[tianastummy]

omg not me makin my first REAL feeder/feedee vid <3

[tianastummy]

whew okay starting to get sO fat im scaring myself yaaaay!!

[tianastummy]

dictionary definition of a food addict btw!

[belliesaretoohot]

tianastummy`s crazy gain

[tianastummy]

ohhai it me!!

[tianastummy]

good girls reach their highest weight yet

[celebbellies01]

NEW STOKES VIDEO

[stuffingkitt-deactivated2026050]

I could still get SO much bigger

[stuffingkitt-deactivated2026050]

Giggling because I’m about to break this chair 😈😈😈

Get the clip HERE:

https://curvage.org/forum/index.php?/files/file/74069-health-update-doctor’s-office-to-post-appointment-stuffing/

https://curvage.org/forum/index.php?/files/file/74069-health-update-doctor%E2%80%99s-office-to-post-appointment-stuffing/

[stuffingkitt-deactivated2026050]

This was so HOT

Video here: https://curvage.org/forum/index.php?/files/file/72542-seducing-my-delivery-driver/

https://curvage.org/forum/index.php?/files/file/72542-seducing-my-delivery-driver/

[stuffingkitt-deactivated2026050]

Good girl keeping her eyes on me 😈

[stuffingkitt-deactivated2026050]

Huge girl 😈

[gain-stuff-eat]

"You want me bigger?"

I caress a hand over your stomach, watching how even the gentle touch makes the fat undulate.

"So much bigger."

"I already feel so fucking huge," you breathe out.

"That's because we're feeding you, pet." I give your belly a few light pats. It's okay. I know you always have a hard time thinking when you eat. "You're so adorable like this."

You try to shift but your the swell and weight of your gut keeps you from moving much. All you manage is to successfully collapse back with a whimper. But beneath that pain, your pleasure is obvious. You love what you've turned into. We both do.

"God, I'm so fat."

"Mhmm. Soft, too. You want more?"

"More of what?"

You're so overfed you're still not thinking clearly.

My smile is slow. Teasing. Knowing.

"More of everything. More of it all. More food, More fat. More of this," I say, like a spell while squeezing your hang. My thumb circles the rim of your belly button.

"Fuck," you say, arm reaching around to lift and heft your swollen gut, rubbing it gingerly. You're clearly drunk on the feeling as your head falls back.

We both know your answer as you exhale loudly. It sounds like the tail-end of a silent moan. The noise you make when you know you can't help yourself, the same one you make when you're determined to eat yourself into food coma, which has become more frequent. The one that shows the conditioning worked; it's clear from the damp spot growing on your underwear. You sound and look so hot like this. You groan, as your hand sinks lower, stroking and rubbing slowly.

"You've turned me into such a pig," you breathe, lost in the feeling.

"You're the one who wanted to experiment. Who said you just wanted to try this."

"Yeah, but I didn't do this by myself," you say, grabbing your overhang roughly. "Now look at me."

I take you in. Your folds. Your chins. You big arms and soft chest. The way you don't fit in your shirt, at my request, and your belly spills out of it and onto your wide thighs.

"I see you. All of you. And I want more."

I see your resolve waver at the lust in my voice. What that has meant in the past. And you really are overstuffed. Leaden to the couch. For a moment, I offer mercy, gently massaging the discomfort away and a belch slips out.

Then, I pull out a surprise. Something I was saving. Your favorite.

Your eyes widen in delight and desperation.

We've rewired your brain, after all.

Whatever's put in front of you, you eat. It's an automatic response at this point. You reach for the food with some difficulty over the dome of your engorged middle and I hand it to you. I pat your underbelly as you open the container and dig in without another word, feasting uncontrollably, punctuated by shameless, greedy noises. My hands on your belly as you eat is just another trigger to spur your sudden, ravenous hunger. You moan at around another bite.

"More," you grunt, shoveling it in faster. The container grazes a nipple as you lift your meal closer and you pause briefly to keep yourself on edge, whimpering and rutting at the sensation, fat wobbling. You know the rules so well. You're not allowed release until you finish. Until I say so.

My fingers lightly drag and scratch along your stretchmarks. You sigh, pleased, as you stuff yourself.

You're so obedient now. We've trained you well.

"Good piggy."

[epigstolary]

Signs

You know you’ve gotten fatter by the way your belly and chest and rump move when you try to jog now — resisting the pull of gravity just a moment longer than the rest of you at the apex of your stride, pulling down and bringing their excess weight to bear an instant after your foot touches back on the ground. It never used to do that when you were leaner and thinner and tighter all over. In a word, you jiggle now. And it’s obvious.

You know you’ve gotten fatter by the way your thighs get so warm from your belly resting on them for too long. This wasn’t a problem back when you had a lap — which I suppose you technically still do, but it’s so thoroughly buried by that sack of blubber hanging off your midsection that it doesn’t really count anymore. You have to lift that thick flab roll any time you want to let your thighs and fatpad cool off, and you notice that’s getting harder and harder to do by the day.

You know you’ve gotten fatter by the way you get out of breath by the end of your walk to the bus now. It’s not that far — a few dozen steps to the end of your street — but by the end of it, you’re having to work to get your breaths in and out, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks and the perspiration beginning to seep out under your arm fat and down your back rolls. The hunger, too, is telling; the sugary treat you used to save for your first cup of coffee at work now disappears by the second stop, a sacrifice to the rumbling in your stomach that inevitably follows this briefest of workouts. The crumbs of sugar and pastry, and sometimes daubs of icing, trickle down over the rolls and belly filling your lap and spilling over into the necessarily empty seat next to you. None of your fellow riders are surprised to see them there.

You know you’ve gotten fatter when you go to stand up from your office chair, and the chair comes with you. You’d tried to ignore all the splitting seams, the periodic blowouts in your pants seat, the groaning chairs, the growing inertia of all the weight sloshing around on your rump. But ignoring it is no longer an option, not now that you have to squeeze yourself out from between the armrests of this XL roller. Your hips and ass may not be the widest part of you, but there’s no disguising the state you’re in now that they’re bigger around than even most beer bellies. You’re not gracefully squeezing past anyone on the way to the lunchroom — they’re getting out of your way, fast.

You know you’ve gotten fatter when clothes that can fully cover your body simply don’t exist anymore. When your thigh rolls bulge and sag out of the biggest pair of shorts you can find, tumbling over one another in a shapeless cascade past where your knees would be, if you could still point them out. When you have to cut the sleeves off of your 8XL tee to make room for your massive doughball arms and the sideboob rolls that hang over what’s left of the seam. When your belly hangs too low and wobbles too much with every minor movement to stay covered by your circus tent of an outfit. On the rare occasions when you still go out, you can’t help but put on a mutually unwanted show for everyone in the vicinity, who try with greater or lesser success to hide how horrified they are at the sight of your unmanageable obesity. Fortunately, there are plenty of chasers and feeders out there happy to fill in for you on the grocery or takeout run.

You know you’ve gotten fatter when you can’t even manage to shuffle into the shower without getting stuck. You always thought the shower seat you started using, once it became impossible to hold your shameful bulk up for the pathetically short duration of a shower, was going to be the failure point. Instead, it’s the cold, rigid stainless steel of the shower doorframe pinching the unreachable extremity of your belly on one side and the stacks of lard-filled back rolls on the other. You can already feel the burn in your leg muscles, underneath the shapeless lumps of fat disguising them as useable extremities, that tells you you’re rapidly reaching your limit for physical exertion. The same burning spreads to your overworked lungs, fighting against the weight of your blubber-packed tits to keep you breathing, as you struggle in vain to get yourself free. Good thing your feeder is there to extract you and bring you a couple dozen cookies to help you calm down.

You know you’ve gotten fatter when the slight pressure of your feeder’s touch against your blubbery chest is enough to make getting up from the couch impossible. You can still just throw your weight forward with enough force to tip forward onto your feet, pushing your hundreds of excess pounds up from a squat until you’re in a standing position. But not when he doesn’t want you to. It takes you so much effort, fighting against the flab smothering your body, that his halfhearted push is enough to send you rolling backward, out of breath and stuck in your divot on the couch. The perfect spot for him to caress your triple chins as he feeds you something greasy and fatty and soporific enough that you can’t even consider trying to get up again. You were probably too big to try it in the first place anyway, or so you try to convince yourself.

You know you’ve gotten fatter. You know you’re getting fatter. You know you’re never going to stop getting fatter. And you still have so much more growing to do.

[feedybot]

Softest massage

The first time she came in, she barely filled the table.

Tense shoulders. Narrow waist. The kind of body that disappears when it exhales. I remember thinking she didn’t eat enough - not as judgment, just observation.

There was a bowl of sweets on the counter even then. There always is. Clients like it. Something comforting. Chocolate squares, wrapped caramels, the kind of things people take one of and pretend they didn’t want more.

She took two.

The second session was a week later. Same polite smile. Same clothes, technically - though the fabric behaved differently. A little more tension around the hips. Nothing dramatic. Just… more present.

“You can help yourself,” I told her, nodding at the bowl as she lingered by it.

She laughed, embarrassed. “I already did last time.”

“So?” I said. “You’re allowed to enjoy things.”

She took three that time.

By the third session, I was sure it wasn’t my imagination.

Her body had weight to it now. Not just physically - visually. When she laid down, the table answered her differently. A deeper give. A creak. My hands noticed immediately; they always do. Massage teaches you to read bodies like text. And hers had gained a few extra lines.

I didn’t pretend not to see it.

“You’ve been indulging,” I said casually, working oil into her lower back.

She froze. Just for a second.

“I—what?”

“Relax,” I added. “I mean it as a compliment. You feel… well taken care of.”

She didn’t argue. That was the interesting part. The sweets became routine after that. She stopped asking. Just took them while I prepped the room, sometimes before, sometimes after, both. Always lingering. Always a little hesitant, like she expected me to stop her.

I never did. Of course I never did.

Instead, I started commenting, got bolder.

“Your body’s changing,” I said one afternoon, my thumbs pressing into her hips. “Filling out.”

She laughed nervously. “Is that bad?”

“For massage? No. Makes my job easier.” I hedged.

The next week, she came back heavier.

Not just softer - rounder. Thighs fuller. Waist less certain. When she turned over, her stomach didn’t flatten the way it used to; it settled. I let my hands pause long enough for her to notice.

“You’ve been busy,” I said.

“With work,” she offered.

“With eating,” I corrected, calmly.

She didn’t protest. She never does. That’s what keeps her coming back.

Now, she arrives early. She eats before the session starts. She eats after. Sometimes she brings her own things, sets them beside the bowl like offerings. I don’t comment on quantities anymore - just outcomes.

*

She’s different every time - heavier, slower to move, more deliberate about how she lowers herself onto the table. She exhales like it takes effort now. I let that silence sit before I speak.

“You know you’re not subtle,” I say, matter-of-fact.

She stiffens. “About…?”

“About coming back bigger every week.”

No smile. No softness in my voice. Just observation. God how do I love to tease her. I don’t stop working. My hands keep moving, steady and professional, thumbs sinking into flesh that wasn’t there when we started this routine. I don’t need to exaggerate. Her body does that for me.

“I try not to think about it,” she mutters.

“That’s obvious,” I reply. “If you thought about it, you’d stop.”

She doesn’t.

That’s the thing.

There’s always candy on the counter. And there’s always pastry on the little plate by the sink now.

One afternoon, as she reaches for the bowl again, I finally say it.

“I notice you come in fuller. You leave heavier. Next time, you bring it back with you.”

“That’s not how bodies work,” she says weakly. I merely laugh.

She eats openly now—unwrapping sweets while I wash my hands, licking sugar from her thumb without embarrassment.

I comment as I go.

“Your thighs spread more when you lie down.”

“Your waist doesn’t pull in when you inhale anymore.”

“You’re getting used to taking up space.”

Each time, she goes quieter. Heavier. Warmer.

Once, as I work over her hips, I say, “You know you could stop coming.”

She shakes her head immediately. Too fast.

“I didn’t think so,” I add. “You don’t come here to be fixed.”

She swallows. “Then why do I come?”

I press my palm flat, firm, undeniable.

“So someone will tell you the truth,” I say. “And won’t apologize for it.”

When she leaves, she always looks a little stunned. A little exposed.

*

It starts with her coming twice a week.

She doesn’t say why. She doesn’t have to. Her body says it for her the moment she steps into the room—breathing a little heavier, coat left unbuttoned longer than necessary, movements careful in a way that tells me she’s already aware of herself before I say a word.

The sweets don’t last the day anymore.

She doesn’t pace herself now. She stands by the counter and eats while we talk, eyes unfocused, like the decision was made long before she arrived. I watch her do it. Watch her throw one candy after another into her waiting mouth. Watch how she can’t help to rest her hand on her protruding belly. It looks so small sitting on the big straining ball.

“You’re not even pretending this is incidental anymore,” I say.

She exhales a laugh that doesn’t carry. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“No,” I correct, calm. “You know exactly how. You just don’t want to.”

On the table, she feels different every session. Not just heavier - less contained. Her body spreads, yields, stays where my hands put it. There’s a kind of inevitability to it now, like momentum has taken over and she’s stopped fighting the direction.

I stop softening my language entirely.

“You gained again,” I say, not as an observation but a statement of fact.

“I can tell,” she murmurs.

“Of course you can,” I reply. “You live in it.”

That’s when it starts affecting her outside this room.

She mentions clothes she no longer wears. Chairs she avoids. Mirrors she rushes past. She talks while I work, voice flat, as if listing symptoms she’s already accepted as chronic.

“I keep thinking this week will be different,” she says once.

“And is it?”

She shakes her head.

I don’t reassure her. I don’t interrupt the spiral with kindness. I give it shape.

“Then stop lying to yourself,” I say. “You’re not ‘slipping.’ You’re choosing this. Every day.”

Her breath stutters. I feel it under my hands.

“I don’t even enjoy it anymore,” she admits.

“That’s not true,” I say. “You enjoy what it does. You enjoy being seen. Measured. Commented on.”

She’s quiet after that. Too quiet.

The next time she comes in, she’s noticeably bigger. Enough that I raise an eyebrow when she steps out of her shoes.

“Well,” I say. “You’ve been busy.”

She doesn’t deflect this time. She nods.

*

She leaves for a holiday and I don’t get to see her for three weeks. The routine feels off without her. All my other clients… too bony.

The first time she steps into my office again I can’t get my eyes off her. Her shirt is fighting for its life and leggings had to supplement for pants. I can see why.

Her eyes are not on me. They are lured to the snack bow in the corner. And it’s as if she can’t - doesn’t want to - hold herself back anymore. She is upon the sweets immediately.

My hands are almost shaking when she finally waddles to the table. As she lays down all I can focus on is the dome in front of me. This heaving massive belly which cannot be ignored. And my job is to touch it. To ease its existence.

I get my hands on her. Knead the belly slowly at first. Jiggle it, feel it, pat it. I don’t think any of us is breathing.

,,This is what happens when you go on vacation now? Have you left the buffet at any point?” I can’t help the smirk which stretches across my face.

,,I don’t know what you are talking about.” is her breathless answer. She is as affected as I am. Goosebumps all over her arms.

,,Look at all of you. How you have grown. How this obscene belly gets all the attention…” she reddens as I continue to play with her. Good thing I cleared my schedule for the rest of the day.

*

Next time I see her the changes are again noticeable. Hips wider, thighs so deliciously round and soft. Arms barely contain by her sleeves. And belly defying laws of gravity. Proudly on display, peeking from underneath the too small shirt. She looks so round.

Maybe today will finally be the day we’ve been both eagerly anticipating. Maybe the table will finally give out.

[thefatstonerchick]

[listentoace]

A few of my darker fantasies

Adding ghreline to everything you eat and drink, without telling you. Ghreline is a hormone that'll tell your body it's hungry and to keep eating

Tying you up and properly force feeding you. That means that the tube doesn't just go into your mouth, but all the way down to your stomach, so I can always fill it to the brim with weight gain shake and you have no way of stopping it

The good ol' making you cum your brains out while stuffing you until you get addicted to both junk food and orgasms so you'll lie around all day, gooning and stuffing yourself. It's be even more fun if you kept trying to quit but couldn't, because you can't get rid of your triggers (natural hunger and libido)

Having 2 similarly built subs, one to fatten up and one to keep skinny. I'd inspect both side by side, humiliating the fat one for putting so much blubber and praising the skinny one in front of the other for her perfect figure. To make it more interesting, the skinny one would constantly be surrounded by junk food as well, but if they surpass a certain weight or daily calorie intake, they'll be fattened as well. Y'know, as punishment for their greed

Being a vampire and using my abilities to brainwash you into the ultimate greedy sub while I fuck and feed on you as you grow beyond massive

Putting 5 subs into a cell, providing 25,000 worth of weight gain shake per day, and telling them that whatever remains left at the end of the day will be split equally among and force fed to all subs. It'd be fun watching them try fattening each other up, perhaps ganging up on each other. It's fun to scare subs with making them fat, while knowing that it's inevitable

[listentoace]

Ruin yourself for my entertainment.

It's all you're good for anyways. At least you'll be of some use for me when I get to watch you stuff your puffy face day in and day out. You'd get so fat so fast under my care. I'll constantly remind you of what a glutton you are and what damage you're doing to your body. But that only turns you on, doesn't it? Knowing how bad, taboo, and forbidden all of this is.

I'll be the devil on your shoulder. First, I'll tell you how bad some ultra-processed high-calorie food is for you, only to watch your mouth water the more I talk about it. How the sugar will get you more addicted to gluttony. How the additives will keep you hungry. How this will only make you fatter. And when you're starting to moan at my words, I'll start shoving it down your throat.

Knowing how bad these foods are for you only makes you want them more. You want the sugar and fat. You want the addictive additives. You want to sink away into gluttony. Knowing it's wrong. Knowing it's bad. Knowing how good it feels. So go ahead. Buy and order all the processed junk you can get your chubby fingers on, and stuff yourself for my entertainment.