Penelope Plump

Late 20s | She/Her | Feedee Pansexual | Teasing Encouraged | Minors DNI

[penelope-plump]

Hi! I'm ✨Penny✨

Started gaining last year after being into it my whole life, managed to gain 80lbs in 4 months (175lbs May '25 -> 255lbs September '25).

Had some health issues which meant I restarted my weight gain journey in May again this year at 200lbs, progress below:

Lowest weight: 175lbs

Current weight: 292lbs

Gains since May '26: 92lbs in 82 days

Kinks: Feedism (including death feedism, health decline, contrast, force feeding), Breeding, BDSM (sub-leaning switch)

DNI: Scat, Watersports, Weight-loss

[penelope-plump]

Was meaning to do a big post about gaining 100lbs since my lowest weight (175lbs->275lbs) but unfortunately I kinda blew straight past that and weighed in at 279lbs this morning...

So enjoy this pic of me out with a feeder today in some brand new UK size 26 shorts:

I'll take a proper before/after pic soon, but wanted to celebrate being fatter than a long while after being as low as 200lbs back on May 1st this year.

[auxfeed]

Look at you.

You’re sweating again, and I haven’t even fed you yet. Just lying there, buried under your own blubber, pink and soft and panting like it’s work just existing. You make the bed groan louder than you do. Honestly, I’m not sure which is more strained — the mattress or your skin, stretched drum-tight over that monumental belly of yours.

"You're leaking again," I say with a little smirk, dragging a fingertip along the sweaty crease where your side rolls into your hip. The layer of fat there is thick, jiggling even from the lightest touch. "Poor thing. So overfed you can't even cool yourself properly."

You whimper a little — that pathetic, needy noise I’ve trained you to make. Half shame, half lust. Music to my ears.

Your belly dominates everything. It’s huge, grotesquely proud, rising in front of you like a fleshy hill, crisscrossed with stretch marks that shine under the overhead light. I cup the underside — it’s hot, heavy, almost too much for my hands. Not that you’d know. You haven’t seen your feet in a year. Maybe more.

"I can’t believe how far you’ve let yourself go," I whisper, feeding you the first bite of syrup-drenched pancake. You chew slowly, eyes fluttering. “No control. No dignity. Just lying there, waiting to be fed, like a piglet on its back.”

You try to shift — to move, to respond — but even that small effort makes your cheeks flush and your breath catch. Your own body is a prison now, built one bite at a time. And I hold the key.

"You wanted this," I remind you, voice low, coaxing. "Remember how cocky you were when we started? Said you'd never get that big. Said you’d stop before you lost mobility. Look at you now."

I slap your belly lightly — a soft, satisfying whump that echoes off your thighs. You groan, partly from the impact, partly from the reminder that you can’t even flinch away.

"You're mine," I say, leaning in, my voice syrup-sweet. "My spoiled, spoiled blob. A mountain of lard I keep fed and helpless. You can't even roll over without me pushing you."

Another bite. Then another. I press the shake to your lips again. You hesitate — full already, maybe even hurting — but I tilt it anyway. “Drink. That belly’s not done growing yet.”

You whimper as it goes down, eyes wet, belly churning beneath the surface. Every swallow is a surrender. Every breath, a struggle under the weight you’ve begged me to build.

And I know you love it. The shame. The helplessness. The way I talk to you like you’re not even a person anymore — just a thing to fatten and admire.

You're mine. My project. My prize. My pet. My pig.

And we’re not even close to done.

[chocolatedff-deactivated2025091]

Everytime I watch this clip I’m reminded I’m a Sadist Dom Feeder. I just wanna have someone lock eyes with me as we destroy there figure and just make themselves unrecognizablly FAT🫦.

[makemybellyhang-deactivated2025]

Gotta reblog so I have something to watch and be inspired by when my new funnel comes in 😅👀

[housecow]

fatphobic feeder bf that hates fat people except he says i’m cute and he force feeds me sometimes but gets weird and cries afterwards. he says he wants me fatter and lazier but he will make comments on random fat ppl and how lazy they are and how they let themselves go and how he can’t believe someone let that happen to them BUT he sabotages every one of my diet attempts and i’ve steadily put on pound after pound after pound because of him

[bureistation]

You don’t need a goal weight

Some people have their milestones mapped out, right from the start. Some people carefully chart their desired journey, perhaps starting at 250. Planning to gorge themselves up to 350 or 400lbs, knowing they’ll then need to be pushed past their limits until they finally arrive at 500, overshooting by 30lbs with worrying ease.

Others might begin nervously, gingerly creeping up the scale, pound by pound, feeding by feeding. Of course, once they breach 200lbs, things suddenly become very real. They find themselves craving the next hundred, then another hundred, and then the hundred after that. Maybe they want to get heavier still, maybe their feeder wants them to stabilize, maybe they both make a compromise and agree to stop at 700lbs. Maybe they set a secret goal of 770, as a treat.

Others still might only realize that these options even exist after meeting a partner, weighing in for the first time in years, and unexpectedly thrilling at the sight of their soon-to-be feeder’s wicked grin after watching the scale flash “ERR”. They think “1200” is an impossible number as they head steadily in that direction, encouraged and helped along the way. The months and years marked only by buying scales of increasing capacity, until one day they themselves decide to change the goalpost, crossing out the “2” and replacing it with a “6”.

I, however, don’t believe in any of that. Is it exciting? Sure. Is it frightening? Probably a little. But is it really the most effective way for you to grow? Don’t get me wrong: there will be measurements, charts and graphs to reflect every thickening roll, each added fold, and all the new jiggle. But you’re not going to be like any of those people. You’re different. I have just one goal in mind for you - speed.

I’ll start you off small, having you gain one pound a week. Easy, manageable. You could almost do it in your sleep, and you certainly don’t need any help. A couple of weeks roll by and you’re crushing it - you don’t feel any different, other than the comforting warmth of knowing you’re doing such a good job. Then, I’ll have you move up to three. You’re probably already there anyway, but I want to see you keep it up. One month and 11 pounds later, you simply need an extra stuffing or two to push you over the finish line, no big deal. But then, a new week means you have to do it yet again, and on top of that, now I need you to get to five. How long will it take to get used to making that happen, week in, week out?

Maybe this is where you start needing a little help. A session to test your limits once or twice a week, on top of all the grazing in between meals. Maybe you get a little too used to the new routine, shooting up by seven pounds - impressive! Just don’t forget, you still have to do five more next week, you don’t get to roll over those two extra pounds - they’re just icing on the cake. Heavy, sweet buttercream for you to keep wherever you like. Tomorrow, you’re back to zero.

Your eating habits have had to change to keep up with gaining 20lbs each month, but you’re doing great. You’re starting to really feel bigger, too, going up a few more sizes and occasionally knocking things over with all the new inches going to your butt. It’s desperately cute, but you know you won’t stay this way for long. You also know you aren’t going to be growing five pounds per week for much longer, either - next stop, seven pounds.

That’s a pound a day, every day. Your stomach is used to the stretch, it takes a while to get full now, and you can handle being hand-fed long after you’re too full to get off the couch, even if you do stagger to bed in the middle of the night because the couch gets lonely. But that was then, and this is now. Now, this is less than the minimum. You have to tolerate more. You need to do this every day, as much as you can. You’ll gladly accept help, of course, but now you’re getting used to stuffing yourself, then needing help to eat even more after that, at least three times a day. The idea of every meal requiring help is exciting, but this is the new norm now. This isn’t an experiment that stops one day, this is just how your life is. You don’t remember the last time you felt hungry.

You are tearing through sizes. You’re outgrowing furniture. You’re too wide for some seats, and too heavy for most benches. Getting wedged in tight spaces is a thing of the past - you simply can’t maneuver your enormous body anywhere without plenty of room to work. Your stomach is practically bottomless, you’re being hand-fed more than you’re feeding yourself, and you’re still setting personal bests for calories consumed. You’re regularly more then eight pounds fatter every single week now, and it didn’t really take that long for you to get there. You’re doing so very well. By most standards, you are huge.

Being huge, however, isn’t what you’re training for. You know what’s coming, and you’re prepared for it. You wonder what the next bump will be. Does this mean you’ll need to get filled with a funnel and tube? What if you like it? You know you haven’t found your real limits yet, though. You can take more, a lot more. Can you do 12lbs in a week? Can you do 15, then do it again the next week and again the week after that?

You don’t get hand-fed on the couch, long after your heavy arms hurt too much to lift, any more. You don’t get to snack between meals, because you mostly don’t have meals any more. On special occasions, if you’ve been particularly good, you might get to eat food like you used to, even if you do need a lot more of it than you have the stamina to deal with before being fed the rest. All you have to do these days is lay reclined in your bed, breathe through your oxygen tube, and rest your hands on the sides of the top slope of your belly as it grows upwards and widens, ever so gradually, but surely. Always full, always being made to stretch just a little more to support your size. Always in motion, the thick layer of fat covering it sloshing lazily as you breathe. Dwarfed by the expanse of your lower belly, stretching out forever in front of you, as far as you can tell.

Every couple of hours, you drink from a tube. Sometimes there’s a funnel, sometimes there’s a bag, sometimes you can control the flow, other times your jaw is held open with a gag and all you can do is try to open your throat and feel it flow into you. You no longer wince in pain as your stomach becomes more and more burdened, you’re used to it.

Before you sleep, a small, flexible tube is threaded through your nose, into your stomach. As you sleep, a pump makes sure you never dip below “painfully full”. You’re not sure how much fatter you’ll be by the end of the week, but it doesn’t really matter - you just know that you’re finally growing, comfortably, to your potential.

If someone asked your goal weight, you’d probably say that you haven’t really thought about it.

[auxfeed]

Up. Come on, wobble forward. I know it’s hard to move with that apron of belly hanging down, dragging like a wet tarp full of meat. But you’re going to do it anyway, because I’m tugging that collar, and when I pull — you follow.

Good pig.

You're sweating already. Just from standing. I can see your thighs trembling, your breath whining out like a busted bellows. But this is important. Today’s your check-in. I want to see the numbers. I want to document just how far you’ve fallen.

Let’s start with the tape.

Arms up. No, higher — or as high as they go now, which is barely past nipple-height with all that lard weighing you down. I wrap the tape around your gut, burying it beneath the folds, pressing into the warm, stretched-out blubber until I hit resistance. There. I pull it tight. You flinch. The flesh squirms around it.

“Eighty-nine inches,” I read out loud, slow, amused. “That’s over seven feet of belly, pig.”

You blush. I see you blush — somewhere under the puffed cheeks and the fat-padded neck, a bit of shame still flickers. Good. You’re supposed to feel it. You're supposed to feel exactly how unnatural you are.

“You know the average waist size for a healthy adult?” I murmur in your ear. “Thirty-four inches. That means you’re almost triple. You’ve got more belly in one side roll than most people have on their entire body.” I pad your blubbery gut that's hanging in front of me.

Then I slide the tape lower. Around the hips now. More numbers. I take my time.

“Your thighs — forty-three inches. Each. That’s a full waistline just in your leg. And your upper arms? Bigger than most gym guys’ chests. And not an ounce of muscle to show for it.”

You shift, awkward, half-aroused and half-horrified. Your eyes lower. But your body betrays you — the way you tremble, the way your breath comes faster. You want this. You need this. The shame only makes it sweeter.

Now the scale.

I tug the leash. You grunt, stumbling forward. It takes effort to hoist all that mass. Your belly slaps against your knees with each tiny step. But eventually, you make it. I guide you onto the platform — steel, reinforced. You pant, drool threading from your lip.

And then the number appears.

“936 pounds.”

I smile.

“That’s nearly five of them. A whole family’s worth of meat stacked into one greedy, wheezing carcass. And you’re still gaining. Still swelling. Still pretending this is just some kink and not full-blown biological ruin.”

I lean down. Grip a love handle. Knead it. Soft. Hot. Leaking sweat. “They’d be in shock if they saw you, pig. Just a regular person, walking past the grocery store scale, and there you are — almost a thousand pounds of bloat and feeder’s pride, barely mobile, breathing like you’re being strangled by your own body.”

You shiver.

You’re turned on.

I can tell.

Because this is what you really want, isn’t it? To be broken down into numbers. Into stats. To have someone take stock of the damage and call it beautiful. Or disgusting. Or both.

I pull the tape measure off you with a snap. You flinch.

I tug the collar, lead you back to the mattress, let you collapse into your own overfed ruin.

“Next month, we’ll pass a thousand. And then we start comparing you to livestock weights.”

You don't answer.

You just moan.

And I write down the numbers. Every one of them.

[penelope-plump]

I've been hard at work trying to get to my next milestone (250lbs and 75lbs gained).

One of my favourite ways to keep my progress up has been shakes so I thought I'd share a little before and after of me having one of my shakes (I do as many as three in a sitting with my funnel before bed).

[evermore-xxl]

'critical rolls'

alright so i had a dream last night about a group of people playing some tabletop game (dnd? i've only played once. idk)

anyway one girl (who, if you know how my dreams go, tends to be very fat already) would eat the most ridiculously large meals before the game, turning up absolutely stuffed "so she wouldn't get hungry during the game"

at first they teased her about it, but eventually the team noticed that if she missed her enormous pre-game meal, they would all perform worse. but they also noticed that the more she ate, the better they do.

so it becomes a sort of ritual. a sort of offering to the game gods. they start to encourage her to eat before games, taking her out for fast food, all-you-can-eat buffets, to the kinds of italian restaurants where everything comes out just dripping with cheese. they start to ply her with candy and chips, and milkshake and soda, practically pushing them down her throat, because the fuller she is, the better they always seem to do - and heck, they're not going to question it. every game she's fed until she aches, until someone else has to do her thinking for her, stuffed out of her mind, belly taut and bloated, her fat spilling out of her clothes and sagging off the edges of her seat

obviously, it all starts to add up. the weight is piling on. they always feed her more. her clothes barely fit. she needs multiple chairs to sit on. she can hardly reach the table. seats in restaurants can't take her, so they have to switch to takeout. soon, she's too fat to drive. they need a bigger room to play in, because she's the size of five people. she can barely fit through the door. they switch the game to her house, and take it in turns to feed her. even bedbound, they're not going to let their good luck charm go hungry, their offering to the game gods her overfed, engorged body, every inch caked with fat and bursting at the seams

[penelope-plump]

So, the other day was my three month mark of gaining and I was hoping to maybe hit a big milestone... Turns out I blew straight past it and gained not 50 but 60lbs 😳

[auxfeed]

You can barely breathe now.

That wheezing, shallow rasp that passes for your breath — it echoes between your chins and your bloated chest, rattling with every labored exhale. I can’t help but smile as I watch your eyes flutter, too tired to stay open, too full to rest.

I stand at the edge of the bed — or rather, what’s left of the space not taken up by you. You’ve sprawled outward in all directions. Flesh domes and folds and swells under thin sheets. There’s no position that’s comfortable anymore, is there? You’re just too far gone.

And all I can think is: you did this to yourself.

Well, with my help, of course.

"Feeling it now, aren’t you?" I ask, casually swirling a spoon through a bowl of melted ice cream I’ve brought you — not that your stomach could take another bite. “All that talk about how you wanted to see how far you could go… how massive, how immobile. Bet you didn’t think this far.”

I lean in, letting the spoon drip onto your lips — sticky, cold, useless. You turn your head just slightly, a wet grunt of protest escaping, but we both know you won’t refuse it long. You can’t. I trained you too well.

"Regretting it now?" I ask, mock concern in my voice. "Aw, poor thing. All that fat… and now it’s turning on you. Your heart races so much as I touch your belly. Your blubber lays heavy on the old matress that's left of your former world. Your legs are practically dead under the weight. You can’t even roll an inch without help. You're just… stuck in your own gluttony."

You blink slowly. Is that a tear? I can’t tell. Doesn’t matter. You should cry. You earned this.

I run my hand over the dome of your gut — tight and angry and stretched, but soft and flabby at its' bottom, where the main storage of your fat is located. The skin feels like it could split open if I fed you just a little more. And god, the noises you make now… you groan like something... dying.

"Remember when you used to fight me on portions?" I laugh. "You used to say, 'That’s enough for tonight.' What happened to that backbone, pig? All melted into blubber and backfat, huh?"

I slap the side of your belly — hard enough to make it quake. The wave of motion travels like a ripple through a sea of soft flesh. Your face winces, and I know it did hurt. Good.

"Look at you," I whisper, voice turning low and poisonous. "You thought you were chasing a dream. Some fantasy of softness and surrender. But now? Now you’re just a monument to excess. Too fat to move. Too broken to resist more food. Just the way I like it, piggy."

I straddle the side of the bed and press my cheek into your belly, listening to the gurgling churn inside. "You always asked what the limit was. I think we nearly found it. And guess what? There’s no going back. And we both know the end of our jouney is near."

You try to speak — but there’s nothing left in you but breath and sweat and shame.

"You wanted to be my pig. Well," I say with a grin, brushing hair from your clammy forehead, "pigs don’t get very happy endings." I hold the next spoonful of melted ice cream to your lips. "Come on, open wide. You have no choice anyway. Just accept your destiny and be one of those good pigs."

[ketsudan1-deactivated20260416-d]

Listen…

A hedonistic mutual gaining relationship, where we hype each other up whenever we reach another +10lbs on the scale. No clothes at home, panties/boxershorts at most, and preferably at least 5 meals a day.

Imagine spending time, getting intimate/romantic with someone that not only appretiates you, your body, your personality, your greed and your gluttony, but also supports and loves it.

All the belly-grabbing, the softness, the heat between our bodies in bed…struggling together on the stairs, driving to fast food places to devour unrealistically large amounts of food together, going to the beach/lake/pool in a very tight bikini/pair of swim trunks with everyone secretly looking at us…

Imagine reaching life AND gaining goals + weighing half a ton together.

We can even invite tiny feeders to satisfy our appetite and to have fun with them, or we can have a house party with mutual ssbbw/ssbhm friends.

There are sooo so many options and I think this is beautiful.

[rosebelliedbunting]

Okay this is a different thing than the other thing I was talking about but I DID write some extremely self indulgent problematic feedist slop below, loosely based on a scenario I’m sure We’ve all imagined,, (probably? I hope?) and I’m describing it like that because I’m SHY so everyone has to be REALLY niceys to me about it okay. Okaye here it is

The morning should have been ordinary.

It’s instinct, stupid and small: a sleepy stretch, a shift toward the edge of the mattress, the thought of water humming faint in the back of your skull. Just for a second, you forget, and think it’s easy—just swing your legs over, plant your feet, stand.

Your body laughs in your face.

The first push barely moves you. Your palms sink deep into the sheets, wrists trembling as you lever yourself upright. Your belly surges forward like a tide, heavy and swaying, rolls stacking thick along your ribs before spilling soft into your lap.

You freeze, momentarily shocked by your own form. You normally try not to notice, but god, when did it get this… vast?

You manage to swing your legs over the edge with some effort, bracing your swollen feet against the hardwood. A breath, a heave — sweat beads at your hairline, your knees shake, and you drop back on your bottom, falling back against the pillows and taking short, gasping breaths.

It feels like you ran a mile. For nothing.

“Hey baby?” Your voice cracks, once you can breathe without wheezing again. You swallow hard. “Can you help me up?”

The silence that follows is wrong. Heavy. You glance over, heart skittering like a trapped thing.

He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes raking you slow from crown to toe. That smile—the one that first lured you in, filled your chest with honey and spice—curves sweetly across his face.

“No,” he says softly. “Not this time.”

The words land like a fist. You laugh—high, brittle, desperate. “What? What do you mean?”

He tilts his head. Almost pitying. Almost sweet. Almost. “Aw, baby. Have you really not figured this out yet?”

Your stomach knots. Not hunger—something colder, crawling under your skin as he prowls closer, slow as a storm rolling in.

He stops at the foot of the bed, gaze dragging over you in appraisal. When he speaks, it’s harsher now, no smile in his voice.

“Look at yourself.”

You shake your head. “I don’t—”

“Look,” he says again. Sharp. Final.

Your eyes drop, facing the truth you’ve been hiding from. The massive, quivering, undeniable truth.

The swell of your gut pools heavily over dimpled thighs draped with rolls. Creases ladder your sides like soft-serve ice cream, pale and endless. Your arms pillow thick against your ribs, hands half-swallowed in the spill. Even on your face, puffy cheeks push into your field of vision. Everything is swaddled in it, this obscene excess.

A whimper cracks in your throat. You look away out of habit, a habit built on months of denial. Of ignoring every sign this was coming, every extra treat and worn-out seam.

“Say it,” he murmurs, voice low. “Say what you see.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I—can’t.”

“Then I’ll say it for you.”

The mattress dips as he climbs up, caging you under him. He grips a handful of sensitive flesh, pulling a gasp from you that shakes in his hands.

“Fat.” The word drops like molten lead as his fingers dig into the swell of your belly, hefting it slow until you feel the drag in your spine. “Greedy. Lazy. A soft, spoiled pet. Do you even remember the last time you were truly hungry? The last time you got out of bed by yourself? The last time you even thought about a vegetable?”

Your cheeks burn hot, and you shake your head, feeling tears start to prick under your eyes.

“Of course you don’t.” His laugh knifes through you, low and sharp. “You just kept getting fatter and fatter and playing dumb all the while. Because every time you felt that little pinch of guilt, that little nagging voice that maybe this isn’t normal — you drowned it in sugar and smoke. Every time you could’ve stopped, you begged for more.”

“I—I didn’t—”

“Then who did?” His hand brushes under your double chin, pressing your face up until your eyes crash into his. “Who made you eat like this? Who made you smoke your pretty little brain away? Who made you sit on the couch and do nothing but stuff yourself and sleep it off for weeks on end?”

Your breath shreds.

“I didn’t do this to you, sweetheart.” He smiles again, cruel and oh so sweet. “You did this to yourself. Sure, I never said no, but neither did you. I only ever gave you exactly what you wanted, andn nothing less. Isn’t that right? And that’s the best part, you see — I made being a dumb, fat pet easy, but you… you made it inescapable.”

“Please, no,” you whimper.

“Oh yes.” His other hand slides deeper under the crest of your belly, lifting until the sheer weight drags a grunt from your lips. “Sweetheart, we’re just getting started. You think this is big? This is nothing. You’ve got miles left to grow. And do you know what i love the most about it?”

His lips brush your ear, breath hot, almost burning.

“You’re starving for it.”

As if willed, your stomach growls—loud, obscene in the silence. Shame bursts across your ribs and trickles low into your pelvis, drowning out his laugh.

“Do you see this?” The laughter is still slick in his voice as his hand fists another roll, squeezing until it spills between his fingers like dough. “This is what you begged me for — every pound, every inch. You built this with your own greed. Say it.” His hand grips your jaw, thumb digging into the plush curve of your cheek. “Say what you are.”

You choke, throat raw with holding back tears. “I’m fat,” you mumble as they finally slip down your burning cheeks.

“I can’t hear you, sweetie, you have to speak up.”

Your lip trembles harder, and the second comes out even quieter, a whisper more than a sob. “I’m f-fat.”

“And?” He asks, softer now, catching a tear with his thumb.

“Yours,” you breathe.

“That’s what I thought.” His kiss is soft and tastes like salt.

There it is, the sweetness that you know. Your chest flutters as he pulls back, just enough so his breath can brush your lips.

“Now say what you want.”

Shame claws deep—and yet the truth coils lower, molten and monstrous.

“More,” you whisper, and his grin is like a sickle.

[stronglyloudbasilisk]

I'm dreaming of tube feeding a hog

Not funnel, tube

Past your mouth, down your throat, you don't have to swallow, you don't get to swallow, it's going directly in your lard tank of a stomach

Where stopping when I say we're done, I don't care if your full, I don't care if it hurts I say when your done

So what if I just forced the same amount of fats into you in one sitting that a normal person eats in a year

Thank me for that

This is good for you, don't listen to your body, don't listen to doctors or family or anyone but me, this is healthy

It's supposed to feel like your dying when I finish feeding you thats good

This is good for you

Your legs are supposed to be giant sacks of lard and retain enough fluid to drown a person, infact they should be even bigger

This is healthy

It's natural to feel every heart beat and have a noticeable struggle to breathe even with an O2 mask

This is good for you

Keep gaining, I'm not letting you stop

[vvvvvhhhhhjjjjjjuuuuuuuu-deacti]

To my pig...

You didn't think it would come to this, did you?

When I suggested some "pet play", you were probably expecting me to slip a cute little collar around your neck, to pull you around on the end of a leash, and maybe make you bark for me while I use you like my own personal fleshlight...

You had the wrong kind of pet in mind though. I didn't want a cute little puppy or a sweet, gentle kitten... I wanted a pig.

A big...

...fat...

...disgusting hog. One that would oink and squeal for me while I feed them endless snacks and grope their thickening belly paunch. One who wouldn't even notice how tight their clothes are getting because they're too lost in their own gluttony to think about what they're doing to themselves. One who eats until their fullness makes them horny, then allows that horniness to turn into even more hunger, until they're so stuffed that they can barely move...

I didn't think it'd be this easy to turn you into one, though. Honestly, I think you were made for this, fatass. The way the world around you just slips out of focus when I put food in front of you, and doesn't return until you're a grunting, oinking pile of lard on the floor, licking the plate clean after another proud display of gluttony for your owner...

Were you ever really a person, or has this greedy hog within you just been waiting to show itself all along? I don't know why I'm bothering to ask you. I haven't heard you speak in anything but oinks in so long... You're probably too far gone to even hear my words. Nothing more than a greasy, slobbish mess, crawling around at their owner's feet, waiting for their daily slop to chow down on while their fat ass gets fucked from behind.

You're not my partner anymore. You're my pet. My possession. My Hog. Not that Hog remembers ever being slim, or athletic, or disciplined. Hog just knows how useless and pathetic it is now. How disgustingly greedy and animalistic it let me make it. It used to obey a strict diet... Now it just obeys its owner when they slide a stick of butter down their throat and tell it to swallow. Hog is so good at doing as it's told now. Hog is too broken to have any shame any more...

Does it remember how long it used to spend picking out a cute outfit for our dates? How it would fret about looking chubby in its new top, or being too embarrassed to order itself a burger? Thank goodness those days are behind us... My Hog doesn't even think twice when I take it for a walk through town, crawling laboriously on all fours with a leash attached to its collar, its massive curtain of soft belly brushing the ground beneath it as I lead it to bakeries and cafes and restaurants, buying it treats for it to enjoy while passers-by stare at the disgusting, naked pig being paraded around. I don't know if Hog can hear their awful comments over the sound of its belly slapping against each thigh with each step, but maybe its best that Hog doesn't know what a gross and mindless glutton they think it is.

I should feel bad for turning my partner into my own perfect pet hog, but to be honest... I really don't. Because I realised long ago that despite everything, you did all this to yourself. All I did is put the trough in front of you; you ate up all the swill, all by yourself. You saw an opportunity to become such a fucking useless bucket of blubber and you grabbed it, never letting go, even now that you can't move because your gelatinous gut has grown too big and heavy for you to even crawl anymore.

Just keep oinking for me, Hog. It's all you're good for now. Let your owner enjoy their masterpiece. Eating is all you need to worry about...

[softeningscript]

Permission

Even I was surprised by how much you ballooned after I met you. I've teased and encouraged and pushed so many women into chubbiness, fatness, outright obesity, and—in the best way—I am a little used to it, the familiar ebbs and flows, the common hangs ups, the phrases that come to me like keys to unlock the hunger they're trying to set free, the satisfaction of watching someone set themselves on a path that their body is never going to let them leave. So many pigs in the world just waiting for permission.

But you were different.

I felt something different from you from the first, not just the pleasant and unexpected friendship that sprang up between us, or something deeper than the typical obedience I expect from my pets, but the complete lack of hesitation to make a growing, greedy, burping glutton out of yourself at my slightest touch. That first time I told you to stuff yourself and you did it, not just once, but spent the entire weekend stuffing yourself fulls of burgers and pizza for me until you were stuck on the couch, burping pathetically while I convinced you to get up and ice cream? You had the beautiful doughiness that comes from gaining weight and then losing it, something I'd admired on you for a long time and then, poof, it was gone practically overnight, replaced by that bulging taut fat only real pigs like you get.

Of course, I was obsessed with you. I'd never had a pig where we just outright skipped the stage of acceptance, accepting that there was something insatiable that lived inside them that would eat at them forever unless they fed it and fed it and fed it, that it was okay for effects of that pleasure to show on their body, that it was okay to like the effects of it, and that it was okay to hand the reigns of the hunger to their Mistress. But oh, you're so intoxicating--such a fine, fat, absolutely ravenous hunger inside you, such a sweet soul so ready to eat for me. Is it any wonder that you're eating yourself out of all your clothes?

Come here, piggy. Yes, on all fours, jiggling and oinking. Let Mommy feel how much of a good girl you're being for her. Let her nails dig into that beautiful collar of fat jiggling under your face. Let her trace the beautiful shape of your cheekbones under the slab of fat hiding them from the world, only to be experienced by her touch. Let her grab and pinch and slap and bite that big, beautiful, overworked gut of her pulling out almost to the floor, let her slap your ass, let her bite and pinch and suck on your tits until you're so close to orgasm you're begging her in your slow, needy sub voice to touch her. You won't touch yourself, of course. Not until you have permission.

[penelope-plump]

A little hint of things to come...

(May-July 2025)

[fayamn-moonlit]

There's gonna be a wonderful stuffed turkey for Thanksgiving if she started plumping up so early

[penelope-plump]

Well, now I've got a new goal 😵‍💫🦃