Another Fat Blog

I don’t want control anymore. I don’t want choices. I want to be tied down. Strapped to the bed, wrists pinned, ankles spread wide as my overfed belly spills over the sides. Tight, round, groaning from the sheer volume I’ve already crammed inside.

I want to be turned into a helpless feeding experiment. Tray after tray, bowl after greasy bowl, shoveled into my open mouth. Moaning, drooling, whining around every mouthful, but still swallowing. Always swallowing. I want to feel the food pile up in my gut like wet cement, until I’m trembling, red-faced, stretched taut like an overinflated balloon.

No breaks. No mercy. Just gluttony.

Until I’m a bloated, sweaty, whimpering mess. Barely able to speak, too full to move. Belly high, firm, angrily distended. Tears in my eyes, breath catching in my throat with every pitiful burp.

And then… the funnel comes out.

You tilt my head back. Slide the tube past my lips. Thick, sludgy gainer shake starts pouring down. I can’t stop it. Can’t fight. It’s too much, too heavy, too rich, and it’s still coming. Filling every last crevice of my ruined stomach. I can feel it sloshing, my belly gurgling and rising higher with each desperate swallow.

I moan like a thing possessed. Not human. Just a pig. A vessel. A gut meant to be filled.

I want you to keep going. Until I’m too full to make a sound. Until my belly is a tight, round globe. twitching, overstretched, obscene. Until I’m crying from the pressure, the fullness, the helpless need to be even bigger.

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.

A girl who makes sure you an always have plenty of snacks within arms reach, who cooks every meal with 3x more cream and butter than it calls for, who insists you eat until your stomach feels like it’s going to burst because it turns her on.

A girl who praises you as you outgrow all your clothes, tells you how hot it is that your tits are bigger than hers and your belly hangs half way to your knees, who can barely contain herself watching you struggling to breathe just sitting down from all the fat she’s packed onto you.

A girl who forces you to waddle into the doctors office with her so you can be poked and prodded and told “you’re massively morbidly obese”, “incredibly unhealthy”, “If you don’t lose a drastic amount of weight now you’ll be lucky to have 10 more years”. All while she tells him how hard it is to make you eat healthy, how you refuse to do any exercise besides bringing junk food to your mouth. She’s so sincere you almost believe her but you know her panties are soaked through hearing the damage she’s done to you.

She leaves with a smile and you with a bag full of pills for your struggling heart and liver and blood pressure and diabetes. She helps you as you wheeze your way to the car and get in with some effort. She slides into the drivers seat and pats your belly as she plugs in the route to the nearest fast food joint. She orders enough food for a family of ten, all of it dripping with grease. She pulls in to the parking lot, she can’t wait to get home she needs to stuff you now. She slides one hand between your thick rolls as she brings the first mammoth bacon cheeseburger to your lips and says “You wanna make me feel good don’t you baby? The doctor said you’d be lucky to have 10 years but that’s so far away… I know you can eat yourself to death for me in 3”

Eating makes me moan

I thought I’d welcome you to the building, she says.

Oh no, thank you, but I need to stay in shape for track.

It’s just a few cookies, and I baked them myself, she pouts. You can smell how warm and fragrant they are. Well, one can’t hurt.

It turns out she’s a great baker. She visits you every day, her plump little figure turning you on as much as the treats she offers. After a couple of weeks, you start to worry. I really can’t, you say, running a hand over the newly sloping fat that you’ve put on your midsection. You know that coach is going to tell you to lose the belly.

Instead, you find out that the track team has been eliminated. You’re devastated and eat your feelings for a few weeks, downing whatever the cutie brings you, one cookie turning into a plate full, one slice of cake turning into you filling your belly with the entire cake.

Pretty soon, your belly is stretching out your shirts, poking out of the bottom. She giggles, saying that someone’s getting a tummy, and pats your rounding midsection as she offers you more fattening food. You try to pull down your shirt to hide the evidence, but it’s no use.

What the hell, you think, and decide to succumb to her. Each day brings more food, more encouragement. You go home for break and people are stunned, but also find your newly acquired fat hilarious, pointing out how obviously big you’re getting. You spend the break gorging yourself on junk food and filling yourself with beer.

When you get back to school, you’re even fatter and more bloated than you were just a few weeks ago. You’ve got an obvious gut full of beer, plates of nachos, and bags of chips. You’ve done such a good job, she says, playing with your belly, jiggling it. You deserve a treat.

And so it continues for the next few months. She brings you ever larger portions, boxes full of doughnuts, gallons of ice cream. You down all of it, noticing that she’s getting a little potbelly too, but nothing can compare to how big your gut is getting. Pretty soon, you’re lumbering around, your distinct waddle impossible to ignore. You start to have trouble fitting behind desks and squeezing yourself into lecture hall seats. You need to buy clothes in ever larger sizes.

no responsibilities.

no routine.

no fixed times.

no duties.

just filled to the brim with good food, endorphins beaming from your little piggy brain and dopamine rewarding you for engorging and gobbling on anything edible within a radius of 2 meters from you... wondering what's for dinner.

you wake up at improbable hours, and then you eat, you hit up the pc and devote your hours to videogames, streamings, and food until you go to bed.

i don't even have to encourage you by now...

you're digging your own grave a bite after another.

you know, i see the posts you publish on your kinky socials.

you almost always say that it's me filling that ball of lard you have as a gut...

...but in reality, if I make you stuff once a week it's a lot. After all, I work full time and I'm often too tired to do much but cook for you a filling meal and then going to bed listening to some ASMR to fall asleep...

but you... you love to appoint the entire guilt on me.

you love to tell everyone that it's me rendering you so obese that you can't even walk anymore.

you love to make everyone think "boo hoo poor feedee, her wife is fattening her up!"...

...while in reality you panic if you don't eat for even an hour.

the other day you literally had a meltdown because we didn't have anymore cookies.

and two days before that, you begged me to find another job just so that you could order mcdonalds more often.

(i'm searching for it, of course...)

i'm watching your puffy body sink in the mattress and i can hardly recognize each body part as a human one...

you're deforming your meat vessel by adding so much lard it's becoming unrecognizable.

you're digging your own grave a bite after another...

i'll sleep all night, like always...

...and instead you, like every night, will wake up around 5 am and eat whatever you can fit in your mouth without having to cook it.

oh, my dear hog...

you are so lost in the folds of your own obesity...

So he never goes for the plunge. He never picks up any signs – not that he thinks there’s ever been any.

He’s used to girls befriending him and he expects nothing more. He has a lot of female friends.

A new worker in the office befriends him, he thinks little of it. She’s a few years younger than him, a little less experienced in this field, so she’s always turning to him for help.

Little does he know she’s obsessed with him. She sees him across the room, shimmying between desks or struggling to grab something from the floor and she’s drooling around her pen.

I imagine him sat on the couch, growing belly over the waistband of his shorts and his tank top resting on the top of it, a hand on his stomach.

He calls out, as he usually does. That elongated baaaaabe – so whiny and desperate. So hungry, even if his stomach isn’t really empty.

“What is it, love? What do you need?” his partner asks, sitting next to him and squeezing his arm supportively.

“Can you get be some ice cream, babe? It’s hot. I need something sweet during the commercials.”

“Of course. You should have told me you were getting hot.” They kiss his cheek and rub his belly.

He ends up making through the whole pint, all past inhibitions completely gone.

I can’t help but pity you a bit when you get like this. In too deep, flushed and struggling to catch your breath, stuck in place like a beached whale.

“You’ve been so good for me, piggy.” I purr in your ear, playing with your hair. “And it’s gotten me all worked up.” I slip off my shorts and panties and, in a smooth motion, slide myself across your thighs so I sit straddling you. I reach a hand out to brush your stuffed gut and you whimper in pain. You would have flinched away if you weren’t weighed down right now.

“Aw, it’s okay, piggy. Don’t you want to make me feel good?” The whimpers of pain begin to mix with pleasure as I lightly run my hand around your belly. “Good boy.”

I rise onto my knees and start slowly grinding my heat against your fatpad. I brush lightly, just barely touching as I move up to your lower stomach, running my wet pussy up and down the line of your happy trail. I relish in every reaction you give me: every whine and moan, every whimper of pain and pleasure and overstimulation. You shake underneath me with pleasure and anticipation.

I stop for a second when I brush against your dick, rock-hard and half-buried in the soft blubber of your fat pad and inner thighs. Of course, your boxers are already damp. “You’ve really got no self control at all, do you?” I muse. Pathetic.

I rub myself over your tip, teasing myself with slow, circular motions. The roughness of the material of your boxers against my swollen clit makes me moan with pleasure.

“Yeah, you like that..?” You murmur through panted breaths.

I slow, stop.

“Don’t pretend like you’re doing any work here, fatty.” I start again, rubbing progressively harder circles against you. “All you’ve done is sit here and stuff yourself into a useless pile of lard. That’s your role, big boy. Sit here, eat yourself even fatter and more pathetic than you were before, and let me get off on it. Don’t forget it.”

You let out a loud moan as you soak through your boxers again. I don’t let up.

“Too- hard. It hurts—“ I interrupt your complaint with another donut shoved into your open mouth. You let out several muffled whines and moans through the mouthful as I rub myself against you 3 more times. After one final hard circle against your cock, I pull away and look at you.

You look huge. Covered in thick, heavy fat. Breathing heavily from the strain of your constant hedonism, the effects of your gluttonous habits are written all over your body.

Your eyes are fixed on me, silently pleading but half-lidded, like you’re exhausted. Your cheeks are round and smeared with chocolate icing. Your jaw is still working on the donut, and the chins under it jiggle as you chew.

You look pathetic. Your neck and shoulders are softened with fat, your arms round and flabby. Your chest has been buried underneath two fat man-tits, followed by thick rolls of fat that stretch all the way to your back.

Your stomach is the star of the show, though. The upper half, swollen from all the food you stuffed down, pushes up against your tits and upper rolls. From there it hangs forward, heavy and round and red, littered with stretch marks. It commands space in your lap, and stretches around your hips into big, puffy love handles.

—

a/n: i might add more to this later (likee some actual sex 🙂‍↕️), but i like what i have rn :p . i cant keep waiting for everything to be perfect or whatever to post it yk.

You finish chewing and swallow with another whine.

“Are you ready to be a good boy?”

You let out a small noise of agreement. Most days I would have forced a proper response out of you, but you look so dazed and stupid I don’t even bother.

“Good. Lean back, big boy” I instruct, and you oblige. I tug your tight boxers down, motioning for you to lift your hips. You grunt with the effort, lifting them just enough for me to pull the boxers under the plush of your ass before plopping back down heavily and letting out a sigh.

Your dick springs up when I pull the boxers off your front, and I grab and stroke it softly. The poor thing is now a few inches shorter than it used to be, surrounded by and buried in soft lard. I lower my head and give a light, tentative lick to the crease between your fatpad and your thigh, then a long, flat lick along the exposed length of your cock. This elicits a few increasingly pathetic whimpers from you.

“You’re such a pig,” I pull away and take in the sight of your huge body, my eyes filled with lust. “You’ve really let yourself go, huh?” I bite my lip, walk my fingers up the side of your stomach. You nod quickly, half-lidded eyes pained with need and desperation. I climb onto your lap once more, motioning for you to hold your belly up so I can get closer.

“What a useless pig you’ve become.” I position my near dripping cunt over you. “Say it.”

“I’m a pig— Ohhh, fuck.” You moan as I lower myself onto your cock. I take it all (all that’s left, anyway) and rest my hips on your plush thighs to give myself a chance to adjust. You let out a low moan when I slap your swollen gut. “Mhmm. And what else?”

“F-fuck. I’m—” You struggle to focus as I start riding your cock. “I have no self-control. I’m ruining myself. I keep eating and stuffing myself and I can’t stop. Unnnh- I’m a fat, worthless pig.” You’re out of breath.

“Good boy,” I praise. I grab onto your love handles and the rest of your body jiggles with them. We continue on like this for few minutes: me grabbing at and playing with the fat hanging off your helpless body as your whimpers and moans get increasingly louder and more pathetic between each struggling breath.

“Fuck. Fuck. I’m gonna- I’m—” I feel the heat rush inside of me before you can finish your sentence. I slow to a stop, resting on your thighs as your cum dribbles out of me. You continue with your panting, big gut rising up and down with each breath.

After a minute, I lean over your belly and turn your chubby face towards me. With your eyes glazed over, you almost look like an animal.

A dumb pig.

“That was pretty quick, piggy. Seems like you have even less control over your dick than you do over your appetite.” I smirk. No response from you; you’re too tired. “Aw, maybe I should cut you some slack.. Sitting there and letting me do all the work must be soo exhausting.”

I pull off of you and stand up. Still no verbal response, but you whine softly when I pull away. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but you still have some more work to do.” You turn your eyes towards the box of donuts on the end table next to you; there are still four left. You let out a pathetic whimper.

“Don’t whine, big boy. Be a good piggy and finish these up for me.” 😘

— — —

You groan, tired and helpless, pushing yourself upright with both hands while your belly sloshes around unpredictably — a completely separate entity from you. You’re already winded. We haven’t even started the day.

“Good morning fatass” I coo, leaning in to kiss your sweat-damp temple. “Enjoy being able to get out of bed while you still can. It shouldn’t be long now.”

You shoot me a look, half blushing, half flushed from the movement, and try to get to your feet. The swaying of your body with the slightest movement is unavoidable now. You don’t walk at all; you waddle. You don’t step; you haul. All that lard packed tight onto your thighs, slapping and jostling against itself, belly dragging you downward like an anchor of pure fat.

I trail behind you as you lumber toward the bathroom, and I can’t stop smiling. The way every inch of you bounces and sways. The slow, rhythmic harmony of your belly chafing on your thighs and the floorboards creaking is hypnotic. And when you finally pull yourself into the shower and plop down onto the shower chair, you let out a huff that can only be interpreted as a sigh of relief. Because we both know you barely made it. 

When you come out, you use your gut to ground the towel in place around your waist, and you sit on the edge of the toilet. I hand you your socks and wait. Watch. You try to lift your leg to cross your ankle over your knee, but your belly presses up into your chest. You have to lean back to breathe multiple times, and I can’t hide the fact that your immense struggle at the simple task of putting on socks is making me squirm with pleasure. You roll them half on and you’re left red-faced and gasping. I can see the sweat pooling at your collarbone.

“You ever think about how permanent this is?” I say as I pinch a lump of your triple chin between my fingers. “How this isn’t weight you can ever lose? It’s your whole life now. You’re never getting smaller. There’s no ‘bouncing back.’ Your body is ruined, baby. Completely useless except to me. And all because you're such a hopeless, impotent glutton.

to be pampered with gentle forehead kisses and fed rich desserts until moving comfortably isn't an option anymore, your s/o rubbing deep circles into your belly to make space for more. cooking you large breakfasts in bed and taking you out to lunch and encouraging extra helpings at dinner, making sure your growing belly is filled with snacks between meals, hand feeding you rich heavy desserts when you're too full and sleepy to eat anymore.

thinking your tummy is only rounded out from being kept so full all the time but you gradually become softer around the edges, your thighs a little chunkier, your stomach starting to soften and fill out until all your tshirts are a little too tight against the soft curve of your chub and your jeans barely hold together when you sit down