My goals with this blog are to interact with the feedism community more. I have a separate blog where I've been liking things for years, but I'm in a place where I can be more open and interactive with the community now :3
the leftism leaving people's bodies when you tell them fat people are human and actually it's fucked up to say that your worst nightmare is to look like us
the leftism leaving people's bodies when you say that it's fine if fat people are also unhealthy. yes you can absolutely be extremely fit and healthy while being fat but it's also literally fine if that fat person is unhealthy
Based on a scenario I found myself in this weekend:
You take your feedee to an AYCE (All You Can Eat) Sushi restaurant. You order for the both of you. Your plate has a modest two rolls to work through. For your feedee, they get two long plates with a total of ten or so rolls.
"Remember, you have to clean your plate or we'll get charged extra. Be good for me."
It takes time. California rolls, Caterpillar, Alaskan, Cucumber, and many more all go down bite by bite, piece by piece. They take small sips of water and ginger, but it expands the rice in their stomach just that little bit each time.
By the end, the nice button up you'd put them in is showing signs of how much they've eaten. They've definitely earned some belly rubs in the car <3
Okay what about a high class restaurant where they stuff you.
There is a dress code of formal wear of course, and the wait staff start off very aloof. They insist that you finish everything on your plate, and that you can’t leave until you’ve eaten every course.
The dishes are small but plentiful, and each is distinct but complimentary in flavour and texture. The variety keeps you going, as well as the glass of wine by your side that’s being constantly refilled.
And, as you eat more, the waitstaff seem to grow more… familiar, with you. A slight smile or a kind word eventually evolving into brief touches to your arm or back. This only serves to further motivate your indulgence, even as your fitted formalwear grows tight about your stomach.
Somewhere along the line the encouragement of the waitstaff becomes more blatant, their smiles twisting into smirks as they brush a hand against your belly and whisper for you to keep eating, placing eager forkfuls against your lips.
Between the endless parade of fine food, the stream of rich wines, and the groping caress of several hands, you start to lose yourself to the influx of pleasurable sensations…
Ngl one of the hotter parts of this kink for me is knowing that my dick used to be almost impressive, but now after burying 2" in fat I'm sat here with a strong 5". But an even hotter part to imagine is having a partner fattening me up and my dick just gets swaddled further and further, them having less and less access to it over the years until eventually lifting my gut off of my thighs is a complete necessity and they need to dig for a few seconds to get a nice grip on it.
I'd be so sensitive since I wouldn't be able to tend to myself, sexual please being something only they could provide me. The power play dynamics this offers within feedism are deliciously enticing, being ordered to finish a larger than usual meal or else I'm going to bed sexually frustrated. "One more bite" turning into 20 as I'm just a hog following a carrot on a stick without a clue of how far the destination is. An over fed and stuffed gut weighing me down, pinning me to wherever I'm sat, as my most sensitive parts I haven't been able to reach in years are toyed with, gut blocking my vision so I don't know what to expect next.
I love the uncertainty of it all. Can I finish this plate? Will my lover follow through on their word? Will they add more expectations? How long will I be able to last? How long ago was i pleasured? Have I been good enough for them to really deserve this? What are they gonna do down there? How long can I hold my belly up for them? But most importantly, how long can this cycle continue until neither of us can hold my belly up long enough and this specific pleasure is a fading memory?
ALL OF THIS. To be such a massive fatty that i can't even attempt to do things for myself, for my body to be buried in more and more lard, my dick getting harder to reach with every pound, is something i DESPERATELY NEED. I need to be a good piggy to earn pleasure. I need to grow. I need to get heavier. I need to become so helplessly fat that everything is decided for me, what i eat, when i eat, how much i eat, when I've earned the chance to be pleasured, and of course Im not allowed to leave the room, although at that rate I won't be able to stand much longer. Fuck, that thought is so hot to me. I dont want to be able to wear clothes ever again. I want to be so massive i break my bed. I need to be so far gone that food and pleasure are all i ever seem to have on my mind
I wanted to play with my chest pumps again since it's been so long. I need to set a timer or something next time b/c I went too long with the setting I had it on. I'm still healing, and it was days ago 😓
I need to research and see if there's any skin prep that would help too
I have this thing that lasts like a week or so at a time. I can't focus on much very well, and I forget to eat, sleep, etc. If I can focus, it'll be on one specific thing like my volunteer work or writing things to maybe post here.
All this to say, it'd be silly goofy if all I could focus on was feeding up a partner and supporting their gains when I get like that. I could imagine that holding a warm, soft body and getting pet on the head would be grounding too.
“Steady, my darling,” I say, my warm hand settling on your pudgy hip to steady you as we stand in front of the mirror, you in front of me, my body pressed up against your back. Your low groan brings a smirk to my lips and I rest my chin on your shoulder, my free hand roaming the opposite hip, pressing into the soft layer of fat and giving it a squeeze.
“Sorry,” you say with a labored breath. “I’m so fucking full, baby. Hard to stand up at all.”
“I know.” My smile grows as I meet your eyes in the mirror. “That’s the point.” You roll your eyes before returning my gaze. I notice a flush on your cheeks and I laugh.
“Embarrassed?” I ask, voice playful. “How weird, when you were only just begging me to do this after eating everything in sight.” I see your cock twitch in your boxers, straining further against the fabric, and I try to keep my composure - something that gets harder every time we do this.
“And?” You’re almost pouting now, your hands resting gingerly on your swollen gut. You don’t have a rebuttal, as we both know it’s true.
I let it slide, instead much more interested in the image in the mirror. My gaze shifts darker as I take in your gluttonous form, my practiced hands sliding down your sides to grab handfuls of your overhang.
“Fuck, baby,” you groan as I jostle your stomach.
I hum in agreement. I’m sure you can feel my heart thudding behind you and my own face heats up despite my efforts to stay cool. “So full,” I murmur, pressing down ever so gently into the top of your taught stomach. “I love inspecting my handiwork. Do you think you’ve gotten bigger?”
You nod, a soft belch coming up at all the movement.
“Where?” I ask. I pinch a soft lovehandle. “Here? Or maybe…here?” My other hand moves to squeeze your plump chest. You moan again and lean back into me.
“What do you think, baby?” I ask again. I bring a hand back around behind you and grab a handful of your ass, squeezing there too before letting go with a light smack.
“I don’t…um,” you gasp as my hands continue to roam your body, jiggling and squeezing your most delicious parts, stopping only to soothe your stuffed gut, still so firm from everything I fed you. I meet your gaze in the mirror again and I can see the need plain as day on your face. I’m sure you can see it on mine, too.
“Oh fuck,” I breathe. I’m frozen my mouth is dry; I’ve realized with a jolt of arousal that I can’t reach your dick standing behind you anymore. I turn you around and back you up against the wall, taking care not to put too much pressure on your stomach. One hand reaches down to brush your bulge while the other pulls you in for a deep kiss. You moan, pressing your hips into my hand and gripping my waist for support.
I pull away and lean close to your ear. “Get on the bed, my love.”
On Saturday June 14 11AM Pacific / 2PM Eastern / 7PM London please join FFL for an inclusive gathering where we celebrate our identities and our stories.
Growing with Pride is more than just an event; it’s a space where LGBTQIA2S++ feedists can come together to connect and share. There will be exploration and discussion on the intersectionality of our identities. Also featuring Queer Feedist Bingo!
Imagine having a roommate who does odd jobs to help with rent. Sometimes they're at cleaning gigs and other times food delivery. One evening, they come home clutching a business card a client gave them.
"It's one of those paid studies! You know, like, medical treatments."
You don't hear about it again for a couple weeks. You'd assumed it was something like a sleep study or other mundane thing. He again returns, this time with a thick stack of paperwork. It's a mess of contracts, liability waivers, and other documents dripping in legalese. When you ask if he's sure the study is safe, he just waves you off.
"It'll totally be worth it. Look at how much I'll make!"
He's not supposed to talk much about the study, but they send him home with instructions for how to administer the medication they provided. You already give him his T-shot every other week, so when he gives you puppy eyes you just roll yours and help him out.
"What side effects will this have?" You ask to distract from the injection.
"Nothing too crazy," he tries. As soon as your eyebrows raise in an admonishing look, he's quick to amend.
"Well, they were talking about weight gain and higher sex drive. All that happened when I started T though. It's not a big deal."
You both quickly found it was a big deal. Before the mystery medication, he could at least pleasure himself quietly. Now he can't seem to help but moan like an animal in heat. The sound permeates the walls of your shared space in the morning and at night. Warmth pools in your stomach, but you try to ignore it.
Then you catch sight of his car a month into the study. The back seat was filled with an almost impressive array of fast-food wrappers and takeout containers. Chinese, steakhouse, burgers, shakes, Indian, and many more decorated the floor and seats.
"You can't blame the shot when you start getting fat from all this."
He grimaces, "I get hungry driving around all day. If I'm picking up an order for someone else, I might as well grab something while I'm there." It's clear you're not impressed when you hand him a garbage bag to clean up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your warning doesn't dissuade his new habits in the slightest. In fact, you find him teary-eyed and surrounded by more food only days later. His frame is swallowed by the massive throw blanket you keep in the living room.
"What's wrong?" You ask, moving around the plastic and paper on the floor. He mumbles some things, cheeks getting pinker by the second.
"Words, please." There's space on the couch to sit a little closer.
He swallows and admits, "my clothes don't fit."
"What do you mean?" Your hands are pulling away his blanket before he can protest. Your throat bobs. A sudden dryness takes away all words as you're met with the sight of his belly. Stretchmarks reach up from under the band of his boxers and almost make it over the swell of new flesh. It spills between the v of his pants and crests just beyond the zipper. Even the button is missing.
"That can't be comfortable."
He shakes his head.
"Get them off then. You obviously can't go out like that, and there's no point being uncomfortable in the house." The most indignant squeak escapes him when your fingers hook into the waistband and begin shimmying his pants down. His hand latches onto your wrist.
"Don't..."
So, you let go and look up. "It isn't anything I haven't seen before, if that's the concern." He shifts around, the new weight wobbling.
"Well, what do you want to do?" you ask instead. But his belly answers with a loud, long rumble.
"I just ate an hour ago," he whines. A couple tears finally drip down his cheeks. You wipe them away.
"This study is really messing with you, huh? Are you sure you want to keep going?"
He nods vehemently, "it's too much money to pass up. I can lose all this when the study is over." His gaze looks down at his lap, or what he can still see of it.
"Could I send you some money to grab a couple pairs of jeans?" You don't answer right away.
"I think you should stay home."
"What?"
"This," your hand rests on his tummy. "Is just from one month. The study is nowhere near complete. There's not much sense in buying new clothes if you'll just outgrow them that quickly. Besides, you look miserable trying to handle all this and your gigs. Take a break."
He sniffles, "you're messing with me."
"I have teased you before, but not right now." His stomach reminds you both that its hungry.
"Fine," he swipes at his face. "I can't focus on anything else anyways." You bite your tongue just in time to prevent a reflexive 'good boy' from escaping. Instead, you hurry to the kitchen to hide your own blush and get him something to eat.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It all becomes a routine scarily easily. You come home to him gorging himself on either takeout or the meals you'd prepped. He'd be exhausted from all the energy he expends just growing. Or you'd assumed that was all that was happening. He'd started covering himself with the blanket more often again. The poor thing would claim he was cold, but he's more insulated than ever.
Your hand comes up to feel his forehead. He's warm, but not feverish at all. "Are you feeling sick or something?"
"I'm okay," he fails to convince even himself.
"Then why are you hiding again?" He hugs himself when you question him. The face he makes isn't missed.
"Show me," you deadpan. After some prodding and wheedling, he relents and opens his cocoon. There are paper towels folded and stuffed under his shirt. They're soaked through.
"That explains why I've had to buy so many more rolls lately." You lift a sopping corner. The cold air on sensitive flesh makes him whimper.
"Have you mentioned this to the people at the clinic?"
"They said that other people are having the same reaction. The nurse didn't sound concerned."
You pull out your phone and start typing away. He makes a questioning noise. You hold one of his hands while you continue with your task.
"These pumps can be here in a couple of days," you murmur as they go into your cart.
"Pumps? You mean like..."
"You're lactating, so yes." The phone gets put away. Carefully, you trace the stretchmarks that are forming down his growing breasts before removing the makeshift nursing pads.
"Are you too full to stand? You should take a shower."
"No, but I'm so tired." He sighs and attempts to pull his shirt back down and over at least his upper belly.
"I can get your shower chair set up," you offer. It'd been hard not to do little things to assist him after seeing how fatigued he was. It wasn't the first time you'd set up the chair, but something was stirring in you from seeing the fat of his chest glistening with his own milk.
Standing alone in the bathroom, you couldn't help taking advantage of the small moment. Your hand, shaking with sudden need, begins to snake past your fly. Just before you could really do much, a knock echoes off the tile.
"Are you alright? It's been a minute." He asks, the door swinging open. You both freeze. Apologies crest and crash like turbulent waves, but never quite make it out of your mouth.
"I'll just go," you eventually manage. You brush by him. You don't mean to slam your door, but the mortification dominates anything else you might be feeling.
The sound of the pipes coming to life in the shower starts up. Very faintly, you hear the sounds of soap bottles popping open and water sloshing against the shower walls. Before you can continue on with feeling bad, there's another sound. Little whimpers and sighs punctuated by your name.
A feeling hot and heavy suffuses through you. You're almost tempted to start fooling around again. The only thing that stops you is hearing your name again. It's louder, more desperate.
You find yourself knocking at the bathroom door.
"Everything okay?"
"Get in here already!" You can hear the wanting and the tears. You stumble in and tug the curtain aside. The sight that greets you is divine.
Every curve, sudsy and wet, glows under the light. Bright, cherry red colors not only his cheeks, but his ears and neck.
"Can you touch me? Please?" He sounds so unsure of himself. That wouldn't stand.
One hand grasps his chin as you move in. You pour everything into kissing him. Every moment when you've harbored depraved, hungry thoughts and fantasies play in your mind. Your other hand finds one of his engorged nipples and begins to play. Warm droplets of milk mingle with the water and steam.
You pull away just enough, "you look so good like this. So swollen, so fat." He can't answer. He's too busy grinding down and rolling his hips against the chair. In a feverish daze, you strip your own clothes and join him in the shower.
When you're both done, you realize the water has gone a bit cold. Your roommate is in a daze. You don't remember when you made room for yourself between his thighs. Hickeys and bite marks adorn his plush belly hang and his softened thighs.
You turn off the water and begin to lotion him up. He's a bit more alert when you finish and hand him a towel.
"Was all that okay?" You brace yourself for whatever he says.
"I just wish we'd done that sooner," he whispers. You kiss him on the forehead and cheeks until he can't help but laugh.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After that night, neither of you bother trying to hide affection or attraction. Even if you did, evidence of every dalliance and indulgence pile up on his frame.
The study ended a week ago. Neither of you ever actually learned what it had been trying to accomplish. The nurse advised that the milk should taper off as soon as you both stop using the pumps. As soon as you both get in the car though, it's obvious what you both want. You squeeze his hand before starting the car.
"Did you want to switch up the flavor of lactation cookies next time I buy them?" You ask, the bigger question left unsaid.
"No, I like what we're buying now." He answers both anyways.
He also asks to have a special dinner to celebrate. Of course, you oblige. You'd helped him pick out nice outfits that fits his new frame after all. Every outing was a chance to show off your partner and how well they've grown for you.
Their chest was hot and heavy, the pumps at home getting used multiple times a day. His belly was filled around the clock to keep up with his growth and lactation. It wobbled with every breath he took. What you were most enamored with, though, was the way his hips have flared and spread. The fat fills the passenger seat and presses on both the console and door.
It wasn't a far drive to the restaurant. It was a quick thing to find a secluded parking spot in the back. Your hands snake up his shirt and tweak the sensitive buds of his udders.
The poor thing gets worked up so easily. You have him lick your fingers clean of his milk before you carefully set his clothes to rights. A quick peck meets his panting lips.
"Good cow. Let's get this belly filled, hm? You have more growing to do."
