bea

I want it so fucking bad. I need a feeder who doesn’t give a shit about limits, who sees how pathetic and greedy I already am and just… keeps pushing.

I want to be trapped under hundreds and hundreds of pounds of my own soft, useless blubber. I want my belly to sag so heavy it pins me to the bed, rolls cascading over rolls, sweat pooling in every deep crease while I wheeze just from existing. I want stretch marks like lightning bolts splitting across my skin, red and angry at first, then turning silver as proof of how much I’ve surrendered.

I want to feel the tube shoved down my throat when my jaw gets too tired, thick calorie sludge pumping straight into me 24/7—shakes so dense they feel like cement, heavy cream, melted ice cream, oil slicking everything. I want my body to forget what hunger even feels like because I’m never empty. Ever. Just constantly bloated, aching, leaking, my heart hammering against layers of fat like it’s trying to escape before it gives out.

I want my legs to fuse into useless pillows of cellulite, my arms too swollen to lift, my chins multiplying until I can barely turn my head. I want to be so immobile that the only movement is the jiggle when someone slaps my gut or forces another funnel session. I want my feeder’s hands sinking wrist-deep into my sides while they whisper how much prettier I’ll be when I’m closer to the edge, when every breath is a struggle, when my body is finally giving up exactly like I begged it to.

I’m already ruined for anything else. Normal life? Gone. Thin? Laughable. I don’t want escape. I want to sink deeper. I want to be their perfect, disgusting, dying pig—swollen, sweaty, horny and helpless, cumming from the pressure alone while my arteries clog and my organs drown in lard.

Please.

Make me so fat I can’t come back.

Make me so fat I stop breathing under my own weight.

I’m begging for it. I’m dripping just typing this.

I’m not leaving this path. I’m already too far gone. 🐷💦🍰

i want to pack you two lunches and still find a way to fit in a weight gain shake. i want you stuffing your face while your coworkers are eating nothing but a sad salad. i want you to sneak off with the shake, or the pint of heavy cream, to a bathroom or a supply closet, i want you to show off just how stuffed you already are for me, like a good little fatty, before you take a video of yourself sucking down the liquid calories ive packed for you--illicitly, alone, moaning from how packed you feel when im not even there. how owned you are.

i want you to come home to a beautifully maintained house and know that theres nothing you need to do, you dont need to lift a finger, all you need to do is lay back on the couch and let me fill you with the richest, fattiest home cooked meals you can imagine until youre too beached to move from the couch, stuffed with comfort food and bloated from beer. i want you to moan from pain and pleasure and ask me how much butter was even in that, only for me to laugh and say you shouldnt worry your pretty little head about such things, hon, thats for me to take care of. i want to leave a perfect lipstick mark on your taxed, overstuffed belly and walk to the kitchen to get you a slice of homemade cheesecake

Sitting up? Breathing more heavily

Reaching for snacks? Heart pounding in her ears

Standing up? Red faced and flushed with effort

God forbid—walking? Full on wheezing, struggling to catch her breath, drenched in sweat

Her arms get tired from the weight of a two liter, her feet are sore from stabding, her lungs burn when she rolls over, and her back aches from sitting upright

Only comfortable when she's completely sedentary, lounged back and cradling a belly full of fattening junk food

I want her body completely useless, so I can see just how well I've treated her. After all: a girl so grossly out of shape that she can't do anything but eat must've been so spoiled she didn't need to do anything else