AllThisAlice

piling the pounds onto @penelope-plump 💜

just message me if you want to be drawn fatter 💕

Left: 215lbs, July 2025

You woke up late one morning to the feeling of my hands on your soft belly. You smiled at the sensation, slowly opening your eyes to greet me.

“Morni-”

As you were trying to speak, you were interrupted by a plastic tube entering your mouth. Swiftly after, you tasted the shake on your tongue. You weren’t expecting to get funneled first thing in the morning, and you were getting uncomfortably full very very quickly. But as you swelled with calories I leaned in to whisper encouragement into your ears. My hand caressed your gut, pressing in on all the right spots to relieve pressure and keep you gorging. Shutting your eyes, you submitted.

You were left groaning with discomfort, but I didn’t seem to care.

“Good job babe! Let’s watch a movie.”

Confused, you reluctantly let me pull you out of bed. I helped you waddle to the couch, where you plopped down with a huff.

You struggled to focus on what we were watching as I played with your belly affectionately, letting out soft coos when my hands relieved you. Then, the alarm on my phone went off. As I got up, you were confused. But you were worried when I returned with a plate of waffles.

“Babe please no, I’m gonna pop!”

I just chuckled and sat back down.

“Mmm, maybe~”

As I cut off a piece you whined softly. You knew pleading was pointless, but you were so fucking full. You just couldn’t.

For the first bite you obediently opened wide, chewing the mouthful slowly. I reached out and put a hand between your legs, gently caressing as a reward for your gluttony. After swallowing, you wheezed out a moan. Immediately, it was silenced by another forkful. I pleasured you further, rubbing your crotch faster as I forced the whole waffle in you bite by bite. You laid back, so full you could hardly breathe. And you watched, helplessly as I set my alarm for an hour. You realized exactly what I would be doing to you.

An hour spent in a stuffed stupor later, the phone alarm went off and I forced more food in you. For the rest of the day it repeated, ruthessly filling you so that your belly never shrunk from its round and turgid state. No, it swelled inch by inch as the day went on.

Finally, I permitted you to succumb to your food coma. The bliss of rest overwhelmed you, your belly finally getting a break…but it didn’t last. You woke next morning to a funnel in your mouth once again. You were still so heavy, but I was already forcing your stomach to stretch further.

For a week I made you my swollen food balloon, never allowing you the comfort of an empty belly. Your gut stretched further and further each day and more calories were pushed inside of you. You begged, afraid you were going to explode, but I just kept going. The only reprieve was when I pleasured you during your meals and when you finally passed out from food coma.

But after that week you woke up before me. You looked to me, so blissfully wrapped around your overfed frame, and gently tapped me awake. You were full still, absolutely bloated. But fuck, you felt so empty. I had made you addicted to being stuffed to the gills. If you weren’t on the verge of popping, what was the point…

You’re sweating again, and I haven’t even fed you yet. Just lying there, buried under your own blubber, pink and soft and panting like it’s work just existing. You make the bed groan louder than you do. Honestly, I’m not sure which is more strained — the mattress or your skin, stretched drum-tight over that monumental belly of yours.

"You're leaking again," I say with a little smirk, dragging a fingertip along the sweaty crease where your side rolls into your hip. The layer of fat there is thick, jiggling even from the lightest touch. "Poor thing. So overfed you can't even cool yourself properly."

You whimper a little — that pathetic, needy noise I’ve trained you to make. Half shame, half lust. Music to my ears.

Your belly dominates everything. It’s huge, grotesquely proud, rising in front of you like a fleshy hill, crisscrossed with stretch marks that shine under the overhead light. I cup the underside — it’s hot, heavy, almost too much for my hands. Not that you’d know. You haven’t seen your feet in a year. Maybe more.

"I can’t believe how far you’ve let yourself go," I whisper, feeding you the first bite of syrup-drenched pancake. You chew slowly, eyes fluttering. “No control. No dignity. Just lying there, waiting to be fed, like a piglet on its back.”

You try to shift — to move, to respond — but even that small effort makes your cheeks flush and your breath catch. Your own body is a prison now, built one bite at a time. And I hold the key.

"You wanted this," I remind you, voice low, coaxing. "Remember how cocky you were when we started? Said you'd never get that big. Said you’d stop before you lost mobility. Look at you now."

I slap your belly lightly — a soft, satisfying whump that echoes off your thighs. You groan, partly from the impact, partly from the reminder that you can’t even flinch away.

"You're mine," I say, leaning in, my voice syrup-sweet. "My spoiled, spoiled blob. A mountain of lard I keep fed and helpless. You can't even roll over without me pushing you."

Another bite. Then another. I press the shake to your lips again. You hesitate — full already, maybe even hurting — but I tilt it anyway. “Drink. That belly’s not done growing yet.”

You whimper as it goes down, eyes wet, belly churning beneath the surface. Every swallow is a surrender. Every breath, a struggle under the weight you’ve begged me to build.

And I know you love it. The shame. The helplessness. The way I talk to you like you’re not even a person anymore — just a thing to fatten and admire.

You're mine. My project. My prize. My pet. My pig.

Some people have their milestones mapped out, right from the start. Some people carefully chart their desired journey, perhaps starting at 250. Planning to gorge themselves up to 350 or 400lbs, knowing they’ll then need to be pushed past their limits until they finally arrive at 500, overshooting by 30lbs with worrying ease.

Others might begin nervously, gingerly creeping up the scale, pound by pound, feeding by feeding. Of course, once they breach 200lbs, things suddenly become very real. They find themselves craving the next hundred, then another hundred, and then the hundred after that. Maybe they want to get heavier still, maybe their feeder wants them to stabilize, maybe they both make a compromise and agree to stop at 700lbs. Maybe they set a secret goal of 770, as a treat.

Others still might only realize that these options even exist after meeting a partner, weighing in for the first time in years, and unexpectedly thrilling at the sight of their soon-to-be feeder’s wicked grin after watching the scale flash “ERR”. They think “1200” is an impossible number as they head steadily in that direction, encouraged and helped along the way. The months and years marked only by buying scales of increasing capacity, until one day they themselves decide to change the goalpost, crossing out the “2” and replacing it with a “6”.

I, however, don’t believe in any of that. Is it exciting? Sure. Is it frightening? Probably a little. But is it really the most effective way for you to grow? Don’t get me wrong: there will be measurements, charts and graphs to reflect every thickening roll, each added fold, and all the new jiggle. But you’re not going to be like any of those people. You’re different. I have just one goal in mind for you - speed.

I’ll start you off small, having you gain one pound a week. Easy, manageable. You could almost do it in your sleep, and you certainly don’t need any help. A couple of weeks roll by and you’re crushing it - you don’t feel any different, other than the comforting warmth of knowing you’re doing such a good job. Then, I’ll have you move up to three. You’re probably already there anyway, but I want to see you keep it up. One month and 11 pounds later, you simply need an extra stuffing or two to push you over the finish line, no big deal. But then, a new week means you have to do it yet again, and on top of that, now I need you to get to five. How long will it take to get used to making that happen, week in, week out?

Maybe this is where you start needing a little help. A session to test your limits once or twice a week, on top of all the grazing in between meals. Maybe you get a little too used to the new routine, shooting up by seven pounds - impressive! Just don’t forget, you still have to do five more next week, you don’t get to roll over those two extra pounds - they’re just icing on the cake. Heavy, sweet buttercream for you to keep wherever you like. Tomorrow, you’re back to zero.

Your eating habits have had to change to keep up with gaining 20lbs each month, but you’re doing great. You’re starting to really feel bigger, too, going up a few more sizes and occasionally knocking things over with all the new inches going to your butt. It’s desperately cute, but you know you won’t stay this way for long. You also know you aren’t going to be growing five pounds per week for much longer, either - next stop, seven pounds.

That’s a pound a day, every day. Your stomach is used to the stretch, it takes a while to get full now, and you can handle being hand-fed long after you’re too full to get off the couch, even if you do stagger to bed in the middle of the night because the couch gets lonely. But that was then, and this is now. Now, this is less than the minimum. You have to tolerate more. You need to do this every day, as much as you can. You’ll gladly accept help, of course, but now you’re getting used to stuffing yourself, then needing help to eat even more after that, at least three times a day. The idea of every meal requiring help is exciting, but this is the new norm now. This isn’t an experiment that stops one day, this is just how your life is. You don’t remember the last time you felt hungry.

You are tearing through sizes. You’re outgrowing furniture. You’re too wide for some seats, and too heavy for most benches. Getting wedged in tight spaces is a thing of the past - you simply can’t maneuver your enormous body anywhere without plenty of room to work. Your stomach is practically bottomless, you’re being hand-fed more than you’re feeding yourself, and you’re still setting personal bests for calories consumed. You’re regularly more then eight pounds fatter every single week now, and it didn’t really take that long for you to get there. You’re doing so very well. By most standards, you are huge.

Being huge, however, isn’t what you’re training for. You know what’s coming, and you’re prepared for it. You wonder what the next bump will be. Does this mean you’ll need to get filled with a funnel and tube? What if you like it? You know you haven’t found your real limits yet, though. You can take more, a lot more. Can you do 12lbs in a week? Can you do 15, then do it again the next week and again the week after that?

You don’t get hand-fed on the couch, long after your heavy arms hurt too much to lift, any more. You don’t get to snack between meals, because you mostly don’t have meals any more. On special occasions, if you’ve been particularly good, you might get to eat food like you used to, even if you do need a lot more of it than you have the stamina to deal with before being fed the rest. All you have to do these days is lay reclined in your bed, breathe through your oxygen tube, and rest your hands on the sides of the top slope of your belly as it grows upwards and widens, ever so gradually, but surely. Always full, always being made to stretch just a little more to support your size. Always in motion, the thick layer of fat covering it sloshing lazily as you breathe. Dwarfed by the expanse of your lower belly, stretching out forever in front of you, as far as you can tell.

Every couple of hours, you drink from a tube. Sometimes there’s a funnel, sometimes there’s a bag, sometimes you can control the flow, other times your jaw is held open with a gag and all you can do is try to open your throat and feel it flow into you. You no longer wince in pain as your stomach becomes more and more burdened, you’re used to it.

Before you sleep, a small, flexible tube is threaded through your nose, into your stomach. As you sleep, a pump makes sure you never dip below “painfully full”. You’re not sure how much fatter you’ll be by the end of the week, but it doesn’t really matter - you just know that you’re finally growing, comfortably, to your potential.

Good pig.

You're sweating already. Just from standing. I can see your thighs trembling, your breath whining out like a busted bellows. But this is important. Today’s your check-in. I want to see the numbers. I want to document just how far you’ve fallen.

Let’s start with the tape.

Arms up. No, higher — or as high as they go now, which is barely past nipple-height with all that lard weighing you down. I wrap the tape around your gut, burying it beneath the folds, pressing into the warm, stretched-out blubber until I hit resistance. There. I pull it tight. You flinch. The flesh squirms around it.

“Eighty-nine inches,” I read out loud, slow, amused. “That’s over seven feet of belly, pig.”

You blush. I see you blush — somewhere under the puffed cheeks and the fat-padded neck, a bit of shame still flickers. Good. You’re supposed to feel it. You're supposed to feel exactly how unnatural you are.

“You know the average waist size for a healthy adult?” I murmur in your ear. “Thirty-four inches. That means you’re almost triple. You’ve got more belly in one side roll than most people have on their entire body.” I pad your blubbery gut that's hanging in front of me.

Then I slide the tape lower. Around the hips now. More numbers. I take my time.

“Your thighs — forty-three inches. Each. That’s a full waistline just in your leg. And your upper arms? Bigger than most gym guys’ chests. And not an ounce of muscle to show for it.”

You shift, awkward, half-aroused and half-horrified. Your eyes lower. But your body betrays you — the way you tremble, the way your breath comes faster. You want this. You need this. The shame only makes it sweeter.

Now the scale.

I tug the leash. You grunt, stumbling forward. It takes effort to hoist all that mass. Your belly slaps against your knees with each tiny step. But eventually, you make it. I guide you onto the platform — steel, reinforced. You pant, drool threading from your lip.

And then the number appears.

“936 pounds.”

I smile.

“That’s nearly five of them. A whole family’s worth of meat stacked into one greedy, wheezing carcass. And you’re still gaining. Still swelling. Still pretending this is just some kink and not full-blown biological ruin.”

I lean down. Grip a love handle. Knead it. Soft. Hot. Leaking sweat. “They’d be in shock if they saw you, pig. Just a regular person, walking past the grocery store scale, and there you are — almost a thousand pounds of bloat and feeder’s pride, barely mobile, breathing like you’re being strangled by your own body.”

You shiver.

You’re turned on.

I can tell.

Because this is what you really want, isn’t it? To be broken down into numbers. Into stats. To have someone take stock of the damage and call it beautiful. Or disgusting. Or both.

I pull the tape measure off you with a snap. You flinch.

I tug the collar, lead you back to the mattress, let you collapse into your own overfed ruin.

“Next month, we’ll pass a thousand. And then we start comparing you to livestock weights.”

You don't answer.

You just moan.

alright so i had a dream last night about a group of people playing some tabletop game (dnd? i've only played once. idk)

anyway one girl (who, if you know how my dreams go, tends to be very fat already) would eat the most ridiculously large meals before the game, turning up absolutely stuffed "so she wouldn't get hungry during the game"

at first they teased her about it, but eventually the team noticed that if she missed her enormous pre-game meal, they would all perform worse. but they also noticed that the more she ate, the better they do.

so it becomes a sort of ritual. a sort of offering to the game gods. they start to encourage her to eat before games, taking her out for fast food, all-you-can-eat buffets, to the kinds of italian restaurants where everything comes out just dripping with cheese. they start to ply her with candy and chips, and milkshake and soda, practically pushing them down her throat, because the fuller she is, the better they always seem to do - and heck, they're not going to question it. every game she's fed until she aches, until someone else has to do her thinking for her, stuffed out of her mind, belly taut and bloated, her fat spilling out of her clothes and sagging off the edges of her seat

That wheezing, shallow rasp that passes for your breath — it echoes between your chins and your bloated chest, rattling with every labored exhale. I can’t help but smile as I watch your eyes flutter, too tired to stay open, too full to rest.

I stand at the edge of the bed — or rather, what’s left of the space not taken up by you. You’ve sprawled outward in all directions. Flesh domes and folds and swells under thin sheets. There’s no position that’s comfortable anymore, is there? You’re just too far gone.

And all I can think is: you did this to yourself.

Well, with my help, of course.

"Feeling it now, aren’t you?" I ask, casually swirling a spoon through a bowl of melted ice cream I’ve brought you — not that your stomach could take another bite. “All that talk about how you wanted to see how far you could go… how massive, how immobile. Bet you didn’t think this far.”

I lean in, letting the spoon drip onto your lips — sticky, cold, useless. You turn your head just slightly, a wet grunt of protest escaping, but we both know you won’t refuse it long. You can’t. I trained you too well.

"Regretting it now?" I ask, mock concern in my voice. "Aw, poor thing. All that fat… and now it’s turning on you. Your heart races so much as I touch your belly. Your blubber lays heavy on the old matress that's left of your former world. Your legs are practically dead under the weight. You can’t even roll an inch without help. You're just… stuck in your own gluttony."

You blink slowly. Is that a tear? I can’t tell. Doesn’t matter. You should cry. You earned this.

I run my hand over the dome of your gut — tight and angry and stretched, but soft and flabby at its' bottom, where the main storage of your fat is located. The skin feels like it could split open if I fed you just a little more. And god, the noises you make now… you groan like something... dying.

"Remember when you used to fight me on portions?" I laugh. "You used to say, 'That’s enough for tonight.' What happened to that backbone, pig? All melted into blubber and backfat, huh?"

I slap the side of your belly — hard enough to make it quake. The wave of motion travels like a ripple through a sea of soft flesh. Your face winces, and I know it did hurt. Good.

"Look at you," I whisper, voice turning low and poisonous. "You thought you were chasing a dream. Some fantasy of softness and surrender. But now? Now you’re just a monument to excess. Too fat to move. Too broken to resist more food. Just the way I like it, piggy."

I straddle the side of the bed and press my cheek into your belly, listening to the gurgling churn inside. "You always asked what the limit was. I think we nearly found it. And guess what? There’s no going back. And we both know the end of our jouney is near."

You try to speak — but there’s nothing left in you but breath and sweat and shame.

A hedonistic mutual gaining relationship, where we hype each other up whenever we reach another +10lbs on the scale. No clothes at home, panties/boxershorts at most, and preferably at least 5 meals a day.

Imagine spending time, getting intimate/romantic with someone that not only appretiates you, your body, your personality, your greed and your gluttony, but also supports and loves it.

All the belly-grabbing, the softness, the heat between our bodies in bed…struggling together on the stairs, driving to fast food places to devour unrealistically large amounts of food together, going to the beach/lake/pool in a very tight bikini/pair of swim trunks with everyone secretly looking at us…

Imagine reaching life AND gaining goals + weighing half a ton together.

We can even invite tiny feeders to satisfy our appetite and to have fun with them, or we can have a house party with mutual ssbbw/ssbhm friends.