I can’t believe what I’m doing to myself. 😵💫 I’m gonna be chugging heavy cream every day this month (and I doubt I’ll stop after that). I’m not gonna lie I cheated and started a couple days ago and I already feel so fat. Anyways, if anyone wants to watch me blow up this month you know where to find me 😉
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Double bill this time, I recorded this from 2 different angles, wasn't sure which I thought was better overall, so I'm going to post both.
People asked how easy is it for me to move around, so I showed you how I tend to get on and off of my bed! That bed is a standard double bed for the record.
An open and honest podcast to discuss the day to day realities of gaining and encouraging.http://thegaininglife.tumblr.com/
Interview with Cowboygainer4u at 639 pounds, in about 2014? Talks about how open he is about his gains and how this cost him his family and friends, how boyfriends lusted for him but were ashamed to be seen with him, how he dreams of immobility even after his first heart attack. It’s a shame the podcast tumblr shut down, because I still think it’s important to hear these discussions. It’s rather dark sometimes, and really highlights the importance of community support and understanding… and cash. Man, we need gaining communes.
The story so far: Day 1 / Day 35 / Day 90 / Day 103
***
You press into your belly, trying to see the number. You can’t.
“You’re 352 pounds,” I say. It’s an impossible amount, but it’s correct. No doubt your medication has sped things up more than either of us ever expected.
“Damn,” you mumble. We’ve been waiting for you to cross the 350 mark all week, and now you have, with two pounds to spare.
I help you step off the scale and hold you tight. My hands grip your back rolls. I go in for a congratulatory kiss, but you turn to the side at the last second.
“What’s wrong? Aren’t you excited?”
“Yeah, but…”
“You’re worried about the future,” I say.
With your nightly cakes (and the medication that basically stopped your metabolism), it only took you 141 days to go from lean muscle to… to this. A wide, heavy blob of a person with curtains of flab dangling off your arms and torso, with shapeless thighs permanently pressed together, with sloping moobs crowned by potato-sized nipples. Because of how you’ve gained, you’re a lot softer than other 350-pounders. You’re basically all fat now, and we’re not even halfway through the year.
“Yeah,” you mumble.
I cup your apron and flop it around. “You’re beautiful.”
“I know!” you say. “But… try to think of what I’ll be next year. Or five years from now. Or…”
I shut you up with a kiss. You give into it, allowing my tongue to play with yours as my fingers knead your belly.
You pull away, licking your lips. You still look concerned. “I’m killing myself.”
“That’s not what your doctor says,” I assure you.
Last week, I took you in for another check-up. We went to the clinic provided by the Midnight Cakes company, rather than your old doctor’s office. They ran a bunch of tests and gave you a clean bill of health, outside of your morbid obesity. The doctor said you’d live a long, healthy life “at any size.” (Those were his words.)
“I know, but I can’t, you know…”
There are a thousand ways you can finish that sentence. You can’t put on your shoes anymore. You can’t walk across a room without stopping to catch your breath. You can’t shower by yourself without missing large areas of your body. You can barely masturbate without me sitting behind you and pulling up your apron.
It’s been an adjustment for sure, but I love it. At times, you do, too.
“That’s what I’m here for,” I say. “To help you. It’s the least I can do.”
I’m paying you back for your beautiful body and for all the money you’re making. I officially quit my job last week. Neither of us have to work anymore. Our life is financed entirely by your cake money.
That’s how we afforded this top-of-the-line, industrial-sized scale. And the new bars on the walls. And your mobility scooter (which you’re still reluctant to use).
And the best part is, we’re spending nothing on food. After reading through the entire Midnight Cakes contract last month, I discovered a very interesting section detailing all the perks of the program. They don’t just deliver cakes every night. They also provide all our food. I wish we’d known that four months ago!
At your new size, you eat a lot throughout the day, and all I have to do is call their 1-800 number and boxes of food appear on our doorstep.
I help you off the scale. You’re about to say something when my alarm goes off. It’s midnight again. (We always do your weigh-ins right before midnight. That’s when your stomach is emptiest.) I pat your belly. “Ready?”
You sigh as you waddle out of the room. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”
I help you sit on your new, reinforced chair and bring out your carrot cake. A trickle of saliva rolls down your lower lip as soon as you see it.
“Suck or feed?” I ask.
You think for a second. I went down on you twice today while you snacked, so you opt for me to feed you this time.
Good answer. My jaw is pretty sore.
I get comfortable next to you and start feeding. You effortlessly gulp down every handful. You don’t even chew. Don’t need to.
No matter how fast I go, you don’t struggle. This isn’t a challenge anymore. It’s a job.
Less than fifteen minutes later, your cake is done. I scoop up the fallen bits on your belly (a few got stuck between your rolls), and I feed them to you in one last handful. “Good job, big guy.”
You half-smile at me. You don’t look tired, but there’s a sadness in your eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Honey. What’s wrong?”
“I’m still hungry,” you mutter.
“What?” That cake was massive! And all the food you ate today?
You can’t be serious, and yet, your stomach is rumbling and you anxiously tug at your moob.
I consider our options. I can take you back to bed, which would mean you’d be going to sleep hungry. And your tummy rumbles would probably keep me awake for hours.
Or… We could capitalize on another part of your contract. Double pay for double cakes. So far, that never seemed like an option.
It’s up to you.
“There’s a German chocolate in the fridge if you want to double up,” I suggest. “Just a suggestion.”
You squeeze your moob so tight that the nipple pops between your fingers. “That’s exactly what I shouldn’t do.”
Your stomach rumbles again as if it’s arguing with you.
“I know, but just for tonight. It’ll be a one-time thing to, you know, help you go to sleep.”
After a long pause, you tell me, “No.” A thick glop of spit falls out of your mouth as you say it. The mere idea of more cake is sending your salivary glands into overdrive. “Ugh. Fine. But just this once.”
I kiss you and grab the cake.
***
Thanks for reading! We'll check in with them next month.
I don’t wanna be too vain or whatever but every time I see this pic I think “fuck he kinda looks like me a lot but like 200-300lbs fatter” and I get an intense burst of motivation to eat my way to this size
dededos
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