JBB: An Artblog!
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Not today Justin
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
styofa doing anything
dirt enthusiast
AnasAbdin
shark vs the universe
h
Today's Document
noise dept.
cherry valley forever
YOU ARE THE REASON
🪼
Janaina Medeiros
Kaledo Art
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
if i look back, i am lost
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@senzamagrezza
A feeder not hiding his truth and his normal 🍕 🍕 🍕
I am the lard cheerleader // making you crave obesity // Feeder turned obeseologist | Your best resource for worst nutritional advice 🍔 fat is beautiful, fat is fun, lard is everything // Bariatric Romantic // in my 40s
This is wonderful progress to see!
The legs of a dancer, right?
True.
Growing fatter non stop to make sure your whole body jiggles and dances when you're wheezing hard
i’m trying really hard to convince her that the bed is the best option for her aching obese body. a hog like her should lay on her side all the time, so that the ever growing belly can rest against the mattress instead of challenging gravity, wasting precious calories.
i’m also monitoring how much time she actually stays in bed. sometimes she falls asleep in the middle of the day from eating a lot and her hours in bed reach like 19 hours out of 24.
can’t wait for the day she’ll try to get up like she usually does and she’ll realize she can’t stand anymore for whatever reason: ankles or feet too swollen up from insulin and blood sugar, or maybe her articulations simply stopped supporting that much of a terminally obese hog.
i want to see the fear in her eyes. i want to hear her heart skip some beats because she thought she’d have more time before failing to stand from that point to the exact minute of her fattening and agonizing end. i want to hear her rasping breath trying to utter some worried words and i want to press the funnel to her lips and simply reassuring her that I’m gonna take care of all her needs without her having ever again to touch the floor with her soles.
i want to dry her tears while i stretch that big balloon stomach out with extremely caloric slop and to listen to her organs struggling to keep up with me and my plans for her.
i want her eyes to go cloudy from diabetic retinopathy, i want to blind her with so much sugar that she’ll not even understand what i’m feeding her. i want her little sausagy fingers to go numb with sugar, i want to put a nasogastric feeding tube into her intestines so that she’ll gain weight 24/7 without even me needing to move a finger for it. well, i’ll do it anyways… i mean, i’ll keep feeding her high calories fried junk while she is fed slop by the tube.
i don’t care if she suffers, she’s mine to do whatever i want with her. she’s my fattening pig, and i cherish her in the same way a farmer cherishes their prize-winning fattest hog.
she’s my pet, hell, even less than a pet sometimes, since i’d never do anything like this to my cat. she’s my first project and i love her so much that she has to expire exactly the way i programmed her to.
until then, i’ll simply keep reanimating her to fatten her up to my wishes.
she cannot die if i don’t allow her to.
(i honestly hope she sees this post before i get home from work, so that i can get to taste some of that fear as soon as possible)
I'm your Feedee
If I were your feedee, I would never ask you to stop.
I’d want you to walk into the room, look at my mass spilling heavily over the edges of the bed, and I wouldn’t want you to tell me I was beautiful. I’d want you to look at me with the same cold detachment of an engineer inspecting a structural failure right before the collapse. I’d want you to make me feel like a biological error that can’t be unseen: massive, heavy, unforgettable, and unforgivable. And then I’d want you to absolutely forbid me from correcting it.
I’d want you to use food not as a reward, but as a rope. I want you to cook me a meal so obscenely dense, so oversaturated with butter, melted cheese, and pure cholesterol, that just the smell of it steals the breath from my lungs.
And when you bring me the tray, I don't want you to set it down in front of me.
I want you to rest it on me. Right on the tightest, highest curve of my distended belly. I want to feel the burning heat of it searing through the stretched skin and the purple stretch marks. I want you to force me to eat without my hands. No forks, no spoons. Make me lean forward, as much as my lard buried neck will physically allow, to bite into the grease like a sow gorges in her trough, while the grease and the dippings run down my obese unhealthy chest, hiding in the sweaty crevices underneath my obese flat breasts.
While I fight to swallow, panting, struggling against my own diaphragm crushed by the visceral fat, I want you to take the exact measurements of my breakdown.
Put a heavy hand on my stomach, right where the tension is absolute. Press down. Make me feel it, that dull, throbbing ache of a capacity violently exceeded. And make me repeat out loud, with my mouth full, that I am chewing away my mobility, bite after bite. That I am burying every last remnant of my humanity under nothing but overfed and overgrown layers of lard at its purest.
I want you to force me to do something simple: walking, getting to stand up, try to touch the bottom of my belly, or raise my arms. And when I fail, when my knees groan and my joints scream for mercy under the crushing load, I want you to show absolutely zero compassion. Just order me to sit back down and finish the plate.
Make me a container. Isolate me from the world. Make it so my entire radius of existence is reduced to the distance between my open mouth and the hand feeding me my next dose. I want the wet, heavy sound of my chewing and the wheeze of my shallow breath to be the only soundtrack to my own ruin.
Destroy me until the mere thought of getting out of bed becomes mathematically impossible.
And in that exact moment, when I know there is absolutely no escape from my own greed... I want you to bring me the final dessert.
You dream of being too fat to move, but you still rely on momentum and awkward rocking motions to heave your massive body out of chairs, couches and beds, pretending you still have control. This ritual forces you to remove that momentum and confront the true, obese weight of the lard pinning you down.
Ritual XVIII: the Gravity Trap
You all share the same lazy fantasy. You dream of waking up so unimaginably obese, so smothered in endless pounds of sagging blubber, that you literally cannot figure out how to lift yourself out of a chair. You want your belly to be a physical impossibility. Today you stop dreaming about the collapse. Today you start measuring how close you are to it.
The Directive: For your next binge, you will not sit on a couch or a soft bed where you can roll away. You will sit on a hard, armless dining chair. Eat until your stomach is distended, tight, and painfully pressing against your thighs. Eat until your breathing is shallow.
When the plates are completely empty, you will perform the Gravity Trap.
The Mechanic: Do not lean forward. Do not use your arms to push off your knees or the edge of the seat. Sit perfectly upright, your back flat against the chair. Let your massive, overstuffed apron hang free and heavy in your lap.
Now, using only your leg muscles and your core, try to stand straight up. No rocking. No swinging your weight. Just pure, vertical lift.
Feel the exact moment your biology fails you. Feel the grotesque, disproportionate density of your own gut anchoring your center of gravity to the furniture beneath you. Your thighs will tremble, your knees will scream, but the sheer tonnage of the lard pouring over your lap will refuse to let you rise.
You are structurally trapped by your own greed.
Stay there. Acknowledge that you have successfully eaten away your leverage.
Whisper to the mass keeping you pinned:
"I have built a body too heavy to lift."
Do not attempt to stand again until you have completely accepted the humiliation of your failing architecture. Repeat until completely immobile.
Ritual XV: The Ache of Incompletion
You know the feeling. The binge is supposedly over. You are lying back, breathless. The skin across your belly is pulled so tight you can feel it. Your stomach is a hard, heavy boulder pressing up against your diaphragm, making every shallow breath an effort. It hurts. You feel like you cannot possibly swallow another bite.
That pain is your body lying to you. It is just your biology resisting the expansion you were meant for.
The Directive: The next time you hit that wall of pain, you will not close your eyes. You will not rub your belly to soothe it. You will weaponize the ache.
Lie perfectly still. Let the heavy, bloated pressure settle deep in your gut. Take your hands and pin them flat to your sides. You are not allowed to comfort the fat.
Now, focus entirely on the tightest, most painful point of your distended stomach. Every time that spot throbs, every time you have to take a short, gasping breath because the lard is crushing your lungs, I want you to repeat this exact phrase in your head:
"This pain means I am still too small."
Let it echo. "If I were truly massive, this wouldn't hurt. This pain means the body is still fighting. It means I haven't surrendered enough."
Stay in that discomfort for five full minutes. Let the nausea mix with the realization that your current size is inadequate. Let the feeling of being "too full" warp into the terrifying, exhilarating realization that you are actually empty.
When the five minutes are up, the pain will no longer feel like a limit. It will feel like an insult to your potential.
Stand up. Roll out of bed. Waddle back to the kitchen. You are not eating because you are hungry. You are eating to punish the body for resisting, and to reward your obese body lard.
You are eating to permanently break the mechanism that tells you to stop.
Look at the food. Ignore the nausea.
Say: "More. I need more." And force it down.
Feedees
Someone like you is always so relentlessly projected into the future, but the second something drags you back, your head just explodes.
I mean the things you tell yourself, the questions you ask in the dark: How much fatter will I get? How huge will I be in a year, in five, in ten? What will my absolute maximum weight be? How much longer will I even live like this?
Do any such questions really matter?
That’s an endless stream of thoughts. Once it starts, you can't even consider the possibility of stopping it.
Until you see something completely random that breaks the loop. And in that exact moment, even if it doesn't last long, you finally get to enjoy everything you’ve achieved. Every single pound of fat.
And the fatter you get, the more powerful that feeling becomes, till it becomes permanent. And you just eat. Nothing else.
Because it's only in those moments that you truly remember what you looked like, what you felt like, when you first started.
Heart of Lard II - 1
The cabin of the black sedan had become, over the course of the last year, his precision caliper.
He didn't need a scale to measure the disaster. He only needed to observe how the interior geometry deformed, month after month, to accommodate her obese weight. When he had bought that car, the passenger seat was a triumph of pristine synthetic leather and negative space. A time consisting of dozens of kilos ago, back when she could still sit down without too much difficulty, almost cross her not-yet-so-swollen ankles, and toss her bag into the empty space between her not-yet-completely-destroyed knees and the glove compartment.
Tonight, that volume simply no longer existed.
Outside, the fine November rain was exhausting its final drops, reflecting on the asphalt the distant lights of the ring road and the intermittent flashes of red traffic lights. The humidity sealed the cabin, condensing on the windows as if to lock inside the scents of past binges: sweet and savory, countless, exaggerated, increasingly frequent and intense. The condensation acting as a memory and physical imprint of how he had sealed, mouthful after mouthful, her fat destiny.
He rolled down the window and remained parked at the wheel, engine idling, favorably positioned just a few meters from her front door. He watched the silhouette of her clumsy, awkward body step out into the yellow halo of the streetlamp. She was saturated with lard. Drops of water beaded on her face, stuffed with pounds of fat, mixing with the sweat that already coated her forehead just from the sheer effort of waddling. The building's front door was much wider than a normal interior door, yet, out of pure habit dictated by her bulk, she waddled through it sideways.
He watched her with that cruel, smug half-smile curving his lips. He was savoring the disaster he had helped inflate with lard.
The operation of exiting the building had already exhausted her. The operation of getting into the car, they both knew, would be anything but a given.
She first had to let go of that obese fat ass, sinking into the seat with a dull thud that visibly tilted the car to the right. Then, she tried to leverage her arm—a limb now thickened by rolls of incredibly dense, pendulous fat—to drag her massive thighs inside. But she failed, obviously. She leaned forward, desperately trying to grab her own leg to lift it, but the mountain of her belly blocked every useless movement, colliding with the overflowing volume of the thigh itself. Too much lard everywhere. But never enough for him.
She stayed there, wedged halfway in, already panting. "I can't do it... it's too tight," she whined, adopting that bratty tone, complaining about the trap he himself had built around her. "My back hurts and it's all your fault..."
He didn't answer. He got out of the car, walked around, and positioned himself behind her. Without a word of comfort, he sank his hands into the soft flesh of her hams. His fingers dug into the dense cellulite, manipulating and shoving her bulk with the brisk force of someone handling heavy livestock. He forcefully wedged her into the seat, then grabbed the door and slammed it with methodical firmness, compressing metal and plastic against the flesh of her hip that was already spilling over the perimeter.
The sound of her panting immediately filled the car when he got back behind the wheel. Her breathing was short, shallow, paced by a slight wheeze. The simple act of defying gravity to get into the car cost her oxygen. He didn't look at her immediately. He let the silence highlight her wheezing, and he savored it the exact same way she savored the blocks of butter and Nutella he regularly used to put her back in her place when she disobeyed. He had fattened her up so much specifically for this: to be able to hear her heavy breathing always, in every single moment, and to know with absolute certainty that this feral exhaustion was solely and exclusively his doing, placing his signature and branding his mark onto her thin, soft, stretch-marked skin.
He watched the dashboard while she fumbled uselessly with the seatbelt, now equipped with an extender. Her stubby fingers, also made clumsy by the fat, desperately tried to navigate around the lard sack melting over her thighs. The hard plastic was already pressing against her belly, rounder and more convex than ever. The visceral mountain where their hands instinctively crossed in every moment of intimacy was no longer contained and cradled by the seat; it dominated it.
He started the car.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked, even though they both knew the answer. The car was already loaded with caloric expectation.
"We're going to test how much this container is willing to give way tonight," he replied, merging into the suburban traffic. "And I don't know if the reinforced seat of this car is ready for the load you'll be coming home with, let alone you."
She huffed, trying to maintain a shred of dignity in her tone. "You keep treating me like a balloon to inflate. I swear, if you make me pop tonight, I'll puke in your ca—"
She didn't finish the sentence. With a fluid, invisible motion, he had fished a king-size chocolate and caramel bar from god knows where, unwrapping it instantly. Before she could even realize it, he pressed it against her lips, forcing her mouth open. Her instinct overpowered her rebellion. Her jaws opened and sank into the caramel. She ate. She ate like the greedy fat cow she had become, her eyes closing for a moment, the sweet taste shutting down her brain and humiliating her soul and tongue.
Her hunger was no longer gastric; after all, she had already spent the entire day eating. It was an obsessive buzzing that he knew how to perceive. It radiated from her dense body, a frequency that disturbed the normality in which other people lived. He knew he could feel her sweaty thighs, compressed against each other by the tightness of the space, generating moist heat.
The yellow McDonald's sign appeared in the distance, a beacon of ruin in the wet night.
(..to be continued..)
Actually stood up for once lol
Who’s going to help me get this belly to hang lower?
The shape and the size of that apron is telling me exactly how many months she has left before the mattress claims her permanently. She's actively building the walls of her own immobility and only asking for more bricks.
I need growth to feel love
What can I say? When I’m bored I like to test out my core strength for shits and giggles even though I fail every time 😭😂
Peak Feedee Things pt. 7362
The Iron Anchor The food coma is an escape. You pass out so you don't have to deal with the immediate reality of what you've done to your body. You let sleep numb the heavy, bloated ache. You are running away from the best part.
When the binge is over, do not go to your soft bed. Do not prop yourself up with pillows. Move to the floor. Lie flat on your back on the hardest surface in your room. Put your arms flat at your sides.
Set a timer for 10 minutes. Do not move. Do not bend your knees. Do not roll to your side to ease the pressure. Lie perfectly flat and let gravity pull that massive, overfed gut down into your spine.
In those 10 minutes, you will feel every single pound you have gained. You will feel the exact weight of your helplessness.
The floor will not yield to you. You will realize that you are pinned to the earth by your own greed. Don't close your eyes. Stare at the ceiling and feel yourself turning into a static object.
You are an iron anchor. And you are never floating again.
manifesting a future where I'm 300lbs
manifesting a future where I'm 400lbs
manifesting a future where I'm 500lbs
manifesting a future where I'm 600lbs
manifesting a future where I'm 700lbs
manifesting a future where I'm 800lbs
Manifesting
right?
Keep going
Err.
That's your only goal no matter the scale
Teasing you, but I'm weaponizing your laziness (affectionately).
"I know it hurts to sit up straight right now. Just lean back and let the fat pool. You don't need to try so hard when you're this heavy."
"Did you really think I wouldn't notice how hard you were breathing just tying your shoes? It's okay. You're not supposed to be that athletic anymore. You're supposed to be dense."
"Aww, look at you trying to hold that stomach in. Stop pretending. Let it drop onto your lap where it belongs. Show me how much you’ve actually surrendered."
"You said you were too full three bites ago. But look at how easily your jaw keeps moving when you don't have to think about it. The Pig always finds room for more junk, doesn't it?"
"I know your stretchmarks are stinging itchy today. But you asked for this expansion, didn't you? Every red line is just proof that you belong to the Inertia now."
"You look so genuinely helpless when you try to roll over. Don't fight the gravity, baby. Just stay stuck. It’s so much more authentic than trying to be something you will never be ever again".
"Oh, did that chair crack a little? Good. It means the human furniture is starting to reject you. Soon, the bed will be the only place you fit. And the next piece you'll destroy with your obese weight".
"I know you told me to stop... but we both know that was just to watch your relief when I handed you the next plate. You're so addicted to my reckless feeding".
this was posted in a fat liberationist twitter group i'm a part of and it is unironically a cornerstone of my philosophy and politics
Show up for flab ✊ this is fun but so true and needed too
Haven't seen this getting reblogged in too long so I'm fixing it
We live in an age where being too passionate about something is bad and I don't worry I'm only getting more and more into the things I love
