#make me jiggle

[bigfatbob4you]

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

If you’ll rub my belly

I’ll eat so much more for you.

Art. Hang it in the poetry Louvre.

[bigfatbob4you]

I don’t want you to tell me how fat I am…

…anyone can do that. He’ll, I can do that myself with a scale, or a tape measure, or even just by looking down and knowing that instead of seeing my feet, I see an increasing sack of flab, spilling over my waistband, binding my feet, poking out of the bottom of that shirt that fit a month ago and now shows off those new stretch marks, love handles, and inches for you to pinch.

No, I want you to tell me how fat you’re going to MAKE ME GROW. Will I be three times your size? Pfft. You can’t be more than 110 lbs soaking wet, honey. Let’s start the bidding at five times your size, as a floor. Who knows what the ceiling will be.

What’s that? We’ll have to special order a scale because I just broke the 1000 lb capacity one? I guess we can look in the farm supply catalogue for a livestock scale…

You want my upper arm measurement to be HOW many times larger than your waist measurement? I guess we’re going to need a bigger tape measure…for sure the 200 in one won’t go around MY waist in that scenario…

You want to take me out in public, parade me around and show me off, mock teasing me for my unbridled appetite that you so carefully nurtured? Fondling my enormous moobs in public, jiggling my belly, drawing stares from all around at the unthinkable pile of lard you have on display…

And when we get home, the answer is never “I’m full” or “No more.” You’ve combined feeding me with unimaginable pleasure, so that I can’t get enough. It’s not when I’m full; it’s when you SAY I’m full. And baby, you ALWAYS think I look hungry, so there’s barely a moment you’re not shoving something in my mouth or funneling something down my insatiable maw.

You always said don’t worry about a thing…I have BIG plans for you, and you did. Tell me about them. How you’d feed and stuff me, how you’d tease me for letting myself go, and how you’d gently, tenderly, and lovingly explore, caress and fondle every inch of blubber we’ve put on my body…

[bigfatbob4you]

Dear FFAs:

If you aren’t

1) teasing me about how fat I’ve become — pointing out my wobbly globular gut, noting that my moobs are bigger than your boobs, marveling that my arms are bigger around than your waist;

2) telling me about how much fatter you’re going to make me — going from 450 to 500 to 600 and beyond, dreaming of a triple digit waist measurement for me, or envisioning how my warm soft fat will engulf you if I’m on top of you; or

3) taking me out to dinner at the buffet, filling my plate over and over partially to save me from burning any calories by having to get up myself, partially because you know which foods are the fattiest, and partially because you love picking out everything that I’m going to stuff myself with before you have to help me up and watch me slowly waddle out, a massive of jiggling flab until we get home where you’ll rub my poor distended belly until there’s room for you to funnel me full of WG shake and follow that cycle all weekend…

…why not? Let’s GO!!!! Fill up my mentions and inbox with how you’d fill me up. Maybe you can be the one to live out your fantasy…and mine…

[bigfatbob4you]

Insatiable

Why? How? I don’t know. But sometimes, with no warning, I’m a black hole. I eat everything in sight with no compunction, no limits, no feeling of ever being satisfied by the puny amount of food available to me.

I relish those times as a beacon of pleasure and clarity and just living uncomplicated, focusing on nothing but eating everything that I can get my hands on. It’s almost like being in a trance, only I’m fully aware of everything going on around me — I just don’t care because in that moment, stuffing myself with EVERYTHING is all that matters to my animal brain.

What’s missing, though, is the shared experience. I want a female feeder to share this with. I want her cheering me on, encouraging me, pushing food on me, making sure that I don’t stop until she’s ready for me to stop if we run out of food. I want that euphoria to last, and I want her to help me stay in that moment, frantically shoveling food into me, waiting for it to manifest as tens, even hundreds of pounds of blubber, added to my moobs, my thighs, my arms, my neck, and most of all, to that belly which is slowly — or maybe not so slowly - growing to Brobdingnagian proportions, especially in contrast to her, as the numbers separating our weights grow increasingly farther and farther apart.

After, I want her to lay next to me, cuddling that massively swollen gut, packed almost to the point of bursting. I want her to soothe that quivering bloated mass, gently rubbing it, exploring the existing vast folds and creases of lard that we’ve only just begun expanding. I want her to whisper praise to me, words of pride and encouragement at my accomplishments, while at the same time pushing me to go further, to eat more, to become…

FATTER.

That’s what I want. Is that too much to ask for? I don’t know. We’ll see.