24 🏳️🌈🐷. Love eatting fattening foods and feeling my belly get nice and big. Goal Weight: 250 lbs. Overal Goal Weigt: IDK. Current Weight: 235 Ibs. Always looking for encouragement.
I’d love a gainer story about my last day mobile and my first day being immobile
Hi, people! This request came in before I launched my Chuck Gyrth side-blog. My darker, less romantic stuff goes there. But I'm posting this here instead. Content warning on immobility, obviously. Thanks so much for the suggestion, @twinkboi1313!
***
The Last Stairs
I came up with my plan when I noticed you struggling to get off the couch. It wasn't the first time you struggled, but it was the first time you just gave up and let yourself flop back down.
You were only 400 back then, still able to walk across the house, clothe yourself, wash (most of) yourself. You were limited, but you could still function without me.
That was about four years after we met.
You'd come a long way up to that point. We found each other online. You told me your deepest desires, and I promised to make them a reality.
We started with weekly feeding sessions, where you often said, "This is my last time! I mean it!" (We both knew you didn't mean it.)
Then you started coming multiple times a week. Your reluctance disappeared. I helped you give in.
After a year, you officially moved into my place. I watched your capacity increase. Your body soften. Your muscles atrophy. As you buried yourself in fat, you stopped questioning me. I could feed you anything I wanted and you'd take it.
Sticks of butter.
Tubs of grease.
Heavy cream sweetened with syrup.
Anything. Honestly, I think you got off on the less-tasty feeding sessions. Those made you prouder because they were harder to get down.
But you still had your moments of doubt. I could see it in your eyes. Little flickers of panic when you looked down at yourself and realized what you'd become. Minor freakouts each time you noticed easy tasks become annoying, then difficult, then impossible. I knew you wanted this, but I couldn't take away that last remaining part of you that remembered your old life.
I had to give you a goal, something to keep you on track. When I saw you struggling to stand, I knew what I needed to do.
That afternoon, I drew up plans to remodel my basement.
I barely used it for anything. Just food storage. But it was big. Lots of potential.
For the next few months, I refused to tell you what I was doing down there. You could hear the construction guys. The drilling and sawing and whatever.
But you couldn't see. I kept the door locked. If you asked about the basement, I just said, "Wait. Focus on your body."
After six months, it was ready. By then, you were 450 pounds. Maybe a little more. Absolutely gorgeous.
I joined you on the couch and finally told you what you'd been begging to hear:
"I made the basement into a gainer paradise. Everything down there is designed for your comfort and growth. You're gonna love it."
I hinted at all the special features I installed, but I didn't get too specific. I wanted to pique your curiosity, to make you beg to see it.
Which you did. Now that you knew your own slice of heaven was right under your feet, you had to see it.
"Absolutely," I said. I led you across the house, noticing the difficulty in each step, knowing that you were close but not quite there yet.
I unlocked the door and let you peer inside. You could see the steep stairway but nothing else. All the good stuff was just out of sight.
You took your first step onto the stairs, but you stopped yourself. You knew better.
I made the steps narrow and steep. At your size, with your center of gravity, you couldn't make it down.
"I haven't installed the railing yet," I explained. "Once I do that, then you're gonna freak. Trust me."
"And when are you gonna do that?"
"In about fifty pounds."
And true to my word, when you reached 500, the railing was ready. By then, you were breathing different. Wheezier. You spent all day on the couch and all night on the bed. I had to help you to the bathroom. Without me, you couldn't stand, though you could still walk by yourself and stay standing for minutes at a time.
Your moments of doubt were gone, replaced by excitement for the basement and fear of those stairs.
Finally, you were ready.
After your Iast upstairs feast, I took you to the porch for one final view of our street. The sun was setting. Our across-the-street neighbor was walking her dog when you huffed your way outside. I saw her all the time (still do), but she hadn't seen you for several hundred pounds. She didn't recognize you. And when she saw your blotchy-red face and overflowing belly, she diverted her eyes and ran off.
You looked at me with an equal mixture of regret and excitement. Seeing our neighbor one last time was a nice bookend to your old life, a reminder that you were now officially too big for the world outside. Your body had become obscene.
I took you back inside. Gave you a celebratory donut. And told you to finally follow me downstairs.
I raced down the basement stairs no problem. Then I waited at the bottom.
You stood at the top for a long moment. Your loud, wheezing breaths sounded nervous. Then slowly, like a diver stepping into shark-infested waters, you took your first step.
This was what I'd been waiting months for. What I'd been waiting my entire life for, really. I watched you carefully navigate each step, leaning against the rail as you struggled to keep your balance. Your hanging stomach pressed against your legs, but you were moving too slowly for it to thwack against you.
Three steps down. Twenty-seven to go.
You were gasping already. Partly from exertion but mostly from fear. You had to focus all your energy on not falling.
Four steps down. Then five.
You stopped. Recalibrated. Looked over your shoulder at the open door behind you. You only made it five steps and it was already too late to change your mind. The stairway was too narrow for you to turn around, and your legs didn't have the strength to go up those five steps.
I think that was the moment you realized that the steps were one way. Once you went down, you'd never make it back up. Surely, you were aware of that fact before, but now you finally had to admit it to yourself.
So you continued. Six steps. Seven.
You stopped again. Your pudgy hand had an iron grip on the railing.
And for a second, I saw you the way you used to be. Back when you were a 150-pound twink, eager to please and desperate to grow. Everything about you had changed... except that panicked expression. That was the same.
"You can do it," I called up to you.
You were too out-of-breath to respond.
There are plenty of 500-pound men who could handle a flight of stairs without this much trouble. But at your height, and with your total lack of muscle, this was all-but-impossible.
Maybe I waited too long. Maybe you should've come down here at 450.
Naw. That wouldn't have been as fun.
You stood there for several minutes, forcing your breathing to slow. Then you took another difficult step. And another.
Ten steps down, you almost lost your balance. I watched your body lean forward and your belly hang low, but you put all your weight on the railing and steadied yourself.
You grunted horribly.
I started to get worried.
What if you fall? Would your fat protect you? Probably not. You weren't even halfway down, and if you tumbled the rest of the way, your brittle, buried bones would break.
For an awful moment, I regretted everything. I felt cruel. Even though you wanted this, you begged me for it, I took things too far.
But then you straightened, lowered your foot to the next step, and smiled down at me.
Halfway done.
You gained some confidence, or at least some desperation, because you seemed to speed up.
I thought of your first feeding. How ruthless I was, and how grateful you were afterwards. You were just a little guy back then, with a packed belly and no fat on your bony body. I was so proud of you.
And right now, I was even prouder.
Two thirds done. Less than ten steps left.
Sweat oozed down your crimson face. Your tank top was soaked, plastered to your skin.
Nine more steps. Eight.
The end was in sight, and even though you were gasping for air and grunting between gasps, you continued.
Until finally, after what felt like hours, you made it to the bottom step. You were so exhausted, so achy, that you tripped on the very last step and I had to grab you.
You were finally in your gainer heaven, but you didn't have the strength to look around and see what I made for you. All you could do was lean against me as I helped you stumble across the basement and fall into your bed.
You didn't see the food carts. Or conveyor belts. Or milkshake tanks. You didn't notice the special features in your new bed. The hole in the middle for your waste. The attachments that would keep you washed and clean.
You spread your body across the bed, too weak to move, too exhausted to raise your head. All you could do was drift off to sleep and let your body recuperate from the hardest workout of your life.
You'd probably sleep for days if I didn't wake you up a few hours later with the nozzle to your milkshake tube pressed against your lips.
You drank for me, desperately sucking down the creamy liquid as your brain finally registered your surroundings.
When I pulled the nozzle away, a bit of cream trickling down your cheek, you mumbled, "I can't... do that again."
"You won't have to," I assured you.
Those were the last steps you would ever take. From now on, you were here. Right where you needed to be.
Everything in this place was made to keep you growing. If your muscles weren't so sore from those steps, you probably could've gotten out of this bed.
But by the time your body recovered, the scale under your mattress said you were up another 15 pounds. We both knew what that meant.
And now, a few weeks later, you're safe and comfy in your bed. There aren't any windows in the basement, so you can't see what's outside. But you have your TV. And your food.
And me.
You don't need anything else.
***
Thanks for reading! Check out my brand-new website! It's not all that fancy (I'm terrible with technology), but it has all my important links and updates.
And if you haven't checked it out, my ebook Secret Bearification is out now! It's pretty hot.
Look at what you've done to yourself, covering that body of yours with a nice layer of fat. And that after you've been resisting gluttony for such a long time. It only shows again that you can't escape feederism. It's such a slippery slope, isn't it? Being tempted by something indulgent and giving in for the first time to experience how it feels.
After your first stuffing, you're hornier than ever before. It's much more intense than what you've experienced before. Does indulging feel even better than sex? You have to get off, so you start masturbating to the thought of getting as fat as the feedees you look at.
The next morning, you notice how your body is slightly softer than the day before. You get wet immediately and masturbate. You're tempted to indulge again, it felt so good. Just one more time and you'll stop. You can't actually get fat, right?
You eat even more than the day before, pushing the limit of how many calories you can devour in one sitting. Why does this feel so good? You feel ashamed, yet you can't help but masturbate again. After you've cum, you realize that you should slow down. You've never stuffed yourself before and now you've done it 2 days in a row. Better stop while you still can.
The next morning, you notice how your body has gotten slightly softer again. Would a normal person pay this much attention to how their body felt and developed? Would a normal person become this horny when they felt new, fresh, soft fat on their body? You masturbate, imagining what it might feel like to have a hanging belly. You manage to eat normal again, yet you can't keep your hands off your belly.
A few days go by, it's time to go grocery shopping. You need to refill the snack cabinet, after you've emptied it within 2 days. You'll be able to ration it, you think. You're already getting horny on the way home, tempted to stuff yourself. Are you craving it already? The second you get home, you start indulging. Instead of dinner, you finish off the snacks before they even make it into the cabinet. Something salty, something savory, something sweet. Every bite sends a rush through your body.
When you wake up, your hands naturally gravitate towards your belly, feeling the new pudge. You move around, laying in different positions and end up choosing one where your belly feels softest. You masturbate again, while groping your own fat. You know you've gained, but how much? Stepping onto the scale reveals that you're up 7 pounds. Your knees get weak, your heart begins to pound, shame and lust course through your veins. You masturbate again.
You're getting addicted to the feeling of feeling new fat in the morning. Just like your body, the craving to stuff yourself at night keeps growing. You tell yourself that it's okay. You're just experimenting with this kink you've had for so long. You'll be able to lose it all when you're done, right? While scrolling through Tumblr, you see a before/after of a feedee and how they went from 120 to 387 pounds, almost 400. You used to be 120 pounds, too.
With every orgasm and every stuffing, you become more addicted to gluttony, without realizing it. Weeks go by, you're up 13 pounds now. Some pants are getting tight, you're ashamed to have let yourself go this much. You're afraid someone is going to ask you if you've gained weight. When they do, you play it off with a joke or even try denying it, only to stuff yourself and masturbate again as soon as you're alone.
You're up 21 pounds. More than 20 pounds? It's time to slow down, maybe lose some weight again. It shouldn't be too difficult to exercise since you're still in shape, right? But a 30min workout can't balance out a 3,000 calorie stuffing. Your stuffings get more depraved. Something about heavy cream turns you on. 1,500 calories per bottle. You could drink one in seconds. You grab 2 of then at your next trip to the grocery store. It's become a routine to buy snacks and some frozen junk food.
One night, your horniness drives you to drink heavy cream. It's thick, fatty, and not as easy to drink as you secretly hoped. You add some sugar, which does the trick for you. The extra calories only turn you on more. After drinking heavy cream, your orgasms feel even more intense after a regular stuffing. Is it because it's so fattening? Is it because you just drank the caloric equivalent of 2 pizzas. That reminds you, you have some in the freezer.
34 pounds. You've outgrown most of your pants, your belly starts to stick out, your hips and thighs are softer and your bras are getting tight. You're getting chubby. Skinny you feels like a distant memory, yet part of you is still convinced that you are. You scroll through Tumblr again, seeing another before/after of that feedee. 120 pounds vs 408 pounds. You get horny, knowing they crossed 400 pounds. Yet you ask yourself: is this a glimpse into your own future?
Being your big fat hog is all I'm good for now. My entire body is too thick and heavy, my mind is too addicted for me to even think about doing anything myself. My arms are so heavy they're practically useless for anything other than shoveling more fattening slop in my mouth, but even then, that gets exhausting to do after a few minutes. My thighs are so large that they force my legs to spread out, and they still touch. My ass is so huge and heavy that no amount of chairs could ever hope contain it. My belly has reached a point where it covers most of my lower body if I sit up. I'm absolutely covered in squshy, jiggling lard with rolls all over. I haven't even considered trying, but I don't know if my body can even get up or stand on its own anymore. But it's not enough. No matter how much you and I work to stuff me, no matter how full I am, it's never enough. I need more. I need to be bigger. Both because I know you can't get enough of your food addicted piggy growing for you, and because I love what I've turned into. I need to become a fully immobile morbidly obese blob for you. I get so horny thinking about how big I am and how I'm still only going to keep getting bigger. But since I can't reach to pleasure myself, I have to desperately beg you to touch me. Of course I don't get that privilege until I've been a good fat boy, eating everything you prepared for me while you praise me for being such a pig. When you lay face down on top of me, I notice something damp rubbing up against me. You start teasing me, tempting me. If I wasn't such a fatass, I could reach down there and touch myself, but instead, I'm at your mercy. I whimper and moan, but continue stuffing my face. It's not very noticeable, but you can tell I'm desperately shoveling this stiff into my mouth as fast as my heavy arms will let me. Finally, I finished all my food, and you start digging through the rolls and folds of softness that are hiding the only hard thing on my body. Your search eventually ends. From there, as I stare at what's visible of you behind my belly, as pleasure overwhelmes me, only these words come to mind.
POV: Your eating habits and your weight have gotten so unbelievably out of control lately that I think it's about time I give you a wake-up call in the form of some teasing and shaming.
What is it? Is there something you need to tell me? You overate again... Well, I'm not surprised. Is it really overeating if you do it every time you sit down and glut yourself like you’re trying to win some prize? No, it's just the norm for fatasses like you. Shameless, self-indulgent gluttony is just the way it is for you. You should be ashamed. You should be desperately searching for a way to stop yourself. What kind of person shovels food in their face the way you do? What kind of person lets themselves get so obese that they can’t do basic things without getting winded?
I don’t imagine you even have any excuse for what you're doing to yourself. Imagine what you could look like if you weren't so busy gorging yourself with greasy food and carbs every chance you get. It's fucking obscene. And do I really need to bring up your sweets addiction? I swear, at this point, you might as well just have me hook a funnel up to your greedy mouth and pour syrup down your throat.
Wait…please don’t tell me…do you actually think about that? What, are you just going to eat and eat and eat until you can barely waddle from room to room? Have me stuff you until all that weight that you keep piling on ripples with every lumbering step that you take? Is that what you want, fatty? This huge, heavy-breathing, mound of embarrassing flab that can barely maneuver around your own home? If you keep this shit up, you’ll be there faster than all those DoorDash deliveries you keep getting every fucking day.
At this point, I’m just morbidly curious about what goes on inside your head that justifies letting yourself become so shockingly, grotesquely obese. I mean, look at what a shameless blob you are…rolls stacked on top of each other like pancakes, each one covered in stretch marks, with a hanging gut that takes over your lap, the flab on your arms keeping them pinned to your sides. God, every inch of your body is overflowing with fat. You eat so many goddamn calories, it looks like you're in a near-constant state of stretching and expanding. How can you not notice that your body is screaming at you to stop being such a fucking pig?
Is there even a point in trying to shame you for all of this? You’re obviously not going to change one thing about the way you’re ruining yourself. All you’re going to do, as soon as you can, is find the next thing to stuff your face with. So, what is it going to be this time, tubby? Burgers? Pizza? Few boxes of snack cakes? Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past you to get all three, the way that I’ve seen you eat. You clearly don’t have any self-control, so, fuck it, why not? Just hork down more calories until your body can barely handle it. Stuff your bottomless pit of a stomach every chance that you get. Even after every other sign is telling you to stop.
You know what? I don’t think anything can help you now. You are too far gone, and there’s no way you’re coming back from this. You’re going to be half a metric ton of pure blubber soon enough. And you’ll have no one to blame but yourself for what a hopeless, greedy, wobbling tub of lard that you are. So just lay back and grab another snack, why don’t you?
You sit naked in my kitchen, tied to a chair. Your painfully overfull belly bulges heavily in front of you. You're breathing hard, sweat beading on your forehead. It's obvious you're having trouble sitting still. You keep shifting from side to side in your chair, your plump thighs rubbing against each other. The vibrator inside you hums quietly, occasionally making you gasp and shiver. I can't help but watch the way your body jiggles and bounces as you squirm. It's incredibly sexy.
"If you want to cum, you have to eat," I remind you as I hold a ladle of melted chocolate up to your lips. "More calories, more pleasure."
You obediently open your mouth and tilt your head back. You moan as I pour the chocolate over your lips, your tongue. You seem to struggle with it, but I just keep pouring it down. "Good pig."
You gulp down mouthful after mouthful of chocolate until you can't take any more. "Please..." you gasp. "No more... no more..."
"No, no. More. There's no such thing as enough." I put down the ladle and begin heating up an ice cream container from the freezer in the microwave. I give your poor belly a short break from being pushed to its limits by making you watch me fill a huge container with melted ice cream. As I approach you with the ice cream, I turn up the power on the vibrator slightly, making you cry out and buck against the chair.
You struggle to breathe as I begin to dump the melted ice cream into your already stuffed, bloated belly. You struggle against your bindings, causing your stomach to jiggle and bounce. As I continue pouring the creamy, fattening treat down your throat, you whine and moan, but you can't do anything to stop me.
As the container is emptied and your belly looks ready to burst, I turn the vibrator to its highest setting and watch your fat body jiggle violently as you cum. It's truly a glorious sight to behold.
You slump in your chair, out of breath and gasping. I can see the pleasure in your face as well as the exhaustion and discomfort. I've been pushing you to your limit, forcing you to gorge on various rich, fattening foods, and it has done wonders for your body. You've grown much plumper since we started, and the extra blubber sits heavily on your lard-filled hips and gut, making you wobble and shake. Your body is covered in stretchmarks from the speed of your weight gain, and lately your appetite has been out of control. As nice as all this is, I have to admit I am still more than impatient about fattening you up, and you are nowhere near huge enough for me yet.
You met Tobin on a gainer chatroom, he was nearby and absolutely perfect. He was only slightly taller than you, with pitch black hair and a build that suggested that he was a star football player during his high school years. But most important of all, he was absolutely wild at the idea of accepting you under his wing as he takes control over you, dictating when, where and what to eat.
It started with deciding to make all of your dates with him at restaurants. With every waiter he would always step in and order the sizes of your meals along with desserts for the two of you afterwards, while always leaving some leftovers on his own plate for you to finish off afterwards. Throughout the first few weeks he would push you farther and fatter than anything you’ve even gone by yourself.
After a while it was becoming clear the food that was offered by most restaurants weren’t enough for his standards nor your increasing gluttony, which was why he told you to meet him at his place for more intimate feeding sessions.
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