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people are so quick to judge feeders as if this fetish is forced upon the feedees. realize: if practiced properly, this kink is 100% consensual and desired by both parties. we want to get fat, it isn't just a bunch of predators forcing us to gain! your response was very beautifully said. so much hatred towards fat folks and so much misunderstanding surrounding this kink.

Mostly just replying to let everyone see this v. good point!

I don’t have a lot to add, except to say that I get off so easily as a thin person; no-one’s levelling hate at me because of my size. So times like this are when I (and we, as feeders in this fetish, especially my fellow thin ones), really ought to be standing up for fat folks and being vocal in our support both in and - most importantly - out of kink.

#also: thank you bb!#bratguts

prompt: hand-feeding someone until their buttons pop ✨💓

Maybe it’s the long and lazy nature of picnics that did it; there’s something about siting on a blanket spread on the grass, with the breeze blowing through the leaves above that lends itself to idle nibbling. That’s what I’ll tell myself, anyway.

I’ve brought two kinds of cheese, a little charcuterie, a pound of cherries. My hands make quick work of slicing some nice ripe figs and peaches with a little paring knife. I baked a loaf of bread and a tray of scones; there’s butter, jam, and cream to go with them. I’m wearing a cute white linen dress which flows out around me as I sit. Your top and shorts show off all the ways you’ve got softer over the summer.

You started by sampling everything I prepared, very neat and polite. But when you said ‘would you pass me a scone?’, I brought it all the way to your lips, and you bit into it happily. This kind of thing has become regular in our meals together; why else would those shorts look so tight?

I should probably slow down. You’ve eaten half the bread; the cheese is nearly gone. I think this as I wrap italian ham around a thick slice of peach and place it in your mouth, allowing my fingers to play along your bottom lip as I withdraw. We keep going like this; I can’t stop. You’re too darling, the little noises of contentment and pleasure you make with each morsel too exciting.

God, you should have retired this whole outfit a month ago. It’s my fault though, enabling your life of indulgence. By the last scone, which I break off into bite-sized chunks and dip into cream and jam before feeding you, your waistband is digging deep into your gut. A fig, a slice of brie, more peach. Your breathing has changed, shallower now, from the food you’ve consumed and the confines of your clothes. A handful of cherries, one by one. As you lick juice from my fingertips your short breaths become a small startled gasp; your top button has slipped open. A little well of pudge peeks through the gap. You place your hand gently on your belly and even that causes the second button to come loose.

Bread; butter; a plump fig. Like a chain, the final two buttons come undone. Your belly surges into the breach, round and very full. The late afternoon sun bathes it in gold. I place my hands on it, admiring your size. ‘Next time, you should wear bigger shorts’.

#bratguts #feedism writing