog while you stuff your face is one thing. letting me fatten you up in person is on an entirely different level. if it's been this easy for me to coax a few inches onto your waistline from behind a screen, imagine how fat i could make you if i was there to feed you in person. i'd have you bursting out of all your clothes and addicted to the taste of heavy cream in two weeks. so if you're not ready or dedicated enough to get massive for me, baby, then i'm not the girl for you. we both know it wouldn't take much for me to convince you to let go of all control and let me feed you into obesity.
"too full", "too fast", and "too much" would all be swiftly removed from your vocabulary. you don't decide when you're full now, piggy, i do. your entire lifestyle needs to be built on greed and excess; you will never get to a point of being "fat enough", you will always be left wanting more. the only person who gets to dictate when it's time for you to stop eating is me. wouldn't that be nice, piggy? to no longer have to worry about your own hunger and fullness anymore? you should save all your brainpower for choosing what to order next on doordash, baby, or whether you want to order chocolate or vanilla flavored mass gainer. leave everything else to me. i'll find your limits and push them until you've gotten big enough to handle any massive calorie surplus with ease. with each pound you put on, your appetite will keep getting bigger. you'll no longer be eating three meals a day; you'll be eating constantly from the moment you wake up to the second you get into bed at night. don't worry, piggy, i'll always make sure to spoil you for eating so well for me. gluttony should be rewarded, it's hard work sitting back on the couch and making a pig of yourself all day.
after stuffing you for hours i'd finally have you heave your fatass up off the couch and stand in front of a full-length mirror while i stand behind you. my arms would struggle to reach around the swell of your massive belly as i'd press my fingertips into your fat, the surface of your round gut massively tight and stretched after pigging out all day. i'd finally unbutton your jeans that look 5 pounds away from bursting at the seams. you'd moan in relief as your bloated belly swelled out of it's constraints of tight denim, fat spilling over the edge of the waistband of your boxers.
"you did so good eating for me, baby. you look so sexy when you're nice and full like this. i can't wait to make you even bigger."
i'd barely be able to dip my fingertips beneath the elastic of your boxers that fit a lot better 25 pounds ago. gently sliding the tight fabric down your hips, i'd finally free your bulging belly from the last of it's constraints. as you groan in relief, i'd take my time tracing my hands across the surface of your overstuffed gut, pointing out every new stretch mark, every thickening roll, the new pudgy softness of your chest. we wouldn't need the scale to tell us how fat you've gotten when i can feel your expanding size under my fingertips instead.
"god, your love handles are getting so deep. just look at how thick the rolls on your hips are now, baby, i can't believe how much fatter you've been getting lately. doesn't it feel so good to be this huge?"
i'd make you take a good look at yourself in the mirror. really take in what you've done to yourself and what you've begged for me to do to you. you wanted nothing more than to be fattened up like a prize winning hog and i happily obliged. now you're a massive, food-addicted, out of shape glutton with no hope of ever losing a single pound. i already know that just from looking at your overstuffed belly you'd be rock hard, to have my delicate hands pumping up and down your throbbing cock while i tell you how much of a fatass you are. to hold my hair with your chubby fingers while i take advantage of still being able to blow you without your fat gut getting in the way. sex and fattening up would completely overlap for us, which would only make you more addicted to your gluttony. see how good i'd take care of you, baby? all you'd have to do is gain a few hundred pounds for me.
imagine how massive you'd get if this was your life, piggy. are you ready to test your limits and see how much fat your body can handle? there'd be no set weight limits or breaks from gaining. if you really think you're ready, i promise i won't disappoint.
just don't say i didn't warn you, piggy. you chose this ;)
The first time Penny saw Greg, he was a force of nature on the football field. A linebacker built like an oak tree, he moved with a powerful, grounded grace. Penny, a sprite of a cheerleader with sunshine-yellow hair and a smile that could power a small city, watched him from the sidelines, her cheers feeling a little more genuine whenever he made a tackle.
Their meeting was pure campus cliché. He’d fumbled a water bottle; she’d picked it up. "You're Greg, right? You were amazing out there," she said, her voice like wind chimes.
Greg, a man of few words off the field, blushed. "Thanks. You’re… Penny. I see you cheering."
From that day on, a quiet courtship began. They’d meet after practice. Greg, spent and hungry, would find Penny waiting with a Tupperware container of still-warm chocolate chip cookies or a slice of her famous fudge brownie cheesecake. "You need to keep your energy up," she’d insist, her eyes twinkling.
Greg, who had always followed a strict team diet, found her offerings irresistible. It wasn’t just the food; it was the care behind it. He’d never had someone dote on him like this. He’d devour the treats, praising her baking, and she’d beam with pride.
The homemade treats became a regular thing. Then, she started bringing more than desserts. She’d show up with bags of greasy takeout burgers and extra-large fries, giant pizzas loaded with triple cheese, and buckets of fried chicken. "A growing boy needs real food!" she’d laugh, patting his firm, but now softening, stomach.
Greg’s workouts began to feel heavier. The explosive sprints became a slog. The weightlifting sessions grew shorter as he felt more easily winded. His teammates joked about him "bulking up for the off-season," but the bulk was different. It was softer, settling around his middle, puffing out his face. His jersey grew tight across the chest and belly.
Penny was always there, reassuring him. "You work so hard, you deserve to indulge a little," she’d purr, feeding him a donut while he sat on the bench, already breathing heavily from just putting on his gear. He stopped moving as much. The idea of a run was replaced with the comfort of the couch, with Penny by his side, a constant stream of snacks within reach.
The real change came when Greg missed a crucial tackle, his slower reflexes evident to everyone. He was benched. Devastated, he retreated to Penny’s off-campus apartment, seeking solace.
Penny was more than happy to provide it. Her cozy apartment became his world. He’d lie on her plush sofa, surrounded by throw pillows, while she attended her classes. He barely moved. Why should he? There was nothing to move for. Penny had everything he needed.
She’d come home and her face would light up at the sight of him, large and dormant, taking up most of the sofa. She’d immediately begin plying him with food. Not just snacks anymore, but whole meals designed for maximum consumption: creamy pasta carbonaras, deep-dish pizzas, hearty casseroles smothered in cheese.
And the shakes. It started with thick, syrupy milkshakes. But soon, Penny introduced "special protein shakes" to help him "maintain his strength." They were incredibly rich, heavy with cream, ice cream, weight-gain powder, and sugary syrups. She’d blend them up and keep a large pitcher, always full, on the coffee table next to him. Greg, in his sedentary haze, drank them like water. They were always there, cold and sweet, and sipping them gave him something to do.
Months passed. The muscular linebacker was gone, replaced by a very large, very soft man who spent his days in a pair of stretched-out sweatpants. Greg’s world had shrunk to the dimensions of Penny’s living room. Getting up to use the bathroom was a major expedition, leaving him breathless. The once-defined lines of his jaw had melted into a full, round face. His stomach was a vast, soft mound that rested on his thighs when he sat.
One afternoon, Penny came home with a new brand of weight-gain shake, promising even faster results. She found Greg exactly where she’d left him, asleep on the sofa, an empty bag of potato chips on his chest. The empty pitcher was beside him.
She smiled, a deep, satisfied smile. She gently removed the chip bag and placed a hand on his broad, soft belly, feeling the steady, contented rise and fall of his breathing. She refilled the pitcher with the new, high-calorie shake and left it within his reach.
He was hers now, completely and utterly. Not a college athlete, but her Greg. Comfortable, well-fed, and going nowhere. And as she curled up next to his warm, expansive body, listening to him softly snore, Penny knew she had never been happier.
-Part 2-
The weeks melted into a single, syrupy continuum within the cozy confines of Penny’s apartment. The outside world—classes, football, friends—faded into a distant hum, forgotten against the immediate, tangible reality of Greg’s expansion. Penny’s mission had evolved from casual doting to a dedicated, almost artistic pursuit.
She became a scientist of saturation. Her grocery runs were now strategic missions, her kitchen a laboratory of decadence. She experimented with recipes, finding ways to pack more fat and sugar into every bite. She’d melt sticks of butter into his mac and cheese, drizzle pancake syrup over his fried chicken, and fold heavy cream into his mashed potatoes. And Greg, ever compliant, ever hungry, consumed it all.
His body was a testament to her efforts. The soft bulk that had initially settled on his frame now had a weight and momentum of its own. His belly, once a firm mound, had become a vast, pendulous swell that dominated his physique. When he sat in his usual spot on the sofa—which had begun to sag permanently in the middle—his stomach pushed his thick, heavy thighs apart, resting between them like a soft, overfilled beanbag. The fabric of his sweatpants, long since upgraded to XXXL, was stretched to a glossy sheen across the immense curve.
The most striking change, and Penny’s secret favorite, was his chest. The muscular pectorals had completely vanished, replaced by two soft, prominent breasts that now swelled against his t-shirts. One lazy Sunday morning, as Greg was slowly working his way through a stack of peanut butter and chocolate chip pancakes, Penny looked at him, then down at her own chest, and giggled.
“You know,” she said, her voice light and playful, “I think yours are bigger than mine now.”
Greg paused, a forkful of pancake midway to his mouth. He looked down at the soft, rounded curves that obscured his view of his own stomach. A faint, drowsy blush crept into his cheeks, but he didn’t disagree. He just gave a soft, grunting laugh and continued eating.
This became a new ritual for Penny. She loved to knead them. After a particularly large meal, when Greg would be laid out, breathing heavily, his hand resting on his drum-tight belly, Penny would curl up beside him. She’d first rub wide, slow circles on the great globe of his stomach, feeling the digesting feast churn within.
“So full, baby?” she’d coo. “You ate all that for me. Such a good boy.”
Then, her hands would drift upward. She’d gently cup the soft, yielding flesh of his moobs, kneading them like dough. They were heavy and warm, a tangible measure of the weight he’d gained. Greg would often moan, not in discomfort, but in a hazy, passive pleasure. The attention, the constant feeding, the complete lack of expectation—it was a narcotic. His world had shrunk to the sensations of taste and touch, all provided by Penny.
He’d grunt in approval, his eyes closed, as she played with his body, her fingers tracing the new stretch marks that mapped his incredible growth. She’d bring him another weight-gain shake—thicker than ever, almost a pudding—and hold the straw to his lips. He’d suck it down without opening his eyes, his Adam's apple bobbing rhythmically.
He was her masterpiece. A giant, warm, and immobile testament to her devotion. Every new roll of fat, every grunt of effort when he shifted his weight, every contented sigh after a meal was a victory for Penny. He was no longer the college athlete who might run off with his friends. He was hers, entirely. His body was a monument to her care, and she loved watching it grow, layer by delicious layer, ensuring he was too big, too soft, and too satisfied to ever want to leave the nest she had so lovingly built around him. The sofa was his throne, and his ever-expanding body was the proof of her queenly devotion.
-Part 3-
The realization came to Greg not with a bang, but during a lull in the constant, comfortable haze of his existence. He was shifting his weight on the sofa, a monumental effort that left him breathless, trying to reach the remote that had slipped between the cushion and the vast, soft expanse of his own hip. As he grunted and strained, he heard Penny's voice from the hallway. She was on a call, her tone bright and casual.
"...no, Mom, the guest house is perfect. Plenty of space for everything..."
Guest house? The thought was sluggish, moving through his mind like molasses. He’d never seen a guest house. He’d only ever seen this living room, the adjoining kitchen, and the bathroom he waddled to a few times a day. He’d assumed it was a small, if nicely furnished, apartment.
But then, as Penny continued talking about "the main house" and "the grounds," Greg’s bleary eyes scanned his surroundings properly for the first time in weeks. The high ceiling, the large, quality windows that looked out onto not another building, but a private, tree-lined yard, the wide hallway that led not to a front door, but deeper into... more space. Stairs he had never been able to climb led to an unseen second floor.
A slow, dawning understanding settled over him. This wasn't an apartment. It was a whole house. A guest house. On a property with a main house. Penny didn't have a cozy off-campus place; she had a private residence on what sounded like her family's estate.
It explained everything. The endless stream of gourmet ingredients, the latest blender for his shakes, the fact she never once mentioned money, rent, or bills. She came from serious, "guest-house-on-the-property" money. The sheer scale of it was baffling, a concept too large for his shrunken world to fully process. A flicker of something—embarrassment? awe?—sparked in his gut, but it was a weak flame, smothered almost instantly by the heavy layer of fat and contentment.
Before he could truly grapple with it, the scent hit him. Rich, buttery, savory. Penny came back into the room, ending her call with a cheerful, "Love you too!" Her eyes went straight to him, and she smiled, a predator's smile disguised as pure affection.
"Getting restless, my big man?" she cooed, gliding over to the kitchen. "Don't worry. Dinner's almost ready. I made something special."
The revelation about the house, the wealth, it all began to blur, pushed out by the primal promise of food. His stomach, a bottomless pit that now demanded constant feeding, growled loudly, a deep, resonant sound that echoed in the quiet room. The thought of rent money evaporated, replaced by the imminent reality of whatever was in the oven.
Penny returned not with a plate, but with the entire casserole dish, still bubbling. It was a mountain of creamy, cheesy pasta, studded with sausage and topped with a golden-brown crust of breadcrumbs and more cheese. The portion was enough for a family of four. She placed it on the coffee table in front of him, along with a full basket of garlic bread and a fresh, extra-thick weight-gain shake.
"Eat up, handsome. You need your strength," she said, her voice dripping with false concern as she ran a hand over the immense curve of his belly.
Any further thoughts about real estate were drowned out by the roar of his appetite. He dug in, his movements automatic, shoveling the rich food into his mouth. Penny watched, her earlier phone call forgotten, her entire focus on the consumption before her. She loved this part most—the moment when any spark of independent thought was extinguished by the baser need to feed.
As he ate, groaning with each heavy bite, she knelt beside the sofa. While his hands were busy, hers began their worship. She rubbed his overfilled belly, feeling it grow taut and firm beneath her palms.
"Such a good eater," she murmured, her hands drifting up to knead the soft, heavy breasts that rested on his stomach. "Look at you. So big, so perfect. All mine."
Greg, his mouth full, could only grunt in agreement. The mystery of the house was gone, a fleeting curiosity swallowed by the casserole. The only truth that mattered was here: the food in his mouth, the pleasant ache of fullness in his gut, and Penny's approving hands on his ever-expanding body. He was a kept man in every sense of the word, and in that moment, as another pound settled permanently onto his frame, he couldn't imagine wanting anything else.
-Part 4-
The world beyond Penny’s guest house had become a vague, inconsequential dream. For Greg, reality was the texture of shredded potato and cheese, the salty crunch of bacon, the deep, comforting weight in his stomach. So, when Penny came in from the front door one morning, holding a crisp white envelope, it barely registered in his food-focused haze.
He was entrenched in his spot on the sofa, a plate balanced on the great shelf of his belly, methodically working his way through a hearty breakfast casserole. The effort of eating—chewing, swallowing—was a significant part of his morning exercise.
"Mail for you, sweetie," Penny said, her voice singsong. She slit the envelope open with a delicate finger. "It's from the university."
Greg grunted, not looking up from his food. The university was a place from another lifetime, a place of running and sweating and rules. It held no appeal.
Penny’s eyes scanned the letter, and a subtle, triumphant smile played on her lips. She folded it neatly and walked over to him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"It seems they've made a decision, Greg," she said, her tone feigning sympathy. "You've been away from classes and team practices for too long. They... well, they've dismissed you."
She let the words hang in the air, watching his face closely. Greg paused, a forkful of casserole halfway to his open mouth. A flicker of something—shock, perhaps, or the ghost of his old ambitions—passed behind his eyes. But it was quickly extinguished by a surge of panic, a deep-seated fear of this comfortable, food-filled world being taken away. The anxiety didn't manifest as tears or anger, but as a primal need for comfort. He shoved the forkful into his mouth, chewing rapidly, seeking solace in the familiar flavors.
Seeing his distress, Penny leaned in, her voice a soft, cooing whisper. "Oh, don't you worry, my big, handsome man. They don't deserve you anyway." She ran her fingers through his hair. "You were always too good for all that running around. Too… substantial. Too sexy for their silly little rules."
The words were a balm. His chewing slowed, becoming rhythmic and content once more. Too sexy. The anxiety melted away, replaced by a warm, full feeling that had nothing to do with the casserole. She wasn't angry. She wasn't sending him away. She thought he was sexy.
"Those silly boys with their hard bodies," she continued dismissively, waving the dismissal letter before casually dropping it into the trash. "You're a real man. My man."
As if to seal this new truth, she turned and went back to the kitchen, returning with the entire second casserole dish—a backup he had come to expect—and placed it on the table beside his now-empty plate. She then refilled his weight-gain shake, the thick, beige liquid sloshing into the tall glass.
"Now, you just enjoy yourself," she said brightly, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "I have to go to class, but I've left plenty for my big guy. I'll be back before you know it with lunch."
Greg’s focus was already back on the food. The university was gone. The team was gone. It was all just noise. The only thing that was real, the only thing that mattered, was the next bite, the next swallow, and the loving approval in Penny's voice. He grunted in acknowledgment, his hand already reaching for the new dish, his world once again perfectly, comfortably, small.
-Part 5-
The final severance from Greg’s old life was executed by Penny with the quiet efficiency of a coroner. Over the next few weeks, while Greg dozed and ate in his cloud of contented oblivion, she systematically sold every remnant of the man he used to be. His textbooks, his laptop, his football gear, even the jeans and polos that hadn’t fit him in months—all were listed online and sold to other students. She pocketed the cash with a small, secret smile. It was fuel for more groceries, more shakes. He wouldn't need any of it anymore. His world was the sofa, the television, and her.
His health had indeed declined, but to Penny, it wasn't a decline; it was a metamorphosis. The sheer mass of him was breathtaking. His legs, tree-trunk thick and layered with heavy, soft fat, constantly rubbed together. The 13XL stretchy sweatpants, which had once been a tent-like concession to modesty, finally surrendered. With a sound like a tired sigh, the strained seam along his inner thigh gave way one afternoon, tearing open to reveal the pale, pillowy skin beneath.
Greg grunted, looking down at the rip with a vague, drowsy confusion.
"Oh, don't you worry about that," Penny soothed, arriving as if on cue. She didn't fetch a new pair. Instead, she helped him, with great effort, shimmy the torn garment down his massive hips and legs, a process that left them both breathless. When it was finally off, she tossed it aside with finality.
"There," she said, stepping back to admire the view. "That's so much better, isn't it?"
Greg, now completely nude, was a staggering sight. Freed from constricting fabric, his body seemed to expand, settling into its true, immense form. His stomach was a colossal, sagging dome, its lower curve resting heavily on the couch cushions between his spread thighs. The soft, heavy breasts Penny loved so much now bulged freely against the vast curve of his belly. His skin, stretched taut over a formidable layer of fat, was a roadmap of silvery stretch marks, a testament to his incredible growth.
Penny loved it. She loved watching the way his flesh settled and bulged without restraint. She would spend hours just looking at him, tracing the new contours with her eyes. His nudity was the ultimate symbol of his total dependence. Clothes were for people who went outside, who had lives and purposes beyond this room. Greg had a higher purpose: to be her magnificent, immobile creation.
He barely noticed his own nakedness after a day or two. It was just… easier. It was cooler on his overheated skin. And it made Penny happy. She would often kneel beside him, not just kneading his moobs or rubbing his belly, but running her hands over the sprawling landscape of his back, his hips, his tremendous thighs, her touch possessive and reverent.
"Look at you," she'd whisper, her eyes gleaming as she watched him drink a 1500-calorie shake, his throat working rhythmically. "So free. So perfect. You don't need anything but me, do you?"
Greg, his mind soft and placid, would finish the shake and let out a long, slow sigh of satisfaction. He’d shake his head, his chins wobbling. No, he didn't need anything else. The world had shrunk to the boundaries of his own immense body, and the only thing that existed beyond it was Penny, who ensured that body was always full, always comfortable, and always, unquestionably, hers.
-Part 6-
The passage of time was no longer marked by days or weeks, but by the slow, inexorable conquest of Greg’s body over the space it occupied. The air in the room had grown thick and warm, perpetually carrying the sweet, heavy scent of sweat, powdered weight-gain shakes, and rich food.
Greg’s health was a sinking ship, but on its deck, a grand, grotesque feast was still underway. His belly, once a dome, was now a monumental shelf of flesh that rose so high and so far forward that when he sat on the sofa, it obscured the lower half of the television. It was a pale, vast continent of fat, its surface etched with deep, crimson stretch marks like newly formed canyons. His moobs, no longer just prominent, had become heavy, pendulous sacks that sagged drastically over his sides, resting on the couch cushions and forcing his arms out in a perpetual, half-raised position. Below them, a second, softer roll had bulged into existence, a squishy ledge beneath the primary overhang.
His limbs were barely recognizable as such. The fat on his upper arms had completely swallowed his elbows, making his arms resemble soft, fleshy triangles. His legs were colossal pillars of lard, the fat at his thighs so overgrown that it obscured his knees, making his lower legs jut out almost comically from the immense masses above. Movement was a forgotten dream. Shifting an inch required a Herculean effort, a series of grunts and heaves that left him wheezing.
The greatest struggle was for breath. The sheer weight crushing down on his diaphragm and lungs made every inhalation a shallow, insufficient sip of air. A soft, constant wheeze had become the soundtrack to his existence, a whisper of protest from organs compressed under hundreds of pounds of self-indulgence.
And still, he ate.
Penny would arrive with a platter of deep-fried mozzarella sticks and bacon-wrapped jalapeños, and his eyes, dulled by a permanent food-haze, would light up. His breathing would grow more labored as he chewed, his face flushing with the effort of eating while fighting for air, but he never refused.
"That's it, my beautiful giant," Penny would coo, watching a trickle of cheese sauce roll down one of his many chins and onto the sprawling plain of his chest. She would wipe it away with her finger and gently feed it back to him. "Every bite makes you more magnificent."
She loved the new sagging, the additional rolls. She saw them not as symptoms of failing health, but as badges of honor, proof of her success. She would trace the deep, sagging curve where his breast met his side, marveling at its weight and softness.
"They don't make men like you anymore," she'd whisper, her voice filled with a twisted pride as she listened to his strained breathing. "So strong. So substantial. You just take and take, and I love giving it to you."
She brought him a "super-mass" weight gain shake, so thick it was almost a solid. He drank it in slow, desperate gulps, his body screaming for air even as his stomach screamed for more. The wheezing would grow louder, more strained, but the sound was just white noise to them both—the sound of a body being pushed to its absolute limit, all for the pleasure of the woman who owned it.
He was no longer a man. He was a monument to her devotion, a breathing, wheezing mountain of flesh, and as long as Penny had sweet words and sweeter food, he would keep climbing, even if the summit was his own ruin.
-Part 7-
The guest house had become a sacred, sealed world, a temple to Penny’s love and Greg’s glorious consumption. For Penny, the greatest joy, the most profound satisfaction, was no longer just watching him grow—it was the absolute, utter privacy of it.
A memory, sharp and acidic, still sometimes surfaced in her mind: the early days of their relationship. Walking across campus, her hand in his, and seeing other girls—cheerleaders, sorority sisters, random students—cast appreciative glances at Greg. Their eyes would linger on his broad shoulders, his strong jaw, his athletic frame. The jealousy had been a physical pain, a hot coal in her stomach. He was hers, and yet, others felt they had the right to look, to admire, to want.
Now, that jealousy was a forgotten relic. It had been melted down and recast into the very foundation of their new life. Now, no one could look at him. No one would want to. The man those girls had admired was gone, buried under hundreds of pounds of soft, yielding flesh that existed only for her.
She loved him more now than she ever had. This version of Greg—immobile, wheezing, his adorable face nestled within multiple chins, his eyes soft and hazy with food and devotion—was entirely her creation. She was the artist, and his body was her living masterpiece, a piece too precious, too intimate, to ever be displayed in public.
Her rules were simple, and she enforced them with relentless affection: he was hers, and only hers, to see, to touch, to care for.
She enforced these rules not with locks, but with lard.
When a flicker of something—boredom, perhaps, or a ghost of memory—would cross his face, she didn't scold him. She didn't need to. She would simply arrive with a new, richer, more decadent food. A deep-dish pizza with a quadruple-cheese blend. A tray of freshly baked, syrup-soaked baklava. A "bedtime" shake laced with heavy cream and melted chocolate.
"Here you go, my love," she'd murmur, feeding him a piece of baklava, her fingers lingering on his lips. "This will make you feel better."
And it always did. Each bite, each swallow, was another brick in the wall she was building around him. Every pound that settled onto his frame was another pound that ensured he would never, could never, leave this room. His immobility was her security. His immense size was her shield against the outside world.
She would sit for hours, just watching him. Watching the way his colossal belly rose and fell with his strained breaths. Watching the way his heavy, sagging breasts shifted when he moved a hand to reach for the next shake. She’d trace the deep, warm folds of fat that gathered at his sides, knowing she was the only person on earth who would ever be permitted this close.
He was her beautiful, bloated secret. Her perfect, permanent prisoner of love. And as she watched him struggle to lift a massive arm to scratch his nose, a slow, contented smile would spread across her face. No one else would ever see his adorable, fat face again. He was all hers, and she would keep feeding him, forever, until the very idea of anyone else ever laying eyes on him was an impossibility. Her rules, enforced by love and a bottomless pantry, were the only law that mattered.
-Part 8-
The world’s occasional, faint knocks at the door of their insulated world were easily dismissed. A former teammate, a university administrator doing a final check-in, a distant relative—Penny was the gracious, impenetrable gatekeeper.
“Oh, Greg? He’s doing just fine, thank you for asking,” she’d chirp, her voice a perfect blend of warmth and finality, never opening the door more than a sliver.
“I’ll let him know you stopped by. I’m taking care of everything.”
And she was. She was taking care of everything by ensuring there was nothing left to take care of except his next meal. With each inquiry she gently turned away, she felt a surge of protective, possessive love. They didn't understand. They wanted the old Greg, the one who belonged to the world. They couldn't comprehend the beautiful, private creature he had become.
And he was becoming more of that creature with every passing hour. His health was a line on a chart plummeting steeply, but Penny’s love was a rocket soaring exponentially higher. Each labored bite he took, each grunt of effort as he swallowed, was a love song to her. The more he consumed, the more she adored him.
She adored the changes others would find horrifying. His skin, stretched to a translucent, waxy sheen over the immense, fluid-filled rolls of fat, felt feverishly warm to the touch. She would run her hands over it, marveling at its tight, bloated smoothness, tracing the intricate, road-map patterns of purple and red stretch marks that chronicled his expansion.
But her greatest fascination was with his moobs. They were now undeniably, magnificently massive, heavy sacks of fat that sagged profoundly over his sides, their weight pulling them into long, teardrop shapes. The nipples were often buried in the deep, warm folds where breast met belly.
“Oh, my love,” she’d whisper, her voice thick with awe. “Look at these. So much bigger than mine now.”
She would kneel before him, and with the utmost care, she would slide her hands beneath the doughy, pendulous weight. She’d lift them gently, their sheer mass a tangible proof of her success. The effort made Greg wheeze louder, the pressure on his crushed lungs increasing, but he would simply close his eyes, accepting the attention as his due. Penny would lean forward, her lips finding his, kissing him with a deep, possessive passion. Then, she’d lower her head and press a soft, reverent kiss to each of his nipples.
“I love you so much,” she’d breathe into his warm, doughy skin, the words a prayer. “My big, beautiful man.”
And she did, without a single hesitation or doubt. His wheezing was the sound of his devotion. His immobility was his commitment. His colossal, broken body was the ultimate symbol of her complete and total possession. He was her masterpiece, her world, and she would love every failing breath out of him until there was nothing left but the magnificent, silent monument to her love that she had always dreamed of.
-Part 9-
The rhythm of their days was a twisted, intimate symphony composed of groans, wheezes, and the rustle of food packaging. Each morning, Penny would leave for her classes and cheer practice with a spring in her step, energized by the secret waiting for her at home. Her time away was just an intermission, a necessary pause before she could return to her true purpose: Greg’s glorious, relentless augmentation.
The strain on his body was undeniable. His breathing was a wet, rattling struggle, each inhale a victory against the crushing weight of his own chest and belly. His skin, stretched to a terrifying, shiny tautness, felt dangerously hot. But to Penny, these weren't signs of distress; they were proof of his dedication, a love song sung in the key of bodily ruin. The more his health failed under the burden she lovingly placed upon it, the more she adored him.
She became aggressively creative. Returning from cheer practice, still in her tiny, vibrant uniform, she’d bypass the shower and head straight for the kitchen, her adrenaline from the gym channeled into a different kind of performance. She’d load a tray with a mountain of double-patty cheeseburgers, their grease soaking through the paper, and a whole, family-sized meat-lover’s pizza.
“I’m home, my champion!” she’d sing out, presenting the feast. “You need to keep your strength up for me.”
His eyes, glazed with a permanent, oxygen-deprived haze, would fixate on the food. The act of eating was now his sole purpose, his only expression of love. He’d eat slowly, mechanically, each bite followed by a deep, guttural groan of effort and fullness. Penny would watch, enraptured, perched on the arm of the sofa. The louder he groaned, the wider her smile grew. It was music to her ears.
Then came the shake. Her latest concoction was a behemoth—a blend of heavy cream, full-fat ice cream, weight-gain powder, peanut butter, chocolate syrup, and melted butter, totaling a minimum of 15,000 calories. She’d blend it until it was thick as cement and present it to him with a straw.
“Drink up, big guy. Every drop is for me,” she’d command, her cheerleader pep turned darkly saccharine.
While he sucked it down, his throat working desperately, she would begin to undress. Shedding her uniform, she stood before him completely bare, a stark, nimble contrast to his monstrous, immobilized form. His eyes, heavy-lidded, would drift over her, a flicker of something primal still alive deep within the fat and fog.
Then, with a possessive gleam in her eye, she would climb onto the sofa. Not beside him, but on him. Carefully, she would straddle the immense, sloping mountain of his belly, settling her weight onto its bloated summit. She would begin to move slowly, rocking back and forth, riding the vast curve of his stomach as if it were her throne.
“You see?” she’d pant, looking down at his flushed, straining face. “This is what you’re for. This is how much I love you. You’re my perfect, soft, giant man.”
She was openly, brazenly showing him how much she enjoyed his transformation, using his own body as the instrument of her pleasure. The pressure of her on his distended stomach made his breathing hitch and strain, the groans coming louder, more strained. To Penny, it was the sound of passion. His failing health was not a tragedy; it was the ultimate act of love, and she would worship it, ride it, and feed it until there was nothing left but the magnificent, silent testament to her all-consuming devotion. He was her creation, her toy, her love, and she would play with him until the very end.
-Part 10-
The guest house was no longer a home; it was a shrine to a single, devouring ritual. The dynamic had shed its last vestiges of caretaking pretense. Now, it was pure, unvarnished possession and consumption.
Penny’s returns were heralded by the rustle of countless grease-stained bags. She brought home feasts of apocalyptic proportions: enough tacos, fried chicken buckets, cheese-drenched nachos, and glazed donuts to feed a small town. But the food was no longer the first act.
The moment she crossed the threshold, her eyes, bright with a fervent, possessive love, locked onto Greg’s mountainous form. Without a word, she would begin to undress, letting her clothes fall carelessly to the floor. Naked, she approached the sofa, which groaned under his permanent weight.
Gone was the careful reverence. Now, her approach was one of conquest. His belly, a vast, pale landscape of strained flesh, was her territory. She used the deep, doughy cleft of his belly button as a foothold, digging her toes into the soft fat. She’d claw her fingers into the thick rolls that cascaded down his sides, using them as handholds to haul herself up his slope. Her nails left faint, red crescents in his waxy skin, marks of ownership he was too far gone to feel.
Once atop the summit of his stomach, she would sit, her weight causing the immense mass to depress and jiggle. A wet, rattling gasp would escape his lips, the air fighting its way through lungs compressed by fat and now, by her. His eyes, already glassy, would swim unfocused toward the ceiling.
Then, and only then, would she begin to feed him. She’d lean forward, reaching for a bucket of extra-crispy chicken strips, and push one between his slack lips. As he chewed with slow, bovine motions, she’d begin to rock. Back and forth, using the motion of her agile, cheerleader-trained hips to rhythmically compress his bloated stomach, massaging the unhealthy feast deeper into his gut.
The wider his belly grew—and it was now so wide it spilled over the edges of the reinforced sofa—the wider her straddle became. She was performing a perfect, obscene split across the expanse of him, her body a stark, tiny bridge over the sea of his flesh. Each rock, each grind, forced a laborious, wet breath from his lungs. The rattling grew louder, a death rattle she mistook for a purr of contentment.
She looked down at his face, at the eyes glazed over with a mixture of oxygen deprivation, food coma, and utter surrender. A look of transcendent love filled her own.
“You’re the most beautiful thing in the world,” she’d coo, shoving a handful of cheese fries into his mouth. “My perfect, enormous love. No one has ever loved anyone the way I love you.”
And she believed it. This was love, in its purest, most absolute form. He was giving her everything—his health, his mobility, his very breath—and she was giving him everything he could possibly want: more. More food, more weight, more of her crushing, adoring presence. They were locked in a perfect, terrible symbiosis, hurtling toward an end she couldn’t see and wouldn't fear, because in this moment, with her nails dug into his flesh and his labored breath warming her skin, she had never been happier. He was hers, completely and finally, and she loved him more than anyone ever could.
-Part 11-
The days bled together in a seamless, syrupy loop, each one a carbon copy of the last, differing only in the specific shade of grease on the packaging. The sun rose and set on the same scene: the wheezing mountain on the sofa, and the nimble, devoted priestess who worshipped at its altar.
Penny’s daily pilgrimage to the outside world was a foraging mission. She’d return, her arms laden with sacks that promised nothing but decadent ruin. Monday: a tower of cardboard boxes emitting the scent of pepperoni and burnt cheese. Tuesday: paper bags soaked through with the orange grease of double-cheeseburgers and salted fries. Wednesday: a crispy, fragrant bucket of fried chicken, its crust shimmering with oil. Thursday: a spread of neon-orange nachos piled high with ground beef and congealed cheese sauce. The menu rotated, but the theme was constant: maximum fat, maximum salt, maximum sugar. A single piece of lettuce or a stray carrot stick would have been a blasphemy in their temple of consumption.
She never brought anything healthy. The concept had ceased to exist for her. Health was the enemy. Health meant movement, independence, the potential for a life beyond this room. Every bite of deep-fried, cheese-smothered, sugar-glazed junk was a nail in the coffin of that old, unwanted possibility.
And with every bite, his health surrendered another inch.
Greg no longer really ate; he was fed. His chewing was a slow, automatic reflex. His swallowing was a visible, laborious struggle against the pressure of his own flesh. The wet rattle in his chest had become a permanent fixture, a grinding, watery sound that filled the silent spaces between Penny’s coos and the crinkle of food wrappers.
His eyes, once capable of focusing on her, were now perpetually glazed, two clouded windows looking out from a fortress of fat. They tracked the movement of food as it approached his lips, but held no recognition, no thought, only a deep-seated, animal expectation.
Penny saw none of this as decline. She saw it as progress. Each labored breath was a sigh of contentment to her ears. Each shuddering gasp for air as she climbed his belly was a moan of pleasure. The more his body failed under the delicious burden she provided, the more absolute her victory felt.
She was erasing him, bite by glorious bite, and replacing him with something better: a monument that would never leave, never look at anyone else, never want for anything but the next meal she provided. His failing health was the proof of her success, the love song he sang with every struggling heartbeat. And so, she fed him, endlessly, joyfully, watching the last flickers of the man he was drown in a delicious, greasy, perfect tide.
-Part 12-
The last pretense of structure dissolved. Time, already meaningless in the stagnant air of the guest house, now lost its final anchor: mealtimes. There were no more breakfasts, lunches, or dinners. There was only Feeding.
Penny’s approach became manic, a continuous stream of indulgence. She would wake in the middle of the night, stirred by some possessive dream, and pad to the kitchen. Without turning on a light, she’d open a family-sized bag of cheese puffs or a box of sugar-coated cereal and bring it to the sofa. In the blue glow of the perpetually-on television, she’d feed the crunchy, salty morsels into Greg’s sleeping mouth. He would chew and swallow automatically, never fully waking, his body operating on a primal instinct to consume whatever was offered.
Daytime was no different. She’d return from class and immediately begin, not with a single massive meal, but with a relentless, all-afternoon parade of junk. A bag of mini doughnuts, followed by a sleeve of cookies, chased by a bowl of ice cream drowned in caramel sauce, then a bag of pork rinds for a salty “palate cleanser” before starting again with chocolate bars. The food had no nutritional value, only caloric density—a sheer, glorious weight to be deposited directly into his system.
Her cooing escalated in tandem, becoming a constant, breathless monologue of love.
“That’s it, my beautiful blimp, open wide… every cheese curl is a kiss from me to you… oh, you love it so much, I can see it in your eyes… you’re eating it all for me, because you love me more than anything…”
She had long since lost count of the calories, the portions, the sheer volume. The numbers were irrelevant. The only metric that mattered was the physical result: the way his belly strained a little tighter against her when she sat on it, the new, softer jiggle in a previously firm roll of fat, the increasingly wet, desperate sound of his breathing as the processed food and sugary sludge filled him to bursting.
The concept of “forcing” had vanished from her mind. His compliance was total, his will utterly subsumed. The occasional choking sputter as she pushed a too-large bite of fudge brownie into his mouth wasn't a sign of distress; it was a sign of his eagerness, his overwhelming love for her and the treats she provided. If she had to gently hold his jaw and guide the food down his throat, it was just part of their intimate dance.
Every bite, whether he consciously swallowed it or she massaged it down, was a sacred offering. It was a pound of flesh offered on the altar of her love. It was his vow, his prayer, his entire being expressed through the only act left to him: consumption. She didn't see a man drowning in his own body. She saw a god of devotion, growing more powerful, more present, more hers with every gram of fat that settled onto his crumbling skeleton.
He loved her. The proof was in the pudding—literally, in the gallons of it she fed him. And she loved him more than anyone ever could, because she was the only one who understood this beautiful, silent, ever-expanding language of love.
-Part 13-
The final, inevitable evolution had arrived. Greg’s head was now permanently tilted back by the immense, pillow-like rolls of fat that comprised his neck and multiple chins. His jaw, buried in soft flesh, could no longer achieve the mechanical motion needed to chew. Solid food, no matter how lovingly offered, was an impossibility.
Penny didn't miss a beat. To her, it wasn't a medical crisis; it was a new phase of their love, a challenge to be met with creativity. She hauled her high-powered blender to the center of the living room, its base becoming a permanent fixture on the coffee table amidst the empty wrappers.
The concept of "food" dissolved entirely. Now, it was about mass and liquidity. She would dump entire meals into the pitcher with utter disregard for compatibility. A leftover meat-lover’s pizza, crust and all, went in with a half-gallon of chocolate ice cream and a bag of cheese puffs. She’d add chunks of butter, cans of sweetened condensed milk, and always, always, a cascade of heavy cream and scoops of high-calorie weight gain powder until the mixture was a thick, beige slurry. Taste was irrelevant. The only criteria were that it could be sucked through a wide straw and that every ounce was densely packed with fat and calories.
"Here you go, my sweet pudding prince," she'd murmur, holding the bucket-like cup to his lips. The straw was necessary; he could no longer lift his arms to hold it himself.
With this shift to a purely liquid diet, the very physics of his body changed. The colossal dome of his belly, once a firm, heavy mass of compacted solid food, began to transform. It became softer, more fluid. It lost some of its rigid structure and took on a disturbing, watery jiggle. When Penny climbed atop him now, her weight didn't just depress it; it caused slow, undulating waves to ripple through the gargantuan mound, like a waterbed filled to twenty times its capacity.
It felt, beneath her, less like a stomach and more like a giant, overfilled water balloon, one that was still, impossibly, growing. As she straddled him, performing her ritualistic rocking, her legs had to spread wider and wider to accommodate the increasing width of this soft, quivering mass. The sheer liquid weight of him pressed outwards, seeking space, making him seem even more immense.
She adored the new texture. She would slap his belly gently and watch the tremor move through the fat in a slow, seismic wave. She would press her hands deep into the softness, feeling no firmness beneath, just an endless, yielding density.
"He's turning into a love cloud," she'd giggle to herself, feeding him another thousand-calorie shake of blended fries and milkshake. The wet rattle in his chest was louder now, a bubbling accompaniment to the sloshing sounds his body made with every slight movement. His eyes were permanently rolled back, seeing nothing, his world reduced to the sensations of fullness, pressure, and the sound of her voice.
He was no longer even eating. He was being filled, like a vessel. And Penny, her legs spread wide over the ocean of him, was the keeper of the tap, pouring her love into him until he was nothing but a soft, sloshing, breathless monument to her devotion.
-Part 14-
The transformation was complete. Greg was no longer a person to Penny; he was an environment. A warm, breathing, unstable landscape of flesh that had become the sole furnishing of her world. The sofa beneath him was irrelevant, a forgotten piece of scaffolding swallowed by his magnitude.
She used him with the casual, possessive intimacy of a child with a favorite, oversized toy. She’d plop down on the vast, quivering plain of his belly to watch television, the screen flickering over her face as his body undulated beneath her with each wet, struggling breath. She’d lay on her stomach across him, propping up her chin on her hands to scroll through her phone, reading messages and ignoring the world outside, using the soft, yielding rise of his chest as her pillow.
But her favorite thing was sleeping on him. As night fell, she would curl up on top of him, her head resting on the slope between his massive, sagging breast and the base of his neck. There, she would press her ear against his hot, waxy skin and listen. The sounds were a symphony of unhealthy devotion: the frantic, screaming gallop of his heart, laboring to push blood through miles of strained circulatory system; the wet, bubbling gurgle of his digestive tract, a constant churn of liquefied junk; the shallow, rattling sip of air that was his breath.
She could feel it all. Every frantic heartbeat thumped against her cheek. Every gaseous bubble that traveled through the sea of his belly caused a soft, sloshing shift beneath her entire body. She would drift off to sleep soothed by these sounds, the ultimate proof of his existence and his total dependence.
This absolute possession emboldened her. The feedings became more aggressive, the rides more wild. She’d sit astride the widest part of his belly, now a truly oceanic expanse of unstable fat, and force-feed him liters of the thick, beige slurry. She’d hold the bucket, watching his throat convulse as he swallowed, pushing past his body’s silent screams for mercy.
“Just a little more, my love,” she’d coax, pouring another stream into his mouth. “Fill up for me. Get bigger for me.”
Then, energized by his consumption, she’d begin to ride. Not the gentle rocking of before, but a wide, bouncing motion, using the unstable, water-balloon physics of his belly to propel herself. She’d laugh, a bright, girlish sound that clashed horribly with the wet, suffocating noises emanating from beneath her. His body would slosh and undulate wildly, his breath coming in desperate, choked hitches.
She was riding a dying sea, and it was the most exhilarating feeling she had ever known. Every bounce pushed the liquefied weight inside him against his failing organs. Every slosh was a wave of her love, crashing against the shores of his ruin. He was her playground, her bed, her love song, and she would play him, sleep on him, and fill him until there was nothing left to give but the final, silent slosh.
-Part 15-
The feeding seasons blurred into one continuous, brutal marathon. There was no longer night or day, only the rhythm of the blender and the desperate, liquid sounds of Greg's body struggling to contain what Penny poured into him.
She had become relentless. His body, already maxed to what should have been impossible limits, was treated as if it had no limits at all. More liquefied junk—thicker, richer, more caloric—was forced past his lips hour after hour. His throat worked automatically, a reflex long divorced from any conscious choice. His body had no choice but to accept, to stretch, to accommodate.
The sounds he made were everything to her now. The groans that escaped his buried mouth were deeper, more guttural, tinged with a desperate edge they had never held before. The gurgling from his belly was constant, a wet, churning orchestra that spoke of digestion pushed to its breaking point. Sometimes, amid the groans, a new sound emerged—a strained, garbled attempt at something resembling words.
"heh... hehlp..." would bubble up, distorted by the fat compressing his throat, muffled by the chins that buried his jaw. "mmm... me..."
Penny would pause, tilting her head, a sweet smile playing on her lips as she listened to the sounds. To her ears, the desperate, choking plea underwent a magical transformation.
"Feed me," she would repeat back to him, her eyes gleaming with adoration. "Of course, my love. I'll feed you."
And she would. She would pour another stream of the thick, sweet slurry into his mouth, watching it coat his tongue, watching his throat convulse as it fought its way down. The sounds that followed—the wet, struggling gasps, the deep, agonized gurgles from the depths of his belly—sent shivers of pleasure through her.
The effect on her was profound. The more desperate he became, the more his body protested in groans and gurgles, the more turned on she grew. Her cheeks would flush. Her breathing would quicken. She would find herself pressing her thighs together as she watched another liter disappear into his endless, suffering gut.
She began to ride him while feeding him, unable to wait. Straddling the vast, quivering sea of his belly, she would pour the liquefied junk into his mouth while grinding against his unstable mass, her moans mingling with his gurgles. The sensation of his body sloshing and struggling beneath her, combined with the sounds of his distress, pushed her to heights of pleasure she had never imagined.
"That's it," she'd gasp, her body moving wildly against him. "Make those sounds for me. Let me hear how much you love it. Let me hear how full you are for me."
And he would gurgle, and groan, and somewhere deep in the wreckage of his mind, something that might have been a plea for help would surface, only to be drowned in another wave of liquefied calories and Penny's ecstatic cries. She loved him so completely, so totally, that his suffering was her joy, and she would never, ever stop feeding him.
-Part 16-
The morning started like any other in their timeless, food-soaked existence. Penny woke naked, stretched like a contented cat across the vast, quivering expanse of Greg's belly, her skin warm against his waxy, stretched surface. She yawned, smiled down at the mountain beneath her, and immediately reached for the waiting bucket of liquefied junk food she had prepared the night before.
Hours passed. She fed him before her classes, her movements mechanical but her eyes bright with that familiar, possessive love. The thick, sweet sludge flowed continuously past his lips, his throat working automatically to swallow, swallow, swallow. His body accepted it all, as it always did, the liquid weight settling into the already overfilled sea of his stomach.
Then it happened.
A sensation Greg had felt before, a familiar ache in his chest that came and went with the most intense feedings. But today, it was different. Today, it was stronger. Deeper. More devastating. It wasn't the usual dull pressure or fleeting discomfort. It was a crushing, radiating explosion of pain that seemed to tear through the center of his chest and shoot down his left arm—an arm so buried in fat he couldn't even feel where it ended.
His eyes, which had been glassy and unfocused for months, suddenly widened. For the first time in what felt like forever, something sharp and clear cut through the fog of constant consumption. Fear. Real, primal, animal fear.
Heart attack.
The words formed in his ruined mind with terrifying clarity. This was what they felt like. This was what killed people. And he was more vulnerable than anyone, his heart crushed under hundreds of pounds of fat, forced to pump through miles of choked vessels, pushed to its absolute limit by the endless tidal wave of liquefied junk.
The pain ebbed slightly, leaving him gasping wetly, but the fear remained. He knew, with a certainty that cut through years of denial, that when Penny returned from college, she would feed him again. She would push harder, as she always did. And the next time, the pain might not stop.
But what could he do?
The thought was almost laughable, if he had any breath to laugh with. His body was a prison of his own making, a monument to her devotion. He could not move. He could not speak clearly. His arms, lost in rolls of fat, could not reach or push or signal. His legs, buried under the colossal weight of his belly, were useless. The fat that had grown to satisfy her love now held him completely captive.
He became acutely aware of his position. The immense weight of his own flesh forced his head back against the sofa, his multiple chins pressing his jaw upward. He stared at the ceiling, unable to turn, unable to look anywhere but up at the blank white surface above him. He couldn't even see the door. He couldn't see the window. He couldn't see anything but the ceiling and, sometimes, the edge of Penny's face when she leaned over him.
When she comes back, she'll trigger it for good.
The thought hung in his mind, cold and certain. She would come home, naked and eager, climb his belly, and feed him until the pain returned. And this time, it wouldn't stop. This time, his overworked, crushed heart would simply... give up.
Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, trapped in the folds of fat around his face. Not tears of self-pity, but tears of helplessness. Of utter, complete, immobilizing helplessness. He was going to die on this sofa, buried under his own weight, drowned in the love of the woman who had made him this way. And the last thing he would ever see was the ceiling, white and empty, while his heart exploded in his chest.
The pain faded to a dull ache. His breathing continued its wet, rattling struggle. And Greg lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the door to open, waiting for his love to come home and finish what she started.
-Part 17-
The door opened. Greg's eyes, still fixed on the ceiling, couldn't see her, but he heard the familiar sounds: the rustle of bags, the thud of groceries on the counter, then the soft whisper of clothing falling to the floor. His heart, already weakened, began to pound faster in his chest.
Penny appeared above him, her face blooming into his limited field of vision. She was already naked, her skin flushed with anticipation.
"Miss me, my beautiful mountain?" she cooed, pressing a kiss to his sweaty forehead. "I brought so many goodies for you. We're going to have such a nice evening."
She disappeared, and Greg heard the blender roar to life. Once. Twice. Three times. Each cycle was an eternity, a countdown to what he knew was coming. She returned with the first bucket of thick, beige sludge and climbed, using his fat folds as handholds, settling onto the vast, unstable plain of his belly.
The first liter went down easily. His throat worked automatically, trained by months of this ritual. But Greg could feel it—the familiar pressure building in his already overfilled gut, his belly stretching imperceptibly wider, heavier against his crushed organs.
Penny made a second round. Then a third. Each time she returned, the bucket was full, and his stomach had no choice but to accept. His belly, already a monumental sea of liquid fat, began to distend further, the skin stretching to new, painful limits. The weight pressed upward against his diaphragm, against his lungs, against his heart.
His chest tightened. The air came in shorter, wetter gasps. His heart, already working overtime, began to race faster, a desperate flutter against the crushing pressure. Greg could feel it—the frantic, panicked beating of the organ that was the only thing keeping him alive.
Then it happened.
Deep in his chest, something gave way. Not a dramatic explosion, but a soft, internal pop that he felt more than heard. The pain that followed was immediate and devastating—a crushing, radiating fire that spread from his chest through his entire upper body. His breath caught in a wet, agonized gasp. A groan, deeper and more desperate than any before, escaped his buried lips.
Penny heard it. She felt it beneath her, the sudden tension in the vast sea of his belly, the way his body shuddered. And instead of stopping, instead of fear or concern, her eyes lit up with a terrible, beautiful joy.
"Oh yes," she breathed, her voice thick with arousal. "Yes, my love. Let me hear it. Let me feel it."
She began to bounce. Wildly, desperately, using the unstable, overfilled mass of his belly as her playground. Each bounce compressed his stomach further, pushing the liquid weight against his failing organs. His heart, damaged and struggling, was caught between the crushing pressure from below and the rhythmic impact of her body above.
And somehow, impossibly, the bouncing was massaging his heart. The compression, the release, the compression again—it was keeping the damaged organ beating, forcing blood through vessels that should have already failed. It was agony. Every bounce sent fresh waves of pain through his chest. Every gasp was a struggle. But his heart kept beating, kept pumping, kept him alive for another moment of suffering.
Greg knew, with a terrible clarity, what was happening. She wasn't going to stop. She was going to keep bouncing, keep feeding him, keep pushing until his body simply couldn't continue. And Penny, in her twisted, euphoric state, knew it too. She could feel it beneath her—the failing heart, the struggling lungs, the body teetering on the very edge of existence.
"That's it," she panted, her movements becoming more frantic, more ecstatic. "Give it to me. Give me everything. I love you so much. I love you so much."
Her words were a prayer, a plea, a declaration of war against his very survival. And Greg, staring at the ceiling, feeling his body slowly surrender beneath the weight of her love, knew that this time, she would not stop until there was nothing left to love.
-Part 18-
Penny collapsed forward onto the vast, heaving landscape of Greg's belly, her body slick with sweat, her chest heaving from exertion and ecstasy. For a long moment, she simply lay there, spread-eagled across the quivering mountain of him, her cheek pressed against his hot, waxy skin.
"That was... that was so beautiful," she whispered, her voice muffled against his flesh. "I love you so much. Do you know how manly you look to me? How perfect?"
She began to count his features, her fingers trailing lazily across his body as she spoke, her voice a dreamy, reverent monologue.
"Look at this," she cooed, patting the immense, sagging mass of his left breast. It was enormous now, easily larger than her entire torso, a pendulous sack of fat that rested heavily against his side. "So big. So soft. So much bigger than me."
Her hand drifted downward, across the vast plain of his belly, to the lowest portion that spilled over his buried hips. There, in the deepest folds, the skin had taken on a different quality. A darker color. A purplish, mottled hue that had been developing for weeks. Penny had noticed it, of course. She noticed everything about him. She simply never mentioned it. She loved it. It was another mark of his transformation, another sign of how completely he belonged to her.
"And your legs," she continued, her voice dreamy as she patted the immense, shapeless masses of fat that were all that remained of his once-powerful thighs. They were buried so deep under layers of soft tissue that the bones within were irrelevant, useless structures that hadn't supported his weight in months. "So thick. So heavy. You couldn't walk if you wanted to, could you, my love?"
She pushed herself up slightly, crawling up his body until she could see his face. What she saw made her heart swell with adoration. His face was almost unrecognizable now—a massive, swollen orb of flesh dominated by cheeks like overfilled pillows and a cascade of chins that buried his neck completely. His lips, plump and perpetually parted, were the only visible feature besides his eyes, which stared at the ceiling with that familiar, glassy emptiness.
"And this face," she breathed, tracing the curve of a cheek with her fingertip. "So full. So round. These cheeks... these chins... this beautiful, swollen face. All mine."
She lifted one of his hands, or tried to. It was a plump, useless thing, the fingers lost in cushions of fat, incapable of curling around anything, let alone gripping. It flopped heavily when she released it.
"Can't even grab a remote anymore," she giggled. "You don't need to. I grab everything for you."
Greg felt none of this. The words washed over him, meaningless sounds in a world that had shrunk to only sensation. And the only sensations that remained were pain—the deep, grinding pressure in his overfilled belly, the crushing weight on his chest, the laborious struggle of each breath. His heart continued its damaged, frantic beating, kept alive by forces he couldn't control.
But Penny, lying on top of him, felt something else stir. The inventory of his features, the reminder of his complete helplessness, the sight of his swollen, suffering face—it was all working its familiar magic. She could feel herself getting aroused again, the warmth spreading through her core.
She sat up abruptly, a new energy coursing through her.
"One more round," she declared, sliding off his belly with a practiced motion. "I'm going to make you the biggest, thickest slob yet. You're going to love it."
Greg heard the blender start again. He felt the pain in his chest, the pressure in his belly, the complete and utter helplessness of his body. And he stared at the ceiling, waiting for the next bucket, the next liter, the next moment of his love's endless, terrible devotion.
-Part 19-
The blender fell silent. Penny's footsteps approached, and Greg heard something new—a sloshing sound, thicker than before, heavier. She appeared above him, naked and glowing, carrying not just the familiar bucket but something else. A funnel. Large, wide-mouthed, designed for maximum flow.
"Special delivery for my special man," she sang, climbing his belly with practiced ease. Her weight settled onto him, and Greg felt the familiar compression, the shift of liquid within his already overfilled gut.
She positioned the funnel between his lips, the cold plastic pressing against his swollen mouth. Then she lifted the bucket.
The first wave hit his tongue and he knew immediately this was different. Thicker. Heavier. It coated his mouth like paste before slowly, laboriously sliding down his throat. The taste was the same horrible blend of everything and nothing, but there was something else underneath it. Something cloying. Overwhelmingly sweet.
"I added extra sugar," Penny explained, her voice casual, as if discussing a recipe. "Lots of it. Until it was barely liquid anymore. Just for you, my love."
The sugar hit his bloodstream like a tidal wave. His heart, already damaged and racing, lurched into overdrive. Greg could feel it—the frantic, panicked pounding against his ribs, trying to push blood through vessels compressed by hundreds of pounds of fat. The pressure in his veins increased with every swallow, a burning, stretching sensation that radiated through his entire body.
More sludge flowed through the funnel. His throat worked automatically, swallowing, swallowing, swallowing. His belly, already stretched to impossible limits, protested with deep, agonized gurgles. The liquid mass inside him shifted and sloshed, pressing against organs that had no more room to give.
And through it all, Greg looked up at Penny's face.
She was beautiful. Even now, even like this, he could see it. The hottest girl on campus, the one every guy dreamed about, the cheerleader with the perfect body and the sunshine smile. She was naked, straddling his ruined, bloated form, pouring liquid sugar directly into his helpless body. And she was looking at him like he was the most precious thing in the world.
Not at the athletes. Not at the handsome guys in her classes. At him. At his massive, swollen face. At his chins. At his useless, bloated body. She only wanted him.
Something shifted in Greg's mind. The fear, the pain, the desperate awareness of his failing body—it all faded, replaced by a strange, warm acceptance. He had won. Against every odds, against every handsome, fit guy on campus, he had won. Penny chose him. Penny loved him. Penny wanted him exactly like this—enormous, helpless, completely hers.
He relaxed.
The moment he did, his body responded. His throat opened wider, accepting the flow more easily. His stomach, instead of fighting, seemed to settle, making space where there was no space. The sludge poured in faster, and Greg felt himself filling, expanding, becoming more of what she wanted.
Penny noticed immediately. Her face lit up with a radiant smile.
"That's it," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "That's my good boy. Take it all for me. Let me fill you up."
She poured faster, and Greg swallowed faster, a perfect rhythm of consumption established between them. His heart continued its frantic race, his veins continued their burning protest, but Greg didn't fight it anymore. This was his purpose. This was why he had won. To be filled. To be hers. To be the biggest, softest, most helpless man on earth, loved by the most beautiful woman in the world.
The funnel finally emptied. Penny set the bucket aside and leaned down, pressing her lips to his forehead.
"I love you," she breathed against his skin. "I love you so much."
And Greg, staring up at her beautiful face, felt something that might have been happiness. Or maybe it was just the sugar, flooding his ruined body with one last, glorious rush before the final collapse. Either way, he was hers. Completely. Finally. Eternally.
-Part 20-
The funnel slipped from between his swollen lips, and Penny's face descended, her mouth capturing his in a deep, possessive kiss. Greg's chest heaved, struggling for air even as she pressed against him, taking what little breath he had. His heart stuttered, faltered, then kept going as she finally pulled back.
"So beautiful," she whispered, her small hand cupping his massive, doughy cheek, her fingers sinking into the soft flesh. She pressed her forehead to his, their eyes inches apart. "The most handsome man. So manly. So hot."
Then she kissed him again, deeper this time, and Greg felt the world swim. His lungs burned, his chest screamed, and just as darkness began to creep at the edges of his vision, she released him. Air rushed back into his struggling lungs in a wet, desperate wheeze.
His eyes, glassy and unfocused, found her face. And from somewhere deep in the wreckage of his body, from a place he thought had died long ago, words emerged. Not a plea this time. Not a cry for help.
"Feed... me..."
The voice was barely a whisper, ruined by months of disuse and the weight crushing his chest. But Penny heard it. Her eyes widened, then filled with tears of joy.
"Oh, my love," she breathed. "Of course. Of course I will."
She slid off his belly with newfound energy, practically dancing to the kitchen. The blender roared to life, once, twice, three times, four. Bucket after bucket of the thick, sweet sludge filled the counter while Greg lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, waiting.
He liked the taste now. Somewhere between the sugar overdose and the complete surrender of his will, the horrible blend of everything and nothing had become... comforting. It was the taste of her love. The taste of his purpose. The taste of surrender.
Penny returned with the first bucket and the funnel. She placed it between his lips with reverence, like a priestess offering communion.
"Open wide for me, my handsome man."
The sludge flowed. Greg swallowed. His belly, already impossibly full, somehow accepted more. The pressure increased, the pain flared, his heart raced faster, but none of it mattered. He was feeding. She was happy. This was everything.
Bucket after bucket. The rhythm became hypnotic. Fill, swallow, fill, swallow. Penny's face above him, glowing with adoration. Her voice, a constant stream of praise and love.
"So good for me. Taking it all. Growing bigger. My perfect, manly giant."
Greg lost count. He lost sense of time, of self, of anything except the flow of sludge through the funnel and the beautiful face above him. His body continued its protests—the darkening flesh of his lower belly, the labored rattle of his breath, the frantic pounding of his damaged heart—but Greg was beyond hearing them.
He was feeding. He was hers. He was exactly where he belonged.
And Penny, pouring bucket after bucket into her dying love, had never been happier.
-Part 21-
The days blurred into a continuous, agonizing rhythm of consumption and stimulation. Greg's body, already a monument to excess, somehow found new territory to expand into. His belly grew wider, heavier, the skin stretching to translucent thinness in some places while darkening to a deep, mottled purple in others. The discoloration that had started in his lowest folds now crept upward, reaching past his deeply buried navel, spreading like a map of his failing circulation.
Penny watched it with increasing fascination. She would trace the edges of the darkening skin with her fingertips, marveling at the contrast between the pale, stretched flesh above and the dying tissue below.
"It's spreading," she'd murmur, her voice filled with wonder. "Look at that, my love. Getting darker. Getting more beautiful."
The heart attacks came regularly now. Greg would be mid-swallow, another bucket of sludge flowing through the funnel, when the pain would explode in his chest—a crushing, radiating fire that stole what little breath he had. His body would convulse, as much as a body of his size could convulse, and his eyes would roll back.
But Penny was always there. Always on top of him, always moving. The moment she felt the tremor beneath her, the moment she heard his strangled gasp, she would begin to ride him harder. Her hips would grind against his massive belly, the rhythmic compression massaging his damaged heart, forcing it to keep beating. The agony was indescribable—every bounce sending fresh waves of pain through his chest, every compression a reminder that his heart was only functioning because she willed it to.
"That's it," she'd pant, her movements wild and ecstatic. "Keep beating for me. Keep going. You're not done yet."
And his heart, against all logic, against all medical probability, would obey. It would find another beat, another rhythm, another moment of strained existence. The pain would fade to a dull, burning ache, and Greg would resume swallowing, the funnel never leaving his lips.
The darkening skin became her obsession. She would pause mid-feeding to examine it, pressing her fingers into the dying tissue, watching how the color deepened under pressure. She would spread his massive legs—a process that required significant effort—to examine the dark patches spreading across his inner thighs. She would lift his sagging breasts to check the discoloration beneath them.
"I love this part," she confessed one evening, her fingers tracing the purple flesh around his belly button. "This is where you're the most mine. Where your body is giving everything for me."
Greg, beyond speech, beyond thought, could only swallow and stare at the ceiling. The pain was constant now—a background hum of agony that he had learned to exist within. The heart attacks came and went, kept at bay by Penny's relentless stimulation. The darkening spread, a slow tide of necrosis claiming his lower body.
And still the funnel remained between his lips. Still the sludge flowed. Still Penny rode him to keep his failing heart beating.
She was keeping him alive to kill him. And in her twisted, beautiful mind, it was the purest expression of love imaginable.
-Part 22-
The funnel was in place. The sludge was flowing. Penny was on top of him, her hips moving in that familiar, frantic rhythm that had kept his damaged heart beating for so long.
But this time was different.
Greg felt the pain explode in his chest—the same crushing, radiating fire he had felt so many times before. He waited for the compression, for Penny's bouncing to massage his heart back into reluctant service. He waited for the agony to fade to a dull ache, for the next bucket to begin.
The compression came. The bouncing continued. But this time, his heart didn't respond.
It stuttered. It faltered. It gave one last, weak flutter against the crushing weight of his own flesh and the rhythmic impact of Penny's body. And then it stopped.
Greg's eyes, already glassy and unfocused, went still. His chest, which had been struggling for each wet, rattling breath, fell silent. The only movement in his body was the faint, dying tremors of nerves firing their last messages, and the sloshing of the sludge still flowing through the funnel into his lifeless gut.
Penny felt it immediately. The change beneath her. The absence of that frantic heartbeat she had grown so accustomed to feeling against her skin. The stillness where there had always been struggling life.
She paused, mid-bounce, and looked down at his face.
His lips were already changing color. A faint blue was beginning to creep across them, spreading to the surrounding skin of his swollen face. His eyes stared at the ceiling, seeing nothing, never to see anything again.
And Penny smiled.
"Oh," she breathed, her voice soft with wonder. "Oh, my love. You did it. You finally did it."
She didn't stop. She didn't climb off. She didn't call for help or cry or show any of the reactions a normal person might have. Instead, she reached for the bucket, the one she had been planning to pour after this one, and tipped it into the funnel.
The sludge flowed into his dead body, filling a stomach that would never digest it, settling into a gut that would never process it. His belly, already immense, grew slightly fuller, slightly heavier beneath her.
And Penny rode him.
She rode him harder than she ever had before, her body slamming against his dead flesh, her hips grinding against the vast, still sea of his belly. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his—cold, blue, lifeless—and kissed him deeply, passionately, as if he could still feel it.
"I love you," she whispered against his dead mouth. "I love you so much. You're so beautiful like this. So still. So completely mine."
She kissed him again. And again. Each kiss a declaration of devotion to the corpse beneath her. Her body built toward its peak, fueled by the ultimate expression of his love—his complete and final surrender.
When she came, it was with a cry that echoed through the silent room, her body shuddering against his motionless form. And then again. And again. Multiple waves of ecstasy washing over her as she lay sprawled across her dead lover, her fingers tracing the dark, mottled skin of his belly, her lips pressing gentle kisses to his blue lips.
When it was finally over, she lay there for a long time, cheek pressed against his still chest, listening to the silence where his heartbeat used to be.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."
The funnel remained in place. The bucket lay empty beside them. And Penny, still naked, still warm, still glowing with post-orgasmic bliss, curled up on top of her dead giant and closed her eyes, more at peace than she had ever been.
He was hers. Completely. Finally. Eternally. Just as she had always wanted.
Oh baby, are you getting tired? I can feel you getting softer. You're so out of breath and sweaty, all your energy is gone. And why? It's not like you've been on top for long. You've just eaten yourself too fat, haven't you? That big fat belly is weighing you down, and the lack of any exercise other than bringing food to your mouth must be having an effect too. It's okay baby, you just lie down and get your breath back. I'll take over for you. Let me watch your fat body ripple beneath me with every thrust. Feel your soft belly press up against me as your laboured breathing makes your bloated chest quiver. I'll lean in to you as close as I can get, my body pressing up against your soft rolls so that I can whisper in your ear.
"Do you remember when we started and you'd be enthusiastically fucking me whilst I promised one day you'd be too big to manage? How I'd help you grow your fit body into a soft bloated nan? How I'd make sure your abs would melt off and be replaced with a soft round belly? How does it feel now sweetie, to know that I helped make you so fat you can't even fuck? I helped programme your greedy body to always want more food. I made sure you never said no to me. And now look at you. Such a big soft man, unable to hold yourself up for more than a few minutes. Unable to exert yourself enough to cum. You've put on so much weight that now you're completely under my control. And you're going to keep getting fatter. You enjoy being lazy and mindlessly eating too much to stop. And I've learnt to keep the cupboards well stocked to accommodate. I'll keep working out to make sure that I'm fit enough so that you won't ever need to be on top again. You can just keep eating and eating until you're too stuffed to move, then I can fuck you for your relief"
There we go sweetheart, I thought that would help you. Now, let me get you something to eat. You must be so hungry after all of that.
A big part of immobility is the lack of free will for me. I want to be as big as my feeder wants me. And if they decide for me to get so big I can’t walk? Then I’ll do it gladly.
I need to be force fed and told that I have no choice. They climb on top of me shove themselves in my mouth, I’m forced to lick or suck. They touch themselves on top of me or fuck my rolls since my belly can’t be lifted.
I’m too big to fight back. I’m too big to lose weight. All I can do is eat and eat. Just consuming. And even after a day full of eating, they still will force feed me. Because I’m not big enough for them. And maybe I’ll never be
They need me to rely of them solely for all my needs. And I fucking love that
Every overindulgence is a permanent reminder on your body of your greed. Trying to move your body around leaves you in a state of breathlessness as you are simply too weak to carry the burden of your own gluttony. The people around you could not possibly imagine the sexual arousal fueling your food (fat) addiction, getting turned on at the mere thought of overstuffing yourself far beyond your limits. Every time you eat you always manage to overdo it and you’re left in a moaning, whimpering comatose-like state, stuck to the spot you began in as you couldn’t possibly manage to stand up on your own. But nothing else turns you on, now doesn’t it? Addicted to being my greedy “little” piggy jiggling about in ill-fitting clothing practically bursting at the seams, never having anything that fits quite right. Such inconvenience is worth it for the beauty that fat brings 🫦
When we talk about you getting fatter, we often talk about pigs.
Their appetite, which serves their main purpose of gaining flesh and fat for their owner. Their reputation for laziness and slovenliness makes them an inspiration for some obsessed with gaining and growth.
Sometimes we talk about cows. Large, docile, content to graze their days away.
Occasionally, when considering truly enormous gains, we might mention whales. So massive they need the buoyancy of water to hold up their blubbery bodies.
But to me, the ideal animal for a feedee to emulate is a bear in autumn.
They’re large and powerful animals even at their leanest but as the colder months approach, each bear’s entire focus turns to one thing: eating.
Every waking hour of every day is spent in pursuit of food for the express purpose of piling on as much fat as possible before hibernation hits. Continuous feeding can make them gain four pounds per day, quickly rounding out their summer-lean physiques until they’re nearly unrecognizable under a thick layer of heavy fat.
Feeling full is no deterrent when growing fat enough can mean the difference between survival and death. Bears will eat until they physically can’t and then, as soon as their stomachs have emptied enough for a few more mouthfuls, go right back to gorging themselves.
That’s what I want for you.
A drive to eat so powerful that you have no thoughts of stopping.
A desire to fatten so deep it pushes you past the point of fullness, over and over, until your body is unrecognizable from just a few weeks earlier.
A hunger so consuming you eat until you’re incapable of taking another bite until your belly has had time to catch up with your mouth.
I want you to eat like a bear fattening up for winter.
Let me make it as easy as possible for you to do so.
Forget foraging, I’ll bring you every bite your belly can hold and more.
Help you push your limits so there’s room for more food than before you woke from your last food coma.
Provide a non-stop stream of snacks and shakes, full meals and fast food sides, desserts and drinks so there’s always something to tempt you.
Praise you for the effort you put into glutting yourself into stupor after stupor. Tease you for your loss of self-control, the pounds packed on so quickly your body is scored with stretchmarks as your skin struggles to hold in all the new fat.
Remember: bears can gain up to four pounds a day when they eat right.
Can you?
Winter is coming and the extra pounds you pack on will keep us both warm
It's all you can think about: Fat. Eating. Gaining.
Becoming too fat to move would be a dream come true for you. But do you really know what that will entail?
Are you preparing for becoming that size? Have you expanded your doorways? Have you bought bariatric supplies - a shower bench, a toilet... a bed and a couch that can hold your future weight?
Are you thinking of a wheelchair? Or will you work out your muscles; will you maintain as much strength as possible to waddle your body through your home?
Your doorways had been expanded by this point. It was an embarrassing few days, with strangers in your home doing construction. But... the other amenities? You're not there yet. Although, you recently had an incident. That's what you call it: an "incident". Whenever there is a turning point; an experience that solidifies in your mind just how fat you are getting (and how much fatter you plan to get).
This recent incident was the maximum weight on your scale. You had been updating your scales... when you outgrew a regular one, you upgraded to a bariatric one. But what a joke! The bariatric scale only went to 500lbs. It didn't take long until ERR appeared on the weight gauge instead of a number.
Most people would feel fear. They'd feel disappointed in themselves. They'd be embarrassed. But you? Seeing an error message only fueled your gluttony.
You grinned. I mean, it took effort for you to even view that error message screen. Your belly was so bloated and large that you had to try and pull/push it out of the way to view the screen. Your pulling and pushing could have added more weight to the scale... we all know that one has to be standing still for a scale to get an accurate reading. But it didn't really matter. Whether you were standing still or not, that error message would have been there.
You hadn't even had your biggest meal of the day, but that scale reading encouraged you. If it errored out at 500lbs... how much over that number were you, really?
You hoped it was significantly higher. But you wouldn't know for a while.
You waddled your way into your kitchen. The large doorways had been installed and, even then, you felt your sides rub against the doorframes. You were turned on by that fact. As you emptied your refrigerator and prepared as much food as possible, you grabbed your phone and went to Amazon to purchase a larger scale. You searched for longer than you should have... there would be nothing like it on a mainstream shopping website like that.
It was then you felt a hit of frustration. But before you could feel wrath towards the lack of options for people your size, your food was ready.
Your frustration only added to your appetite. It took you quite a few trips... bringing plate after plate into your living room. Filling the multiple folding trays that were set up in front of your couch.
Oh, but, your woefully inadequate couch! Every time you sat, you felt it would be the last. The wood groaned beneath your weight. But, you hadn't purchased one adequate for your size yet. You didn't know where to even look for something like that. But it was time to search. You needed a new scale, right? There had to be a website out there; even if it was exclusively for medical purposes. If they sold scales that went up to half a ton, they would have to sell furniture, right?
You were actually looking forward to this kind of shopping. And stuffing your face while you did? You were living a gluttonous dream.
Your food was on all the trays surrounding your seat on the couch. You had to gently lower yourself on to it. It was getting almost impossible to do anything gently. Once gravity took over, your arms and legs just weren't strong enough to brace and lower all that weight at a gentle pace. You basically collapsed on it.
That familiar groaning from the wood of the couch was heard. You held your breath and closed your eyes... waiting for it to collapse beneath you. But the noises stopped, and you were safe and supported.
So it was time to eat and shop for your future, super, morbid obesity. You found a medical website that sold bariatric items. The joy you felt when you saw the weight limits... 1000lbs here, 2000lbs there... oh, you could become the fattest man alive with these supplies! You had been stuffing yourself this whole time and a loud burp surfaced. It turned you on every time. Hearing your own wet belches against the walls of your home made you hard. If only you could reach yourself.
That was an issue in and of itself. Your belly was too large and fat for you to reach under it, unless you lay on your side and lift it away as much as you could. But even then... you'd reach towards your desperate throbbing dick and only hit fat. The pad of blubber around your manhood made it impossible for you to touch yourself adequately. You hadn't been able to stimulate yourself for a while. It's probably another reason you dove into your gluttony. If you were too fat to touch yourself, what would you even be losing by becoming as fat as possible?
Sometimes you'd dream. What if there was another person there? Someone who loved your size as much as you did? Someone who would do anything to dig under so much fat to stimulate you and finish you? You'd fantasize about it. But that's all it could be to you: a fantasy.
Women like that didn't exist.
You had finished both tasks: eating all your food, and buying all your bariatric supplies for your growing body.
You couldn't wait until your next shopping spree. When you outgrew everything again. When you became one of the fattest people alive.
Are you prepared to make sacrifices? How badly do you want this? Can you handle when the fantasy becomes the reality? Will you continue when it gets hard? Am I worth it to you? Is the fat worth it all?
The answer better be a yes.
If it isn’t, I’m not sure what to tell you because if you’re here reading this right now… I’m already in your brain. My words are in your ears. My hands are already holding the beginnings of your growing rolls.
You see I’ve been giving you the illusion of choice all along. You thought you had control? HA. You never stood a chance. Look at me. I’m everything you crave in a woman, a partner, a FEEDER.
Don’t get me wrong. You’re a beautiful pig and I love how you’ve evolved. You were made for this. Through my hands you’re become this.
I’ll be DAMNED if you think you can change your fate. Unlike that family sized bag of potato chips you’re finishing off, your fate is sealed. I’m taking you all the way hog.
So, be prepared to grow. Be prepared to lose mobility. Be prepared to become a bottomless pit of gluttony. Be prepared to become my gluttonous, immobile, wheezing, unhealthy whale for my own pleasure.
I’ll take complete care of you. You’ll be my prized pig in a herd of cattle. You’ll know no life better than the one you have and it’ll be your slice of heaven I’ve created for you.
Now, go on… go grab another bag of chips, crack open a sugary soda, and think of what else you may need to do to secure your spot in my care.
Imagine a fatty trying to diet then realising they are too far gone..
'Baby uhm, I've been getting bigger and, I think maybe it's time for me to uhm, lose some weight." You look at them, their cheeks flushed with embarrassment as they try and pull their ill fitting shirt over the soft sliver of belly hanging out. "Well, okay sweetie, I can help you with that. We're gonna have to change your diet and we should add in some exercise. We'll cut down your calorie intake and start some light exercise, we can go for some walks together, to start off with until you build up your fitness level. How does that sound?" You love the softness of their body, but you love them more and promise yourself that you will fully support them in their wishes. "Yeah okay, I think I can do that .." you see the hesitation in them, the slight uncertainty that they can actually manage to eat less and move more. You flash a big warm smile at them, an attempt to calm them and fill them with confidence, although you're not sure if it worked.
"Babe I'm starving! This calorie deficit is too much! There's no way I can survive on such a small amount of food". You raise your eyebrows a bit, knowing full well that their deficit is still more than your "average" person needs in a day. But for them it's obviously still a big drop in food consumption, so you do your best to calmly support them. "Okay sweetheart let's try and find you a nutritious snack that will keep you full. Something full of protein and fiber. But you have to be careful, they'll add a lot to your daily calories. They add up fast sweetie!" You hand them a protein bar and their eyes light up as they swipe it from your hand, ripping it open and eating with such enthusiasm you're almost shocked. "Can I have another? That was so small it barely changed anything!" You can't help yourself, you let out a small chuckle. "Sweetie, you know those things are like 350 calories right? You're going to have to wait until the next meal for more food I'm afraid" . You see their face fall, and their stomach rumbles in protest, not used to being denied food.
"babe....I.....slow down! I'm....so....tired.... I....I can't ....can't walk.....any....more.....please....can....can we sit.....sit down?" I turn to look at you. Your face is bright red and drenched in sweat. The dark patches of sweat on your clothes showing just how much you've exerted yourself. You're struggling to catch your breath, wheezing, trying your best to push the words out. I look at your jiggling form, the sweat patches on your tight clothes that have barely started fitting better since your diet started. We've walked less than a mile but I can see that even after weeks of trying to build up your stamina, you're still too fat and unfit for such great distances. You wheeze as you manage to waddle up to me, desperately gasping for air. "It's okay sweetie, stand still and take a deep breath, have some water". I swear I see a flicker of disappointment when I hand you a bottle of plain water. "Why do people do this? Exercise. It's so tiring, it's so much effort and it makes your whole body hurt!" It takes me back for a second, hearing you complain about such a simple walk when you used to be fit, but I try my best to sympathise. I want to keep you motivated, so I give you a kiss and tell you you're doing so well and it is difficult, but it will get easier. They don't look convinced at all.
"sweetie I wanted to talk to you. I know you've been really struggling with this new diet, but I found some empty wrappers in the trash. Are you trying to hide it from me? It's okay, I understand how hard it must be to give up on everything, but you need to make sure I know what you're eating so I can adjust the calories for the rest of the week, okay? Maybe we should start adding more of a treat day to your plan. I catch your gaze and watch your cheeks turn bright red. "I just .. I was just craving...I was so hungry and I just-" "it's okay sweetheart, I know you miss your old diet. I'll try my best to incorporate a burger or a doughnut into your plans" I say with a wink. I watch your face fall a little as I say that word "or". The visible disappointment that you can't just eat and eat.
"come on babe, let's go for a walk!" I see your face fall as I suggest it "I'm so tired. I just want to stay home today" "maybe we can just go for a small walk! You'll probably feel better after getting some fresh air, and besides, you've barely done anything the last few days. I know having a rest day is important, but if you don't keep staying active you'll start losing fitness again" you give me an annoyed look in return. "I just don't want to, I'm so tired because you're not letting me eat anything! You're starving me then expecting me to have the energy to walk for hours on end. We're not designed to do that!" I haven't heard you complain so strongly about your new diet and exercise plan and it sparks a pang of arousal through my body. Not letting you eat anything? You're still on a higher calorie limit than the average person needs. Walking for hours on end? You're still struggling to reach a mile. Humans aren't made for this? We evolved to run for long distances to tire our prey out so we could catch our food. But I can't tell you any of this, I know it'll discourage you. "Okay sweetie well what if we do some arm exercises whilst you're sitting down, maybe try and get your heart rate going a little bit but without tiring you out too much" you grumble and groan but reluctantly agree. I'm not sure I'm going to win many more of these refusals.
"how....how have I gained weight???" You look at me exasperated, a tear in your eye. "Sweetie, look, you've been sneaking in extra food and you've been rejecting every attempt I've made to get you active. It's surely not a big surprise that you've gained a few pounds back?" You fall down into your chair, which makes an alarming noise in protest at the sudden weight dropping into it, and sigh. "I hate this. I miss food. I miss eating what I want. I hate exercising. I'm so exhausted all of the time, and so hungry. And it's not even working! All of this effort and I've barely lost any weight."
"it's okay sweetie, don't give up! You're just having a bad week. We can do this together!" You look at me with sad eyes and nod in agreement. "Okay fine, I'm just grumpy I think. Tomorrow we can go for another walk maybe..." I can already see all your enthusiasm for your diet is quickly fading away.
You managed to increase your exercise efforts for a few weeks but I saw your motivation drop again after you stepped on the scale. Clearly, the effects of the exercise weren't showing progress quickly enough. I swooped in and gave you a big hug and a kiss and told you how well you were doing and how much I love you, but secretly I knew that the last of your motivation had just frittered away with another week of plateaued weight loss.
Over the next few weeks the walks reduce even more until they're barely getting 1000 steps in a day. You find more and more wrappers hidden in the trash. Their waistline pushing more and more against their clothes, defeating the plateau by instead erasing any progress they'd previously made.
One day, you come home and find them asleep on the couch, belly poking out, various takeout wrappers littering the space around you. They're wearing their biggest and comfiest clothes and for the first time, they're looking tight on you. You settle in next to them, daring to put your arm around them, settling your hand delicately between their soft lower belly and thigh. You can feel the weight of their stomach cutting the circulation to your fingers. You kiss their temple and they stir slightly, a light moan leaving them, before they return back to their peaceful slumber. You smile to yourself and start planning what favourites of theirs you will cook for them for when they wake up.
I hear the floor creaking under your weight and turn around to see you slowly waddling towards me, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and yawning. You freeze as you see me cooking. "babe, did you make this all for me? Are you trying to sabotage me?" You ask, a slight fear in your voice blending with your audible excitement. "Sweetheart, I'm not trying to sabotage you. You've been doing well enough at that by yourself" I say, and nod towards the food wrappers I'd carefully collected and piled up next to the bin. I see you blush before you manage to force out your next weak argument. "But, I mean, you're supposed to be supporting me. I had a lapse but that doesn't mean you should give up too. Otherwise I'll never lose weight!" I chuckle, much to your dismay but I can't help it. "Babe I just don't want to see you miserable anymore. I tried to be supportive, I tried encouraging you to exercise for months, I've been cooking you healthy foods and trying to limit your snacking but it hasn't been working. You've been so unhappy, refusing to do any type of movement and complaining about the food I give you, and then you go and sneak fast food thinking I won't notice!"
"Yeah but, but I did lose weight!" You manage to blurt out. "If you give up now then how am I supposed to carry on losing weight" I laugh again, I can't help it. You seem so desperate and clueless "sweetheart you did lose some weight, but then you started refusing to exercise and started snacking and any weight you lost initially has come back with a vengeance. Look, those were your loosest clothes and now the seams are all struggling " you blush and try your best to shrink your bloated body in front of me.
"But if I don't lose weight then...." You trail off as you realise that it's too late for you. That you're going to keep growing fatter. That even as I'm standing here laughing at your gluttony, you're hyper aware of the foods I'm cooking for you, and how hungry it's making you. How this was maybe your last chance to stop the spiral of gluttony and you failed.
"Look sweetheart, I don't want to keep making you miserable. I know you used to be active and fit but now, doing any activity makes you unhappy. If supporting you in a weight loss journey means you hate each day then it's not really supporting you, is it? I'd rather make you your favourite foods and watch you enjoy yourself than force you to make pathetic attempts to regain fitness. If eating makes you happy then so what if you gain weight? I'd rather see you fat and happy than thin and miserable" I listen to your heavy breathing, you're trying to think of a response but I can tell your body is growing tired from holding its own weight up. And the smell of my cooking must be distracting you.
"but, but I was supposed to lose weight" you mumble. I smile, and pull you in for an embrace.
"yes, but you got fatter." You look at me with fear in your eyes and a burning embarrassment at your failure. You hold my gaze for a second, and for a moment I'm scared about how you will respond to my bluntness. But then you turn to look at the food before whispering "I'm hungry"
I smile and kiss you. "That's why I made your favourites sweetie. I just want you to be happy and stop punishing yourself for your appetite". You kiss me in return.
"maybe we can go shopping soon. If I'm going to get fatter, I'll need some new clothes." A shock of arousal pulses through my body again, and I grin.
"of course sweetheart. Now go sit down, I'll bring your food to you. No more worrying about silly diets. You just enjoy yourself, and I'll work on preparing dessert for you."
You smile and waddle over to the couch, excitement mixed with fear washing over you as you accept that you'll continue to grow hungrier, lazier, and most inevitably: fatter.
I love the idea of someone becoming addicted to stuffings. Letting the useless calories sit heavy in your fattening gut, pinning you down on the couch, unable to move. So full you have no choice but to drift into a food coma, waking up with a little extra lard than the day before. So addicted to the feeling of waking up fatter after a night of gluttony that you can’t help but repeat the cycle daily until you’re past the point of no return, and those useless calories have made you unrecognizably buried under jiggly lard.
Here let me get you something to eat! Oh sweetie, you'll waste away if you don't eat something! You poor baby, you must be starving. Here, I have some snacks for you to eat whilst you decide what you want for lunch. I can't believe you let yourself get so hungry! Why didn't you call out for me to help you? You thought you could walk to the fridge without my help? Oh baby, no wonder you're so hungry! You must have used up all of your strength and energy on that journey. No, we can't have you walking around any more. You need to save your energy sweetie. If you exercise like that you'll lose weight, and you're so small as it is. Let me go get you some extra snacks to make up for that big walk you did. I was saving this cake for later but I think you need it now. I'll go shopping soon and make sure I restock everything for you. Did you decide what you want to order yet? We need to put it through as soon as possible or you'll have to wait for so long before you can properly eat. I know you have snacks but they won't last long baby. They're just snacks, they're not a full meal. I don't want you to starve whilst you're waiting for your first lunch! You need to be constantly eating to make sure you don't waste away. That's it baby, you open that mouth of yours. Let me help feed you, I know it's tiring for you to have to lift your arm. That's why we need to fill you with more food, you need the energy sweetheart. All you need to focus on is opening your mouth for me. You just sit down and eat for me, all day, every day. It's okay baby, I'm here to look after you. I'm here to bring you everything you need. Everything you need to grow bigger for me. Open that mouth now baby, you're still not fat enough.
Baby are you seriously out of breath already? We've only walked to the end of the street, and you're walking so slowly there's no way you can be tired. Wow, look at how red faced and sweaty you are babe! Poor fatty ate so much food they can't even walk to the pizza place down the road. You're such a sight, gasping for air trying to waddle your fat body to get more food. Will you even be able to catch your breath to order? The poor teen that has to try and keep a straight face as they write down the long list of food you want. You can pretend it's for a group of people but one looks at your belly hanging out from your too small clothes and they'll know it's all for you to stuff yourself fatter with. Come on babe, you're nearly there, you just need to waddle your fat arse a few more steps and you'll get to order everything you want. That's the deal, I'll buy you whatever you want as long as you go pick it up. Look at how thin everyone is in here. Did you hear the muffled gasps as they saw you trying to heave one thick leg in front of the other through the door? You probably can't hear much over the sound of your own breathing though, can you? I bet you're the fattest person they've ever seen before. Your body jiggling with every step is obscene, but no one can take their eyes off of you. Did you see their eyes widen as you kept ordering more food? They can't quite believe one person can eat that much food, but then they'd look at your double chin, pillowy arms, your hips spilling over your waistband, and that giant belly of yours and they have to believe that you can and will eat all of that food. You just have to survive the waddle home first.
Wow, you've outgrown more clothes? You just can't stop yourself from stuffing your face, can you? Constantly grazing on snacks, are you even aware of how many calories you pack away from mindlessly eating like that? And then you realise you haven't had a real "meal" even though you've already consumed enough calories for two days just in one morning. Only, the constant snacking has been expanding your appetite and your belly, so now you need twice as much food to satisfy your, well, what you think is hunger. There's no way you can actually be that hungry given that you eat all day. And of course, you can't be bothered to cook. You'd have to stop snacking to be able to do that, so you order takeout. And why decide on just one thing to eat when you can order loads and save the rest for tomorrow. Only you don't have any self control, do you? You order enough for a small family. You pretend you'll save some, but before it's even arrived you're already wondering if it's worth saving some. Then as it arrives you wonder if it'll really be enough for now. And by the time you're back in the chair you're barely squeezing into, breathing heavily, your gut spilling out onto thick thighs, that you fully give in and devour it all before opening up your phone to order more. You can't help it. You're too lazy and addicted to eating. Too oblivious . Do you think about just how fat you're going to get? Do you just ignore the thoughts in favour of stuffing yourself? Do you care at all? Or do you only care about food?
Because when I watch you ravenously eat your meal after spending a whole morning watching you subconsciously snacking, I know just how addicted you are. I've conditioned you to eat without thinking. Without caring about the consequences. Without even realising what it's doing to your overgrown body. I've made sure you have absolutely no self control left. You're constantly surrounded by easy to eat food, small things that you can just pick at with your fingers. Allowing your appetite and capacity for food to grow. Suggested ordering food regularly, making it a subconscious habit for you. And now you're fat, growing even fatter. And you don't have the willpower to change. So you're going to become lazier and lazier, fatter and fatter and there's absolutely nothing you can do to stop it.
Being told with complete earnestness, even sympathy, or better yet, glee, that I’m « fucked » that I won’t be able to bounce back from the damage I’ve inflicted on my body, and that I’m only going to get fatter is instaboner material
