The Gain Project

Up at 5:30, to travel two hours by train to be at an interview for your show, followed by four hours of putting up posters and handing out fliers to those who would want them.

I am le tired.

Mucho exhaustion.

*You've been lying to yourself. You knew that once you tried feederism you wouldn't be able to stop. You knew you wouldn't be able to regain control. You knew all along, and refusing to admit it won't make you any less of a bloated, overstuffed pig.*

This is what you wanted, isn't it? What you were so excited about, what turned you on so much at the beginning of all this? You said you just wanted to try it, to gain a couple pounds, but even then you knew. At the back of your mind, buried deep enough in your subconscious that you’ll never admit it, you knew you’d lose control. You knew you’d get addicted to the feeling of your bloated gut leaving you beached on the bed, unable to even sit up. 

You knew that 5 pounds would become 10, 10 would become 20, and 20 would become 40 before you could even blink. You knew that you’d outgrow your clothes, that you’d be squeezing yourself into too-tight t-shirts that grip your growing belly and love handles, that show off just how much you’ve let yourself go. You knew you’d be bursting buttons off your outsized pants until the only thing you can comfortably wear is sweats. 

You said you just wanted to do one or two stuffings, to know what it was going to feel like, but you knew from the second you took your first bite that unrestricted gluttony makes you dangerously horny. That filling yourself up with all that food would leave you so worked up, so full, that all you could do was touch yourself while you groaned from the pressure in your middle, your stomach so tight and hard that even a light pat would make you yelp. 

You knew that your little feasts would become a more and more common event. You knew they would grow, right alongside your body, in both frequency and volume until you were taking down enough fast food for four on a nightly basis. You knew you wouldn't be able to control yourself. That the price of your order would continue to rise, that you’d soon grow embarrassed at how often the same pizza guys and food delivery drivers came to your door. You knew that soon you’d be heaving yourself off the couch with effort, grunting as your flabby body fought gravity. 

Speaking of gravity, you knew your belly would eventually succumb to it. That you would pack pound after pound onto your swelling gut as it got rounder and rounder, harder and harder to hide underneath your too-small clothes. You knew it would eventually look like you were attempting to smuggle a beach ball underneath your top, that your belly would be the first thing to enter the room. But you also knew that wasn't the end. You knew you were gonna get even fatter than that. You knew that eventually your pudge would hang out of the bottoms of all your shirts, jiggling incessantly with every step you take. That one day you’d struggle to reach both arms around the swell of your fat. 

You knew that your entire life would be taken over by your drive to get fatter. That it would control all your thoughts, be at the forefront of all your choices. You knew how embarrassing it would be to be larger every time anyone saw you, to return home for family reunions only for your cousins not to recognize you. 

You knew your friends would be polite at first, would watch you eat triple the amount anyone else did and avert their gaze without saying a word, but you also knew there would be a breaking point. That eventually they’d be poking and prodding and shaking your gut, offering to go to take you to the gym, asking what happened, and teasing you about your newfound gluttony and your inability to put down the fork. You knew you’d be embarrassed in the moment but deep down you’d love it, that you’d be thinking about their concerned faces and gentle teasing that night when you stuffed yourself.

You knew you’d outgrown your furniture. That your office chair would finally reach its weight limit and creak underneath your mass every time you moved. You knew you would have to get a screwdriver to remove the chair’s arms when you got too fat to comfortably squeeze between them. You knew the overtaxed chair would eventually collapse, that its legs would crack and buckle after a particularly greedy stuffing. You knew you’d lie flat on your widening back there on the floor, the remains of the demolished chair still underneath you, and struggle to get back up because of how much you ate. 

You knew you would get greedier and greedier, that you wouldn't be able to control your thoughts or your appetite. That food would become your main focus and getting fatter would become your main priority. 

You knew just how much you’d love it. That you wouldn't be able to stop yourself from fondling your fatty rolls while you played with yourself, that you’d be in a near-constant state of arousal from the feeling of being covered in mounds of fat. You knew your arms would get flabby and your thighs would get concerningly thick, that when you waddle around every part of you would shake. You knew that your cheeks would get chubby, that you’d sprout a prominent double chin, that even your tubby fingers would get too fat for your rings. 

You knew that you’d promise yourself you were done a million times. That every time you stepped on the scale and saw how much the number jumped up, you’d vow to be done with feederism. You knew you’d look in the mirror and be shocked by how enormous you got, that you step back to analyze the situation and run your hands down your bloated, unrecognizable body. You knew that you’d promise to go on a diet, that you’d look up gyms in your area, only to be stuffing yourself again the same night. 

You knew that when you finally booked a doctor's appointment she would be horrified, that she’d call you obese and help you make a plan to drop at least 50 pounds. You knew you’d stop at a drive-through on the way home anyway, guiltily avoiding eye contact with the healthy eating brochures on your passenger seat. 

You knew you’d lose sight of your toes, that you’d have to buy bigger and bigger sizes only for your swelling body to make them seem small. You knew you’d burst out of clothes in public, that you’d humiliate yourself with how fat you got. You knew that when you reached the 300-pound weight limit on the scale you’d swear you were done, swear you were going to drop a few, but you also knew that literally breaking the scale would get you so excited that you’d stuff yourself till you were panting. 

You knew that food and sex would become interchangeable for you, that food meant pleasure and vice versa. You knew you’d get off on all the feeders leaving comments on your page, that the teasing and humiliation would make you feel even better than the encouragement. 

You knew just what a swollen pig you'd turn into. You knew it for a fact, even when you pretended it was just a one-time thing. You knew exactly how this would go. And you know you won't be able to stop.

I never in my dreams imagined I would turn my partner onto gaining so much that they want to engage with it themselves.

Excited to share so much of this with you on the journey for us both.

I never in my dreams imagined I would turn my partner onto gaining so much that they want to engage with it themselves.

Excited to share so much of this with you on the journey for us both.

Oof - can't wait to do this again.