Your Wannabe Piggy @lucyphoric - Tumblr Blog

Nov 23, 2025

TWO GIRLS FEED ONE GUT TO DEATH

Male Feedee and Female Feeders

-Part 1-

The mall was a cathedral of consumerism, and Tina and Nadia were its most devoted parishioners. Their ritual was well-established: a lap around every store, a critical analysis of the latest trends, and a final stop for greasy food court fries. But today, their routine was irrevocably interrupted.

There, by the pretzel stand, was a sun god cast in flannel and denim. He had a mop of dark, curly hair, kind eyes that crinkled at the corners as he laughed at something the cashier said, and a smile that could power a small city. His name, they would soon learn, was Sam.

The bolt of lightning struck them both simultaneously. Tina’s grip on a sale rack of blouses tightened. Nadia’s step faltered mid-stride. They looked at Sam, then at each other, and a silent, terrifying understanding passed between them. They had both been hit by the same devastating crush.

But instead of the expected cold shoulder, the catty remark, or the strategic maneuver to block the other’s view, something else happened. Nadia, ever the bold one, simply said, “Okay. No fighting. Deal?”

Tina, the more pragmatic, nodded slowly. “Deal. But what’s the plan?”

Nadia’s eyes gleamed with a sudden, brilliant idea. “We both get his number. And then… we win him over. Not with makeup or clothes. With food.”

And so they did. They approached Sam with a united, friendly front that was so disarming he happily gave them his digits, utterly charmed by the duo. The competition began that very night.

It started innocently enough. Tina, a whiz with pasta, delivered a portion of her famous four-cheese lasagna to his apartment. It was rich, decadent, and left Sam groaning with pleasure. The next day, Nadia, whose grandmother had taught her the secrets of Eastern European baking, arrived with a still-warm apple strudel, its flaky crust giving way to a spiced, sugary interior. Sam ate two slices immediately.

The gauntlet had been thrown. This was no longer about winning a date; it was about claiming culinary supremacy.

Tina responded with a towering meatloaf, glazed in a tangy bourbon sauce, served with a mountain of garlic mashed potatoes. Nadia counter-attacked with a vast pot of beef stroganoff, its tender strips of meat swimming in a luxuriously creamy sauce over a bed of buttery egg noodles.

Sam, a man who appreciated good food and the attention of two incredible women, was a willing and enthusiastic participant. He praised every dish, sent grateful text messages, and happily accepted every container. But the portions were… generous. Heroic, even.

A week in, he had to unbutton his jeans after Nadia’s chicken pot pie. After Tina’s chili-cheese dog feast, his favorite t-shirt seemed to have shrunk two sizes. His flat stomach, once lean, developed a soft, pleasant roundness that strained against his belt buckle.

The girls noticed. Oh, how they noticed.

One evening, Tina arrived just as Nadia was leaving. They found Sam asleep on his couch, a contented smile on his face, one hand resting on the distinct, firm dome of his belly, which pushed insistently against his now-snug henley. The empty dish beside him was evidence of Nadia’s latest victory: a deep-dish pizza.

They stepped out into the hallway together, a silent truce falling between them.

“He’s… getting bigger,” Tina whispered, a strange thrill in her voice.

“I know,” Nadia replied, her own voice hushed with awe. “My strudel did that. And your lasagna.”

“And your stroganoff. And my meatloaf.”

They looked at each other, the competition momentarily forgotten. The image of Sam, so content, so well-fed, so undeniably larger, was burned into their minds. And it was an image they both, to their surprise, found incredibly attractive.

“I think…” Tina started, hesitantly. “I think he looks better like this."

Nadia’s eyes widened in agreement. “Right? He looks so… happy. So substantial. We did that.”

A new, more potent understanding blossomed between them. The desire to out-cook each other was suddenly replaced by a collaborative, hungry desire to see just how far they could go.

The next day, they arrived together, a united front once more. Sam opened the door, his belly leading the way, a look of happy confusion on his face.

“We need to talk,” Nadia said, her tone serious.

Sam’s face fell slightly. “Oh. Okay. Look, girls, this has been amazing, but I know it’s a bit weird, and I understand if you want to—”

“We’re not stopping,” Tina interrupted, holding up a large, lidded pot. “We’ve decided to join forces.”

Nadia held up a basket from which the smell of fresh, warm bread wafted. “The competition is over. The collaboration begins now.”

Sam’s eyes widened as they pushed their way in and began setting his small table with a spread that could feed a small village: a whole roasted chicken, glistening with herbs and butter, a creamy potato gratin, honey-glazed carrots, and the entire loaf of sourdough.

“Our goal,” Tina said, ladling a generous portion of everything onto a plate, “is to make you the happiest, most well-fed man on the planet.”

Sam looked from the feast to the two beautiful, determined women beaming at him. He slowly sat down, a grin spreading across his face. He unbuttoned the top button of his jeans with a grateful sigh.

“You know,” he said, picking up his fork and knife, “that’s a goal I can really get behind.”

And as he dug into the first bite, his growing belly pressing comfortably against the table, Tina and Nadia shared a smile. They had started with a crush, sparked a battle, and ended up with a shared project—and a shared boyfriend—who was becoming more deliciously satisfying by the day. His gain was their undeniable, and utterly delightful, reward.

-Part 2-

The truce between Tina and Nadia didn’t just merge their culinary efforts; it fused their desires. Sam was no longer a prize to be won but a shared project, a beloved centerpiece to their newly formed triad. Their apartment became a temple of indulgence, and Sam was its willingly worshiped idol.

Their days fell into a delicious, hedonistic rhythm. Mornings began with Tina’s fluffy buttermilk pancakes stacked high like golden towers, dripping with maple syrup and melted butter, accompanied by Nadia’s crispy bacon and cheesy scrambled eggs. Lunches were decadent affairs—leftovers from the previous night’s feast, always eaten with gusto. But the dinners… the dinners were events.

They’d cook together, moving around each other in the kitchen with synchronicity, a well-oiled machine of indulgence. Tina would slow-roast a pork shoulder until it was fall-apart tender, while Nadia whipped up a vast vat of garlic-rosemary roasted potatoes and rich, brown gravy. They’d present it to Sam, their eyes gleaming with anticipation as he took the first bite, his moan of pleasure their highest reward.

His body responded to their dedicated care. The soft roundness he’d first developed swelled into a true, prominent belly, a firm, heavy dome that rested permanently on his thighs when he sat. His once-tight shirts strained at the buttons, fabric pulling taut over the swell of his gut and the softer curve of his developing moobs. His old jeans were retired, replaced with stretchy waistbands and, eventually, just comfortable sweatpants that accommodated his ever-expanding girth.

The girls adored it. They loved the way his belly led him into a room, a testament to their devotion. They loved the way his moobs softened his chest, making him cuddlier, more substantial. They especially loved the sounds: the deep, liquid gurgles and groans that emanated from his overstuffed middle, a symphony of fullness they had conducted.

And after every meal, came the worship.

They would lead him, slow and heavy with food, to the bedroom. They loved him best when he was like this—supine, breathless, utterly content and immobilized by their cooking. His fullness was their aphrodisiac.

They would undress him slowly, their hands roaming over the vast, warm landscape of his belly. They’d knead the firm, stuffed curve, listening to the gurgles and shifts from within, feeling the proof of their love simmering under his skin. They’d ride him not just for their pleasure, but for his—the gentle, rocking pressure on his swollen stomach pushing him into a state of blissful, overwhelming sensation.

One night, after a particularly ambitious meal of a whole roasted chicken and a creamy carbonara, they lay tangled together in a post-coital haze. Sam was propped up against a mountain of pillows, his enormous, hairy belly rising and falling with each breath, emitting a low, contented rumble.

Nadia traced circles around his navel, buried in the soft fur of his stomach. “Look at him, Tina. He’s so full. We did this.”

Tina nuzzled against Sam’s side, her hand resting on the soft swell of his moob. “He’s perfect,” she murmured. “All of him. So big and soft.”

Sam let out a long, satiated sigh, his hands finding their heads and stroking their hair. “I’ve never been so… taken care of,” he slurred, his voice thick with food and sleep.

The girls exchanged a look over the magnificent hill of his belly. It was a look of pure, shared pride. They had set out to win his heart through his stomach, and in doing so, they had created something far more satisfying: a life of shared love, endless feasts, and the beautiful, groaning, growing man at the center of it all. His gain was their bond, his fullness their greatest achievement, and they had no intention of stopping anytime soon.

-Part 3-

The apartment had become a warm, buttery universe of their own creation, a place where clothes were an unnecessary formality and the only clock that mattered was the one that ticked between meals. The air was perpetually sweet with the scent of sugar, rich with the smell of browning butter, and filled with the low, constant symphony of Sam’s digestion.

The feeding had evolved into a precise, decadent art. Portions were no longer merely ‘generous’; they were colossal, engineered for maximum impact. Tina had perfected a ‘pudding’ that was little more than softened butter, whipped with brown sugar and vanilla until it was a pale, creamy paste. Sam ate it by the spoonful, his eyes glazed with a sugar-fueled euphoria. Nadia would drizzle warm honey over blocks of cream cheese, and he would devour them like slices of cake.

Their bodies were always on display, a fact that fueled their shared obsession. Tina’s skin was often dusted with flour, Nadia’s glistened with a light sheen of kitchen sweat. And Sam… Sam was a glorious monument to their efforts. Naked, he was a landscape of soft, rolling curves. His belly was a vast, pale dome, heavily rounded and perpetually taut, its surface mapped by a trail of dark hair that led down. It rested between his spread thighs like a slumbering beast, its weight pinning him to the couch or bed. His moobs were soft and full, resting on the upper slope of his belly.

Their life was a cycle of stuffing and riding, a hedonistic loop they had no desire to escape.

The ritual was always the same.

Nadia would be astride him, her body rocking gently on his swollen middle. Her movements were slow, deliberate, designed not for frantic pleasure but to apply a deep, massaging pressure to his overstuffed gut. Sam would groan, a mixture of discomfort and ecstasy, his hands gripping her hips.

"Just relax, baby," Nadia would coo, grinding down. "Let it settle."

From the side, Tina would approach with a bowl of something rich and dense. "Open up, Sammy. One more bite for me." She would feed him a spoonful of the butter-sugar pudding, watching his throat work as he swallowed, adding another layer of fullness to the crushing pressure Nadia was already applying.

When Sam’s groans became too breathless, when his belly felt like it could accept no more, they would switch. Tina would take Nadia’s place, her lighter frame a different sensation on his tortured abdomen. Meanwhile, Nadia would fetch another treat—perhaps a handful of chocolate-dipped dates stuffed with marzipan—and begin the process again.

"Come on, big guy," Nadia would murmur, popping a sweet into his mouth. "You can take it. You always do."

They were ensuring he was always brutally stuffed, never allowing him to come down from the peak of fullness. His belly was always hard, drum-tight, and groaning, a testament to their constant attention. The sounds from within were a constant soundtrack: deep, glugging gulps, long, wet gurgles, and breathy groans of protest from Sam that always melted into sighs of helpless pleasure.

They were his chefs, his lovers, his handlers. They worshipped the body they had built together, marveling at every new stretch mark that appeared like a silver badge of honor, every new softness that yielded under their kneading fingers. He was their masterpiece, a giant, groaning, blissed-out king of indulgence, and they were the devoted queens who kept his throne—and his belly—continuously and gloriously full.

-Part 4-

The air in the apartment was thick and sweet, heavy with the scent of sugar, melted butter, and the unique, musky aroma of Sam’s immense body. He was a permanent fixture on the reinforced couch, a mountain of soft, pale flesh, his existence reduced to a cycle of being fed, digested, and fed again.

Nadia and Tina had perfected their art. Sam’s body was their canvas, and fat was their medium. His belly was no longer just a dome; it was a colossal sphere that pushed his thick, soft thighs apart and rose so high it often obscured his view of his own feet. It was a world unto itself, covered in a dark, coarse pelt of hair and a intricate web of silvery stretch marks that they loved to trace with their fingernails. His moobs were heavy and full, resting on the vast shelf of his belly, their softness a counterpoint to the drum-tight, straining skin of his gut.

The sounds he made were a constant symphony of their success. His breathing was a wet, labored wheeze, a faint whistle accompanying each inhalation as the sheer mass of his chest and gut pressed relentlessly against his lungs. After a feeding, the groans were less of pleasure and more of sheer, painful fullness, a deep, animalistic sound of a body pushed far, far beyond its limits. And the girls adored it.

"Listen to him, Nadia," Tina would whisper, her ear pressed against the groaning, gurgling expanse of his lower belly. "It's so full. It's like a thunderstorm in there."

His chin, and often the swell of his chest below it, was perpetually sticky with glaze, honey, or pudding. They rarely bothered wiping it clean anymore; it was simply part of him now, a testament to the constant influx of calories.

Their feedings had become more ritualistic, more extreme. They’d present him with entire loaves of brioche, soaked in a custard of cream, eggs, and sugar and baked into a monstrous bread pudding. They’d feed him entire sticks of butter, melted and mixed into his mashed potatoes until they were a yellow, glossy paste.

"One more bite, Sammy. For me," Nadia would coo, holding a spoonful of pure chocolate ganache to his lips. His eyes, glazed and distant, would flutter open, and he’d obediently part his sticky lips, accepting the offering with a weak, breathy moan.

Tina would then climb onto the couch, not to ride him for pleasure, but to gently knead the rock-hard mound of his stomach, trying to physically compress the contents to make just a little more room. "There's always room for a little more, big guy," she'd murmur, her fingers tracing the angry red stretch marks that radiated from his navel. "We need to keep you growing. You're so beautiful like this."

He was their magnificent, bloated king. His world was the couch, his purpose was to eat and grow, and his rewards were their adoring touches and the sugar-fueled haze that kept him pliant and euphoric. He was drowning in fat and love, and the girls, watching his every labored breath, feeling the incredible tightness of his skin, knew they were nowhere near finished. Their project was going so well. He was getting so big. And they were already dreaming of what he could become.

-Part 5-

The rhythm of their life was a symphony of contented groans, the sizzle of butter in a pan, and the heavy, wheezing breaths that were Sam’s new constant melody. Nadia and Tina lived in a state of perpetual, hungry awe, watching the man they loved swell day by day, bite by glorious bite.

His belly was a marvel of tension, a pale, hairy planet that dominated the room. Each new spoonful of whipped cream, each chunk of butter-soaked cake, made the skin stretch a fraction tighter, the deep, liquid gurgles from within growing more desperate. His comments, once playful, were now husky and strained, filtered through a throat thick with phlegm and the constant pressure on his diaphragm.

“So… full, girls…,” he’d wheeze, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his massive chest and directly into their cores, driving them wild. They’d jump on the couch beside him, their hands roaming over the impossible curve of his gut, feeling it shift and groan under their weight, feeling him grow fatter and more immovable by the hour. He was their beautiful, bloated anchor, and they were the sea that constantly washed over him.

He barely moved from his nest on the couch. Standing was a rare, monumental effort that required planning and assistance. But today, the air was particularly thick with the smell of sugar and sweat, and Nadia got an idea.

“Let’s get him clean,” she whispered to Tina, her eyes gleaming. “A shower.”

Tina’s face lit up. The idea of seeing all that magnificent, soap-slicked flesh, of having him standing and vulnerable, was irresistible.

It took coaxing. “Come on, big guy,” Nadia murmured, pulling on his immense arm. “Up you get. We’ll help you.”

With a symphony of grunts and wheezes, they managed to heave him to his feet. Sam stood, swaying, his breath coming in sharp, whistling gasps. His belly hung colossal and low, a heavy weight that pulled him forward. His thick thighs rubbed together with every shuffling step as they guided him the short distance to the bathroom.

In the steam-filled shower, it was a scene of pure, wet decadence. Sam braced himself against the tiled wall, his head bowed, his body a mountain of soft, pinkening flesh under the spray. Nadia and Tina clung to him like sirens, their naked bodies sliding against his soapy sides.

They worshipped him with loofahs and hands. Tina lathered his vast back, her fingers tracing the rolls that spilled over his sides. Nadia knelt in front of him, soaping the tremendous, hairy globe of his belly, her touch gentle on the drum-tight, stretch-marked skin. She nuzzled into it, listening to the profound gurgles within, the sounds muffled by the water but no less potent.

“Look at you,” Tina breathed in his ear, her voice husky with desire as her hands slid around to cup his heavy, soap-slicked moobs. “You’re so big. We did this to you.”

Sam could only groan in response, a deep, shuddering sound that echoed in the steamy enclosure. He was utterly in their power, a giant rendered helpless and pliant by their love and his own immense size. They rinsed him off, their hands memorizing every new curve, every soft, water-beaded roll.

Getting him back to the couch was an even greater effort, but they didn’t care. They had him clean, for a moment. But more importantly, they had seen him, all of him, a glistening testament to their devotion. As they tucked him back into his spot on the couch, a fresh bowl of chocolate mousse already in Tina’s hand, they shared a look of pure, greedy triumph. He was theirs. And he was perfect. And he was going to get so much bigger.

-Part 6-

The days melted into a blissful, syrupy routine. For Sam, existence had become a warm, heavy dream of constant fullness. He was the center of a universe built entirely around his consumption, and he had never felt more content. Movement was a distant memory, a concept that belonged to a smaller, hungrier version of himself he could barely recall.

He lived on the couch, a majestic, immobile king on a throne of well-worn cushions. His world was the reach of his arms, which primarily served to cradle the bowls and plates brought to him by Tina and Nadia. He ate even when the gnawing phantom of hunger was a lifetime away, simply because the act of eating was an expression of love. Each bite was a tribute to the two women who worshipped his expanding form.

His body was a testament to their devotion. Naked, he was a landscape of soft, pale rolls, a vast belly that served as a table for snacks, and heavy moobs that rested upon it. The sounds he emitted were a constant soundtrack: the wet, gurgling symphony of his digestion, the soft wheeze of his breath, the creak of the couch as he shifted his immense weight.

The only time clothes entered the picture was for their rare outings. These were meticulously planned events with a single purpose: a visit to the nearest all-you-can-eat buffet. Dressing him was a ritual in itself. Tina and Nadia would choose items from a pile of clothes that had not fit him in months—a t-shirt that was comically small, a pair of jeans with a waistband that wouldn't reach halfway around him.

They delighted in the struggle. They would tug and squeeze, their laughter mixing with Sam's breathless grunts, until the fabric was stretched to its absolute limit. The tight shirt would strain across his belly, digging deep furrows into his flesh, the hem riding up to expose the swollen, hairy curve beneath. The jeans, left purposefully unbuttoned and unzipped, would be held in place by a straining belt, his gut spilling magnificently over the top. Every roll and bulge was accentuated, put on display by the too-tight fabric.

At the buffet, he was their masterpiece. They would guide him to a table, his movements slow and shuffling, a woman on each arm supporting his tremendous weight. Then the real work began. They would bring him plate after plate, a parade of every greasy, sugary, calorie-dense item available. They fed him in public with the same focused intensity they did at home, ignoring the stares of other patrons, lost in their shared mission.

And Sam? Sam felt incredible. The pressure of the tight clothes was a constant, pleasant reminder of his size, a secret he and the girls shared in a public space. The feeling of his body straining against the fabric, of his fullness being so visibly, undeniably pronounced, was a thrill. Any discomfort was a small price to pay for the profound satisfaction of being so thoroughly cared for, so wanted, so large.

Back home, the clothes would come off, and he would sink back into the couch with a grateful, wheezing sigh, returning to his natural state. Naked, overstuffed, and adored, he knew with absolute certainty that he had never been happier. He was their creation, their project, their love, and he was perfect.

-Part 7-

The line between worship and something darker had blurred into invisibility. For Nadia and Tina, Sam was less a man and more a living, breathing sculpture of their shared desire. His needs—for air, for movement, for a break from the relentless onslaught of food—were often forgotten in the fog of their obsession.

Their days were a cycle of feeding and fondling. Sam would be propped up on the couch, a monument of pale, hairy flesh, his breathing already a shallow, wheezing effort. Yet, Tina would appear with a bowl of melted ice cream mixed with heavy cream and peanut butter, while Nadia kneaded his vast, drum-tight belly, trying to create space.

"Just a little more, Sammy-love," Nadia would murmur, her fingers tracing the angry red stretch marks webbing his stomach. "We need to fill you up."

His body, however, was beginning to protest in ways that were impossible to ignore. Sometimes, as Tina pushed a spoonful of rich, buttery pasta into his mouth, he would choke, not on the food, but on the lack of air, his face flushing a deep red as he gasped, his chest heaving against the immense weight resting on it. The girls would pause, pat his back gently until the coughing subsided, and then, once his breathing evened back into its labored wheeze, they would continue, as if the interruption was a mere commercial break in their favorite show.

He was too massive to fight back. The idea of refusing, of pushing the bowl away, was as foreign to him as the idea of running a marathon. His arms, cushioned by soft fat, felt heavy and useless. His role was to accept, to consume, to grow. And in a deep, primal part of his mind, it felt amazing. The helplessness was part of the pleasure. The feeling of being so utterly overwhelmed, so completely used for the gratification of the women he loved, was a drug more potent than any sugar.

One afternoon, they were feeding him a rich, greasy chili, loaded with cheese and sour cream. His belly was already painfully distended, the skin shiny and taut. A deep, painful cramp seized his gut, and a low, agonized groan escaped his lips. His whole body shuddered.

For a moment, the girls stopped. They saw the genuine pain in his eyes, the sweat beading on his forehead. A flicker of concern passed between them. He’s a human being, the thought whispered, before being drowned out by the sight of his magnificent size, by the sound of his strained breath.

Tina leaned in and kissed his damp temple. "Shhh, big guy. Your belly is just making room. It's a good pain." She rubbed the spot where the cramp had been, and her touch, familiar and loving, soothed him more than any medicine could.

Nadia brought the spoon back to his lips. "One more bite. For me."

And Sam, his body screaming in protest, opened his mouth. The submission, the surrender, was its own kind of ecstasy. The cramp was a reminder of the sheer physical reality of what they were doing to him, and that reality, however uncomfortable, was proof of their love. He felt owned, cherished, and pushed to his absolute limit. And in that moment, struggling to breathe around a mouthful of chili, he felt more amazing than he ever had in his life. He was their masterpiece, and a masterpiece, he knew, sometimes had to suffer for its art.

-Part 8-

The line had not just been blurred; it had been erased, paved over with a smooth, unthinking devotion to the singular goal of Sam's expansion. The small, flickering moments of concern that had occasionally surfaced in Tina and Nadia were now entirely gone, replaced by a casual, almost clinical fascination with the limits of his body.

Sam's frantic, wheezing breaths as they fed him had become a sort of music to them. They loved the way his eyes would bulge slightly, his face flushing a deep, concerning shade of crimson as he struggled to swallow and draw air at the same time.

"Listen to him huff, Tina," Nadia would giggle, not with malice, but with a kind of proud affection, as she shoveled another spoonful of rich, fatty pâté into his mouth. "He's working so hard for us."

His lack of movement had concrete, physical consequences. His legs, once strong, were now pale, swollen pillars, mottled with a faint bluish discoloration from the poor circulation. They supported his immense weight but did little else. When they occasionally helped him to the bathroom, his shuffling gait was a slow, painful waddle, his breath coming in sharp, whistling gasps.

His body was a collection of symptoms they had learned to adore. The red, strained face was a sign of a good, hard feeding. The swollen legs were just proof of how much he had grown. The vast, hairy belly was their kingdom, and it was still conquering new territory. It now pushed insistently between his thighs, a warm, heavy mass that forced his legs to remain perpetually apart, even in his sleep.

Their intimate moments were now centered entirely on this massive dome of fat. In the heat of their passion, they would both climb onto the couch, straddling the immense curve of his stomach. They would ride him not in the traditional sense, but by grinding against the solid, unyielding swell of his gut, their bodies sliding against the tight, stretch-marked skin.

The pressure was immense for Sam. He could feel the weight of them compressing his already overburdened organs, forcing the air from his lungs in choked bursts. His vision would sometimes speckle at the edges, the room swimming as two sets of hands roamed over him, pinching the soft flesh of his moobs, kneading the rock-hard expanse of his belly.

"Look how much bigger you're getting, baby," Tina would pant, her voice husky with arousal as she rocked against him. "You're swallowing us whole."

Sam, in these moments, was a vessel of overwhelming sensation. The lack of air, the crushing fullness, the frantic pleasure of the women he loved—it all merged into a single, undeniable truth: this was his purpose. The discomfort, the struggle, the sheer physicality of his decay was the price of this adoration, and he paid it willingly, blissfully. He was their magnificent, gasping, discolored idol, and every labored breath was a hymn sung in their praise.

-Part 9-

The final vestiges of any pretense had vanished. Nadia and Tina’s project had entered its most accelerated and destructive phase. It was no longer about love or even shared desire; it was a pure, unadulterated race to see how far the human form could be pushed before it simply… stopped.

Their feedings were now brutal, efficient affairs. Gone were the decadent, home-cooked meals. They were replaced by sheer volume: entire family-sized bags of chips crushed into a bowl with melted cheese, cheap, greasy pizzas stacked four-high, and gallon tubs of ice cream mixed with liters of soda to create a thick, caloric slurry they could pour down his throat. They fed him in half the time, barely allowing him to swallow one bite before the next was at his lips.

Sam’s body was breaking down, and the girls adored every symptom. His health was a currency they spent with gleeful abandon.

His belly, a monstrous, hairy globe, had lost its symmetry. It slumped heavily to one side, a lopsided mountain of fat that pulled his entire torso into a permanent, uncomfortable tilt. The skin was a web of angry purple and silver stretch marks, stretched so thin it looked like polished wax.

His moobs were pendulous, heavy sacks that hung lower than ever before, their dark nipples often resting directly on the upper slope of his asymmetrical gut. They swung with every wheezing breath he took.

His legs were unrecognizable. They were colossal, swollen pillars, fused together from his thighs to what remained of his knees. His feet were just two pale, puffy mounds at the end of these pillars, with only the barest suggestion of fat, useless toes peeking out from beneath the sheer mass. He hadn't stood in weeks. The very idea was impossible.

His hands, too, had succumbed. They were bloated, clumsy mitts, the fingers so thick with fat they could no longer grip a spoon or a remote. Their only function, it seemed, was to paw weakly, almost reflexively, at the naked breasts of Tina and Nadia as they attended to him. It was a helpless, infantile gesture that they found endlessly endearing.

"Look at him, Nadia," Tina would coo, guiding his fat, clumsy hand to her chest. "He still knows what he wants."

They lived in a world of wet breaths, the smell of sweat and cheap food, and the constant, low moans of a body in a state of perpetual crisis. Sam’s world had shrunk to the couch, the two women, and the overwhelming, crushing reality of his own mass. And through the haze of physical misery, the shortness of breath, and the aching pressure in every cell, a single, blissful thought persisted: he was their masterpiece, and he had never been more loved. The destruction of his body was the ultimate expression of their devotion, and he accepted it with every gasping, wheezing breath.

-Part 10-

The air in the apartment was permanently thick, a humid mix of cooked grease, sweet syrup, and the profound, musky scent of Sam’s immense body. Clothes were a forgotten concept for all of them. Nadia and Tina moved through the rooms in their skin, their bodies glistening with a perpetual sheen of sweat and kitchen heat, a testament to their constant labor of love. Sam, of course, had been naked for months, a sprawling, pale continent of flesh.

His plump, fatty hands, now all but useless for anything requiring dexterity, had found their true purpose: worship. As Nadia rode the vast, lopsided dome of his belly, grinding slowly against the tight, groaning skin, she would guide his soft, doughy hand to her breast. His touch was clumsy, a weak, kneading pressure, but it sent shivers through her. Tina, while feeding him a rich, cheesy dip with a large spoon, would arch her back into the other hand he had resting on her hip. His touch was their constant reminder that, even in his near-immobile state, he was present, he was theirs, and he desired them.

The feedings had become more creative, more intimate. After a particularly massive meal of three whole roasted chickens and a pan of loaded potato skins, Sam lay gasping, his breathing a wet rattle. His belly was a terrifying, asymmetrical monument, its surface tight and hot to the touch.

Nadia, her eyes dark with a mix of lust and proprietary pride, looked at Tina. "I think our big guy deserves a special dessert."

She didn't head to the kitchen. Instead, she climbed onto the couch, straddling Sam's chest, and slowly lowered herself onto his face. "There's your dessert, fatty," she purred, bracing herself on the slope of his monstrous gut.

Below her, Sam let out a muffled, wheezing groan. The pressure was immense, cutting off what little air he had, but the instinct to please, to taste, was primal. His tongue moved weakly, a lazy, fat-encumbered gesture of devotion.

Meanwhile, Tina was at his other end. She knelt between his massive, swollen legs, her hands rubbing his colossal belly in slow, firm circles, feeling the chaotic churn within. Then her hands wandered lower, her touch becoming more intimate, stroking and teasing him as he lay trapped between their pleasures.

The sounds he made were desperate, guttural—a symphony of overwhelmed ecstasy. He was being smothered, stimulated, and adored all at once, his body a passive instrument played by two expert musicians. Nadia, shuddering above him, finally cried out, her body tensing. "I can't... I can't take it," she gasped, her voice ragged.

They switched places with a practiced, fluid motion. Now it was Tina who settled onto his face, her taste mingling with Nadia's, while Nadia took over at his hips, her movements eager and demanding.

They drove him relentlessly, a cycle of feeding and pleasure that pushed him far beyond any reasonable limit. His responses grew slower, his moans more slurred, his body more limp. Finally, with a final, shuddering gasp that was half-pleasure, half-suffocation, he fell still. The frantic energy left his body, replaced by a profound, heavy stillness. His breathing, though still a labored wheeze, evened out into the deep, rhythmic pattern of a food coma.

The girls collapsed on either side of him, their bodies slick against his hot, massive flanks. They looked at his unconscious form, at the magnificent, broken body they had built together, and shared a smile of pure, unadulterated triumph. They had taken him to the edge and back, and they knew, with thrilling certainty, that they would do it all over again tomorrow.

-Part 11-

The first sound of the day wasn't an alarm clock, but a deep, seismic rumble that vibrated through the very frame of the couch. Tina and Nadia stirred from where they were nestled against Sam's colossal sides, jostled awake by the thunderstorm within his gut. It was a long, wet gurgle, followed by a pained, groaning sigh that whistled through Sam's lips.

Tina propped herself up on an elbow, digging it comfortably into the soft fat of his side. She leaned her head on her hand and used the other to trace one of the thick, purple stretch marks that mapped the vast territory of his belly. It was warm and drum-tight, even after a night of digestion.

"Oh, listen to that," she said, her voice husky with sleep but playful. "Is that gut already hungry again? You greedy thing."

Nadia didn't need any more encouragement. She was already sliding off the couch, her naked body padding directly to the kitchen. The mission was clear. Breakfast wasn't a question; it was a demand from the beast they had created.

Tina joined her, and they moved in a silent, efficient harmony. From the fridge, they retrieved the morning's feast: not one, but six entire, frosted supermarket cakes. They returned to the couch, each holding three, and began the day's first ritual.

Sam was still mostly unconscious, his breathing a shallow wheeze. They propped his head up and began feeding him. They broke off large chunks of vanilla cake with buttercream frosting and guided them into his mouth. He swallowed reflexively, his body operating on a primal instinct to consume, even in his sleep. After the second and a half cake, his movements became sluggish, his swallows slower.

"He's not waking up properly," Nadia observed, not with concern, but with annoyance. "He needs a jump start."

Tina nodded and went back to the kitchen, returning with a large plastic pitcher filled with a thick, chalky weight-gainer shake, and several cans of high-caffeine, sugary energy drink. They mixed them together, creating a bubbling, toxic-looking slurry.

They held the pitcher to his lips. "Drink up, big guy. Time to wake up," Nadia commanded.

The effect was brutal and immediate. The cold, chemical-laden liquid hit his system like a shock. Sam's eyes flew open, wide and unfocused, as a jolt went through his bloated body. He gasped, a wet, choked sound, his heart hammering against the immense pressure of his chest. His weak body protested, trembling as the caffeine and sugar surged through his bloodstream.

But the girls didn't stop. As his system buzzed into a painful, artificial awareness, they continued. They fed him the remaining cakes, the sweet frosting smearing across his chin and chest. Then, without missing a beat, they both climbed onto the couch, straddling the immense, jiggling mound of his gut.

They began to ride him, not for his pleasure, but for theirs, using the rocking, grinding motion to simultaneously stimulate themselves and massage the enormous quantity of food and drink into his tortured stomach. The gut gurgled and sloshed violently beneath them, a quaking, noisy sea of calories. Sam could only lie there, wheezing and trembling, trapped in a cycle of overwhelming sensation—the cruel jolt of caffeine, the crushing weight of food, and the frantic movement of the two women he lived for. This was his morning, and it was perfect.

-Part 12-

The transition from breakfast to lunch was seamless, a relentless, caloric river with no banks. The empty cake boxes were simply pushed onto the floor, making way for the greasy cardboard of pizza boxes and paper bags stained with burger grease. The air grew thick with the smell of pepperoni, fried onions, and the ever-present, sweet-sour scent of Sam’s sweat.

His belly, a colossal, hairy boulder of fat, was now a static, immovable presence. It didn't jiggle as the girls sat upon it; it was far too dense, too packed with undigested food. It was a solid foundation, warm and strangely firm, glistening under a sheen of perspiration from both Sam and the women riding him.

Tina and Nadia were in a state of rapture. Their eyes were locked on Sam’s face, which was a mask of agonized effort. His eyes were heavy-lidded, fluttering as he fought to stay conscious under the tidal wave of food and sensation. The sheer struggle in his expression, the way he valiantly worked his jaw to chew and swallow even as his body screamed for respite, was the most beautiful thing they had ever seen.

Their own pleasure was inextricably linked to the extreme pressure his body was under. Tina ground herself down against the unyielding curve of his gut, the solid mass beneath her sending shocks of sensation through her core. She leaned forward, pressing her bare chest against the back of his hand—a hand so bloated with fat it could no longer form a fist, its fingers permanently splayed like soft, pale sausages.

A weak, gurgling sound escaped Sam’s lips. It wasn't a word, but a plea, a reflexive need. Tina interpreted it instantly.

"He wants more," she breathed, her voice thick with arousal. "He’s asking for it."

Nadia, positioned near his head, didn't hesitate. She took a massive, grease-dripping burger in both hands and brought it to his mouth. "You want it, don't you, our big, hungry man?" she cooed.

As she pushed the burger past his lips, she began to shake her body, a slow, sensual shimmy directly in his line of sight. Her breasts swayed, her hips rolled, a living, breathing spectacle of temptation just inches from his fat-encumbered face.

Sam’s glazed, struggling eyes locked onto the movement. The food kept coming, bite after bite of the burger, then a slice of oily pizza, but his focus was on Nadia’s dancing form. He was being hypnotized, his overloaded brain latching onto this one, simple stimulus. The chewing and swallowing became an automatic response, a mechanical process driven by the mesmerizing rhythm in front of him and the pleasurable pressure of Tina’s body on his.

He was no longer a man eating; he was a machine being fueled, a monument being maintained, and the two goddesses on his body were the sole conductors of his reality. And in the depths of his food-hazy, pleasure-drunk mind, there was no other reality he desired.

-Part 13-

The marathon of consumption had stretched far beyond a single day, blurring into a timeless cycle of feeding, fondling, and fitful sleep. The human body, however, has its limits, and Sam’s had been screaming for mercy long before the first visible signs of collapse began to surface.

It started with a faint, bluish tinge to his lips, a stark contrast against the flushed, reddened skin of his face. His breathing, always a labored wheeze, now hitched occasionally, catching in his throat as if something was stuck deep in his chest. A fine, constant tremor had taken hold of his bloated hands and his massive legs. These were not signs of pleasure or fullness; they were the unmistakable markers of a body in severe, systemic distress.

And Tina and Nadia adored them.

To them, the blue tint was just a new shade on their canvas. The trembling was a sign of his body working hard, fighting to process the incredible bounty they provided. The hitches in his breath were just a new, interesting rhythm in his song.

"Look, Nadia," Tina whispered, her eyes gleaming as she traced his lower lip with a finger. "It's like he's wearing lipstick. Our color."

Nadia responded by swaying her hips in a slow, mesmerizing dance directly in front of his glazed eyes. She held a slice of cold, congealed pizza in one hand. "That's it, Sammy. Just watch me and eat. You don't have to think. Just be our big, beautiful boy."

She fed him the pizza, and he chewed automatically, his jaw moving with a slow, mechanical rhythm. His eyes were distant, focused on the sway of her body but seeing nothing. He was drifting, his consciousness submerged beneath a tidal wave of calories and a cascade of failing bodily functions.

They moved from pizza to cold, greasy fries, from fries to handfuls of chocolate bars. Each bite was a shovel of dirt on the coffin of his health, and the girls were the eager gravediggers, in love with the act of burial. They watched, enthralled, as the last vestiges of the man he once was faded away, leaving only the primal, automated shell they had crafted—a shell that existed for no other purpose than to accept, to consume, and to deteriorate for their pleasure. His unhealthiness was not a cause for alarm; it was the final, glorious stage of their masterpiece.

-Part 14-

The apartment was a shrine, and its altar was the couch where Sam lay enthroned in his own magnificent decay. Each sunrise, which he could no longer see from his fixed position, marked not a new beginning, but simply another increment in his expansion. His hairy belly, a truly monstrous and asymmetrical globe, now seemed to have a life of its own, a pale, groaning planet that demanded its own gravitational field.

His breathing was no longer a rhythm; it was a crisis. A shallow, unsteady chain of gasps, hiccups, and wet, rattling wheezes that seemed to catch and stick in his clogged chest. His guts were a constant, unpleasant orchestra of groans and gurgles, the sounds of a digestive system that had long ago surrendered, now simply churning the endless influx into a toxic, internal slurry.

His skin, stretched to a translucent thinness over the vast curve of his belly, had taken on a worrying pallor, a waxy, bluish-white hue. The purple stretch marks stood out like violent cracks in porcelain. To accommodate the ever-growing mass, his colossal legs were forced further apart, two massive, swollen, and useless pillars of fat that could no longer even twitch on their own. They were merely wedges, holding the central monument of his gut aloft.

Tina and Nadia watched this final, slow-motion unraveling with a love so profound it was terrifying. They saw not a man dying, but a masterpiece reaching its ultimate form. They would sit for hours, listening to the struggle of his lungs, the painful protests of his guts, their hands resting on the cool, tight skin of his belly, feeling the sluggish, strained heartbeat within.

"Listen to that, Tina," Nadia would murmur, her head on his moob, ear pressed to his chest. "His body is working so hard for us. It's so beautiful."

"He's giving us everything," Tina would reply, her voice thick with emotion as she guided a dripping cheeseburger into his mouth.

And Sam, in the few lucid moments that pierced the food-haze and oxygen deprivation, knew. He knew each bite was a nail in his coffin, each wheezing breath a countdown. But the love in their eyes as they fed him, the sheer adoration in their touch as they kneaded his dying flesh, was a siren's call he was powerless to resist. His purpose was to be consumed, to be their beautiful, broken thing. So he ate. He swallowed the greasy food, he drank the thick shakes, he pushed his own body further and further into the abyss, not out of a desire for death, but out of a desperate, all-consuming need to be loved by the two angels who were so gently, so lovingly, guiding him to his end.

-Part 15-

The end was no longer a distant concept; it was a presence in the room, as tangible as the smell of cheap oil and sickly-sweet syrup. Tina and Nadia worked with a feverish dedication, their mission clear: to see their creation reach its absolute, devastating peak.

Sam’s belly was a force of nature now, a pale, obscene moon that dominated the small apartment. It had grown so vast that the skin at its apex, the very spot where the girls perpetually sat and rode him, had become raw and inflamed. The constant friction and pressure had taken its toll; the dark, coarse hair had rubbed away, leaving behind a patch of shiny, slick, and strangely fragile-looking skin, stretched so thin it reflected the dim light like plastic.

The decay was no longer a slow creep; it was a landslide. His breathing was a series of wet, desperate clicks, each inhale a battle he seemed to lose a little more. His complexion was a ghastly gray, beaded with a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. The gurgles from his gut were deeper, slower, less like digestion and more like a stagnant swamp settling.

Yet, the feedings intensified. They had moved beyond solid food for the most part. Now, it was about sheer, efficient caloric slurry. They would blend entire packs of cookies with heavy cream and vegetable oil, creating a thick, gritty paste that they could pour directly from a pitcher into his mouth. He swallowed reflexively, his throat working in weak, bird-like movements, his eyes rolling back in his head.

Tina and Nadia were incandescent with a dark, possessive joy. They watched his body's surrender not with horror, but with a rapt, almost religious fervor.

"He's so perfect, Nadia," Tina breathed, her fingers gently tracing the bald, stretched patch on his belly. "Look how smooth he is here. We did that."

Nadia, straddling his immense hips, rocked slowly, feeling the profound, solid weight of him beneath her. "He's giving us everything," she murmured, her eyes fixed on the faint, fluttering pulse in his neck. "Every last bit of himself."

They fed him, and they rode him, and they watched. They listened to the slowing, sloshing sounds within, to the increasingly faint gasps for air. Each feeding pushed him further, not into fullness, but into a final, silent stillness that was drawing nearer with every sugary, greasy spoonful. They were the architects of his end, and in their twisted, all-consuming love, they found it more beautiful than any beginning could ever be.

-Part 16-

The science of his destruction had become their obsession. The kitchen counter was no longer a place for cooking, but a laboratory for caloric alchemy. Tina and Nadia stood over the blender, their expressions a mix of intense concentration and giddy anticipation.

"Try the vegetable oil with the pancake batter and a scoop of that weight-gainer powder," Tina suggested, her voice clinical. "We need to see if it makes him... denser."

Nadia poured in the clear oil, watching it swirl with the thick, beige mixture. "And extra corn syrup. For the sweetness he loves."

They had moved far beyond any pretense of food. The slurries were engineered for one purpose: maximum expansion with minimal effort. They would carry the pitcher over to the couch, where Sam lay in a perpetual state of overwhelmed stillness. His eyes were perpetually half-mast, their focus distant and unclear. They didn't know if he was conscious, asleep, or something in between. It didn't matter.

They would pour the slick, oily mixture into his mouth. His throat would work in a weak, automatic swallow. And then they would watch.

Most times, the reaction was a deep, visceral groaning from the very core of his being. His colossal belly, already stretched to a horrifying tautness, would seem to swell further before their eyes, the skin straining against the new influx with a painful-looking rigidity. The gurgles that followed were low and distressed, the sound of an internal ecosystem collapsing under a toxic tide.

Other times, the reaction was more frightening. His breathing, already a fragile chain of wheezes, would hitch violently. A faint, wet rattle would sound in his chest with each attempted breath, and his lips would take on a deeper shade of blue. Nadia couldn't deny the thrill that shot through her at the sound. It was so fragile, so delicate, like the ticking of a beautiful, broken clock.

Tina, meanwhile, was mesmerized by the relentless, geological shift of his body. She loved how the immense pressure from his ever-growing gut was slowly, inexorably, forcing his massive legs further apart. They were like two pale continents drifting, pushed by the central, expanding planet of his belly. The space between them was a new landscape, one created entirely by their efforts.

They never stopped their physical worship. They would ride the solid, unyielding curve of his gut, their movements creating a counter-rhythm to the painful gurgles within. They would press their breasts against his hands—the hands that were now so bloated and useless they resembled soft, fleshy starfish, incapable of even the faintest reciprocal touch.

They didn't know if he felt it. They didn't know if he knew they were there, or if he was lost in a private hell of fullness and decay. But they loved him. They loved the sounds, the smells, the terrifying progress of his body giving way. They were recording every data point of his beautiful ruin, and the experiment was hurtling towards its magnificent, inevitable conclusion.

-Part 17-

The breakthrough came not from a recipe book, but from a place of dark, shared inspiration. After days of experimentation, Tina and Nadia had finally perfected their masterpiece. It was no longer a food; it was a weapon of mass construction, a liquid manifesto of their love.

The concoction was an abomination. In the blender, they combined one liter of slick, flavorless vegetable oil, a full pound of granulated sugar, and a thick, golden bottle of corn syrup. To this, they added ten heaping spoons of solid coconut oil, which melted into the mix, half a bag of bitter chocolate powder, two liters of thick, glutenous waffle batter, and, as a final, absurd touch, four entire packs of dry cake mix. The result was a thick, grainy, sludge-like liquid the color of mud, so dense the blender motor whined in protest.

They carried the pitcher to the couch with the reverence of priests bearing a sacrament. Sam lay as he always did, a pale leviathan beached on the cushions, his breathing a faint, wet whisper.

"Here it is, Sammy," Nadia whispered, her voice trembling with excitement. "Our special drink for our special man."

They propped his head up. His mouth fell open slightly, a passive, waiting vessel. Tina began to pour.

The effect was instantaneous and violent.

The thick slurry slid over his tongue and down his throat. His body, on a primal level, recognized the assault. His eyes, glassy and distant, flew wide open for a second, a spark of pure, animal panic flashing within them. A powerful shudder wracked his entire frame, making the vast expanse of his belly quake. A deep, guttural groan erupted from his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated physical protest.

Tina watched, mesmerized. This was the ultimate struggle. She loved the way his whole being seemed to rebel against the influx, the way his chest hitched and his hands—those useless, fatty paws—twitched feebly at his sides. It was the beautiful, desperate fight of a body being pushed past every conceivable limit.

Nadia, however, loved his sublime obedience. Despite the violent tremors, the choked gurgles, he kept swallowing. His throat worked in a weak, relentless rhythm, accepting the horrific slurry whenever they tipped the pitcher. He was their perfect, flightless bird, drinking the poison they offered because it was they who offered it. There was no refusal, only a helpless, total surrender.

They watched his belly, already a monument of tight, hairless skin, begin to distend further. It wasn't a gentle expansion, but a sudden, firm hardening, as if someone were inflating a tire within him. The groans from within were deep and resonant, the sound of a cavern being filled with cement.

When the pitcher was empty, they collapsed on either side of him, their hands on his hot, rock-solid stomach, feeling it churn and gurgle with catastrophic violence. Sam had fallen back into a stupor, his breath now a series of shallow, rapid pants, his body fighting a war on two fronts: against the lack of air and the tidal wave of calories.

They had found their perfect mixture. It achieved everything at once: extreme expansion, a thrilling physical struggle, and the bliss of his total, unquestioning compliance. This was the fuel for the final stage of their project. And they couldn't wait to brew another batch.

-Part 18-

The cycle became a sacred, suffocating rhythm. The pitcher was always full, the blender's roar a constant fanfare for their endeavor. The perfected slurry—a thick, unholy amalgamation of oil, sugar, and batter—flowed into Sam with the grim regularity of a medical IV drip, its purpose not to heal, but to transform.

With each swallow, Sam grew. Not in a healthy, filling way, but in a dense, suffocating expansion. His body was less a form and more a reaction, a biological response to an unending chemical attack. His skin, waxy and pale, strained over a belly that seemed to have no memory of a smaller shape, its surface a taut, hairless drum where they sat. The groans from within were constant now, a low, pained soundtrack to his existence.

The girls rode the massive, unforgiving slope of his gut, their movements growing frantic, driven by the visible and auditory proof of their success. They would grind against him until their own bodies were spent, until muscles ached and breath came in ragged gasps. But the moment they recovered, the moment they saw the faint, wheezing rise and fall of his chest continue, they would return to the kitchen.

They would blend another batch, the sound a siren's call. Returning to the couch, they would pour the slick, gritty mixture past his lips, watching his throat convulse with automatic swallows. The sheer volume of the slurry meant his stomach had no time to process, only to accept. The expansion was nearly instantaneous, a firm, painful-looking tightening of his midsection that pushed the air from his lungs in a choked gasp.

Then, they would switch back. Nadia would take her place astride him, feeling the new, rock-hard firmness beneath her, a fresh layer of pressure they had just installed. Tina would watch, her hand on his chest, feeling the frantic, bird-like flutter of his heart.

And on special occasions, after a mixture they had made particularly potent with extra oil and syrup, they would ride him together. They would position themselves on the vast, trembling landscape of his belly, facing each other, their bodies moving in a synchronized, punishing rhythm. They would watch each other's faces, sharing in the ecstasy of feeling him deteriorate beneath them, their combined weight driving the breath from his body, compressing the slurry deeper into his failing system.

They were the engineers of his decay, the priestesses of his consumption. Sam was no longer a participant, but the epicenter. His will was gone, replaced by a primal, broken reflex to swallow. His health was gone, replaced by the beautiful, terrible physics of expansion and collapse. And the girls, lost in their shared, dark adoration, loved every labored breath, every pained gurgle, every inch of his beautiful, endless giving-way.

-Part 19-

The couch had long since ceased to be a piece of furniture; it was now a sacrificial altar, and Sam was the offering that was slowly consuming it. He had been fed into a state of pure, breathtaking mass. His body was a landscape of pale, overstretched fat, a topography of rolling hills and vast, tense plains. The gurgles and groans that emanated from within were constant, a low-level seismic activity signaling the perpetual, losing battle his insides fought.

His belly was the main event, a truly monstrous expanse that forced Nadia and Tina into a near-split just to straddle its width together. They rode the patchy, hairless apex, their bodies positioned far apart, their movements creating a chaotic, rocking motion that sent deep, liquid shudders through his core. There was no jiggle, only a profound, solid quaking.

The feeding was now a direct, industrial process. There were no more bowls or spoons, only gallon pitchers filled with their perfected, abominable slurry. As they rode him, they would take turns, or sometimes work together, tilting a pitcher to his lips and pouring the thick, gritty liquid directly into his mouth. Gallon by gallon, it vanished down his throat, his swallows a weak, automatic reflex.

His body grew in all directions, obeying the brutal physics of the calories. His sides spilled over the edges of the couch, his back fat swallowing the cushions, his immense legs swelling and merging with the structure beneath him. His gut, the primary repository, now hung heavily over both armrests, a pendulous, suffocating weight that pinned him in place forever. There was no space left for the girls on the couch itself; their world was the geography of his body.

And all Sam did was eat.

Consciousness was a foreign concept. He was a vessel, a biological machine whose only programming was to accept. His eyes were permanently glazed, seeing nothing, yet his mouth would still open at the touch of the pitcher's rim. He ate not out of hunger, but because it was the fundamental law of his existence, the reason he was built. He ate because his goddesses, the two beautiful, sweating, relentless women grinding on his surface, willed it. They fed him with a love so absolute it had become a force of nature, and he accepted it with a devotion so complete it was his annihilation.

They looked down at his bloated, unrecognizable face, at the sheer, impossible scale of what he had become, and their hearts swelled with pride. This was their masterpiece. And as they poured the next gallon, listening to the wet, struggling sounds from within, they knew they were nowhere near finished. There was always more room to make.

-Part 20-

The end of the project was in sight, a finish line they were racing towards with a feverish, single-minded devotion. The couch, the room, their entire world had been consumed by Sam, and now they were engaged in the final, sacred act of completion.

Gallon after gallon of the thick, grainy slurry was poured into him. It was a relentless, industrial process. Nadia would hold the pitcher, tilting it with both hands, while Tina gently pried his jaw open. The liquid, slick with oils and gritty with undissolved sugar, would glug into his mouth, and his throat would work in a weak, perpetual swallowing motion. There was no pause, no breath, just the steady, horrifying transfer of volume from the pitcher to the man.

The sounds were a symphony of ruin. A wet, churning gurgle echoed from the depths of his gut, a sound of vast, internal flooding. Each new gallon was met with a sharp, strangled groan that seemed to be torn from the very core of his being, a protest from tissues and organs pushed far beyond their structural limits.

They sat upon him as they worked, riding the immense, ever-expanding dome of his belly. Their weight was nothing to him now, merely a slight pressure on the colossal, taut sphere. They moved in a slow, rhythmic grind, their bodies slick with sweat, their eyes locked not on each other, but on the effects of their labor. They watched, mesmerized, as his body expanded in real time. The skin, already stretched to a nightmarish thinness, grew even tighter, shining under the light like plastic stretched over a drum. The old, purple stretch marks were joined by new, finer ones, a spiderweb of cracks on a surface that could no longer give.

They listened to the sounds of his body giving up. The gurgles grew deeper, more liquid. The groans became less frequent, replaced by a constant, low, wheezing whine that was his only exhalation. His breath was a mere ghost, a faint stirring of air that did little more than fog the mirror they sometimes held, giggling, to his lips.

They were finishing their masterpiece. Every gallon was another brushstroke, another pound of clay on the sculpture. They were creating the biggest, most profoundly fattened man they could, and they were watching the beautiful, terrible cost of that creation in the labored sounds and the waning light in his eyes. It was the ultimate expression of their love, and they would pour until the very last, wet gurgle fell silent.

-Part 21-

The final two gallons of the rich, heavy slurry disappeared into Sam with a slow, glugging finality. Nadia and Tina remained perched on the vast, mountainous curve of his belly, their bodies moving in a slow, hypnotic rhythm against the patchy, taut skin. The usual symphony of internal sounds was louder than ever—a cacophony of wet gurgles, deep, gluttonous groans, and the creaking strain of a body pushed to its absolute limit.

Beneath their ears, pressed against his chest, the frantic, feathery flutter of his heart beat like a trapped bird's wings. They were lost in the sensation, in the sheer, overwhelming reality of what they had created. The sounds, the smells, the immense, solid weight beneath them—it was everything they had ever wanted.

Then, a shift.

The weak, rapid heartbeat they had been listening to, a constant tremor for so long, simply… stopped.

There was no dramatic final gasp, no last shudder. Just a sudden, profound silence in one layer of the soundscape. Sam’s head, which had been lolling forward onto his chest, dropped back against the couch cushions with a heavy, final thud. It was a movement they had seen a thousand times in food comas, but this was different. The looseness was absolute. The lack of any subsequent wheezing breath was deafening.

The realization hit them both at the same moment, a cold shock that should have frozen them.

But their bodies, trained by months of ritual, didn't stop. The rocking motion continued for a few more seconds, a mindless, grinding inertia against the now-strangely still mound of his stomach. The gurgles within seemed to grow louder in the new silence, the only proof that the massive system was still, for now, active.

Tina’s eyes met Nadia’s over the immense, pale globe of his belly. There was no horror in their gaze. No panic. Instead, there was a look of awe, of breathtaking, terrifying completion. They had done it. They had pushed their masterpiece to the very edge of existence and found its limit.

Slowly, almost reverently, they finally stilled their movements. The only sound was the slow, liquid settling from within Sam’s gut. They didn't speak. They simply sat there, straddling the pinnacle of their creation, their hands resting on the skin that was still warm, listening to the last echoes of their endeavor churn inside the silent monument of their love.

-Part 22-

The air in the bar was thin and clean, a stark contrast to the thick, syrupy atmosphere of their apartment. Nadia swirled the ice in her glass, the clinking sound a tiny, sharp noise in the hum of conversation.

"It was his stomach, you know," she cooed, not with sadness, but with a kind of clinical fascination. "The doctor said the pressure was just... unimaginable. It gave way internally."

Tina nodded, her expression a mix of wistfulness and pride. "All that love we poured into him. It wasn't his heart that gave out first. It was the container we filled."

They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, two artists discussing the technical limitations of their medium. There was no regret, only the quiet satisfaction of a project seen through to its absolute, logical conclusion. They had loved Sam, and in their way, they had loved every strained groan, every tight stretch of skin, every last, shuddering breath.

It was then that the door to the bar opened, and a new man walked in. He had a similar build to how Sam had once been—broad-shouldered, with a friendly, open face that suggested he enjoyed a good meal.

The girls' eyes met over the table. The same unspoken understanding passed between them that had flashed there months ago in the food court. A slow, knowing smile spread across Nadia's lips.

Tina mirrored it, her gaze flicking back to the new man. "He looks like he has a good appetite," she murmured.

Nadia took a sip of her drink, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of a new beginning. "Might be fun," she said softly, "to see if this time... it's his heart that gives up first."

The statement hung in the air, not as a threat of physical harm, but as a metaphor for the all-consuming nature of their affection. They weren't talking about a medical condition; they were talking about devotion. They were imagining the delicious, overwhelming process of making someone the absolute center of their world, of being the sole focus of a love so intense it felt, poetically, like it could stop a heart.

-End-

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Your Wannabe Piggy