Blubberchub

I’ve become such a fat, food and lard addicted pig. I can’t stop thinking about the next hit. The feeling of food touching my lips, as I swallow, knowing that it will make me one step closer to become nothing but a formless fat mass of man. 

I want this to be you.

Immobilised by flesh.

A slave to your greed.

Machinery keeping you alive.

A bedbound, useless blob.

It’s your destiny pig, so let’s make it happen.

So now after answering that tube feeding question, I feel like this is the perfect time for me to get to answering this question. I’m not sure how close I can get to this … but I want to get him as close to this point as possible….

You could be in shape by now if only you decided to put the fork down.

Your stomach could be flat and toned but instead you chose to overindulge on carbs and candy.

The clothes you wear could be easier to find if you chose to eat less. But you didn’t did you? Now you’re in XXXL shirts and pants because your mouth is always full and your self discipline has vanished. I hope this is what you wanted.

I hope you wanted a huge hanging gut, wobbly sagging arms, and an ass so fucking wide that its basically an anchor when you sit down. Pinning you to wherever you are seated.

I hope your poor decisions make you happy. Stuffing your face at all times. Gorging yourself until your stomach is painfully swollen and overstretched.

I hope you are happy when you realise that all of your poor decisions have lead you down a path of no return. When you’ve become an overgrown greedy pig that cannot bring themselves to stop bingeing. Bad decisions lead to worse consequences.

I want to watch and tease you as I taunt you and attempt to convince you out of the bed. “Look at your worthless jiggling body, fatass. You can’t even get up. Ha. So young and already a helpless pile of lard. Just stop embarrassing yourself fatso. Give up and lay there while I mercilessly funnel feed you pure lard, heavy cream, and butter. Your blubberbound body is worth nothing more than to be expanded and grown as much as possible by my tantalizingly torturous treatment. You’ll keep eating like the worthless hog you are. So what, you’re immobilized? Like any good pig should be. That’s just the first step in me destroying you, fat fuck.

Next you will lose your ability to stay concious for long with so many calories constantly pumping in you. Going in an out of an exhausted state, your heart and lungs just trying so hard to keep up.

Then you loose your ability to lift your arms for long. Then requiring me to scratch itches and such for you. How pathetic. You’ll literally just lay there and grow as I do everything else for you.

Then you loose the capability of breathing on your own. Needing and oxygen tank at all times. The simplistic of tasks will be beyond my fatass.

Next thing you’d loose would probably be your ability to feel your legs/even wiggle your toes. Maybe have to have a leg or both amputated. Not like you would ever use then again anyways, lardass.

A feeder boyfriend who will make sure I always hit my goals weeks early. A feeder boyfriend who will let me spill into his seat on a plane and cuddle me the entire way.  A feeder boyfriend who knows when I’m just being difficult, and when I’m actually full.

A feeder boyfriend who learns my family recipes to keep me satisfied when traveling home isn’t a frequent thing anymore.

A feeder boyfriend who wakes me up every day with a heaping pile of eggs, potatoes, and bacon. And maybe waffles. Aaand pancakes. And maybe 2 kinds of juices because he knows I’m an indecisive fuck.

A feeder boyfriend who learns my tricks for gaining and holds me to them every waking minute. A feeder boyfriend who wants me big enough to rely on him for every little thing. A feeder boyfriend who knows exactly the right words to get me to eat just a little more. 

A feeder boyfriend who knows that we’re in this together, and that I’ll never stop eating as long as he keeps feeding.

Piggy.

Admit it, you like it when I call you that.

It is pretty fitting, unlike most of your wardrobe. That’s right, don’t think I haven’t noticed! I mean, how could I not when you get so out of breath every morning trying to put on your jeans. It’s so cute watching your fat ass squeeze into those things. At this point they look like they’re practically painted on. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if they were, you’ve grown quite a bit!

Remember when I told you I accidentally threw them in the dryer and they shrunk a little bit? Just kidding! You owe all that to that big, fat gut of yours, darling.

Well… I may have helped a little bit with that actually.

Remember when I clumsily dropped all those dishes? That was actually just an excuse to buy new plates. If you had any hope of losing weight maybe I would have gotten smaller ones, but of course, they, just like you, got bigger.

Remember all those leftover cookies, cakes, brownies, and pies I brought home from those new ‘productivity boosting office meetings’ I told you about? I just brought those all home from the bakery to keep you tempted and full.

How about those times where I promised I would make dinner but then “forgot”, forcing us to order out?

But hey you enjoyed stuffing all those pizzas in your mouth right? You always looked so content with your pants unbuttoned, mouth stained, and tummy bloated. Of course that didn’t stop you from waddling your tight panty clad ass to get a late night snack. I’d always clumsily order two pizzas, but it’s not like they would be there in the morning. Especially now since you’re looking like we better upgrade to three.

Let’s not act like most of this was my fault though. Knowing your appetite, this was bound to happen anyway. I never forced you to eat those entire sheet cakes or pans of brownies. I only rubbed your belly to make you feel more comfortable, how was I supposed to know you would just eat more?

Besides, just face it. You’re a porker, a hog, a full blown fat pig, and you know it. It’s so cute when you try to hide the fact that you get out of breath just from standing up. Your face already red, and just getting even redder from embarrassment. It’s okay to be gaining weight, just be a good piggy and own up to it.

You might even enjoy it more, the reckless abandonment of dietary restrictions. All the unhealthy, caloric, sugary junk you could imagine. Anything you want. All the time spent on your fat ass loading up on carbs just for it to be converted to more fat. The relaxing, increasingly slowing rhythm of your waddle. No need to prove a point, just succumb to the huge hulking mass that is the true you.

Accept those chubby cheeks that are waiting to be filled and to become tired enough to switch over from chewing to milkshakes.

Accept those extra chins, burying your face and neck in blubber as immediate notoriety for your utter gluttony and appetite.

Accept those doughy arms, weighing your next mouthful down and begging me to take away their job, eventually for an early retirement.

Accept those fat fingers, surprising you with your own lack of self discipline and fading dexterity.

Accept that huge belly, constantly pulling you forward and serving as a permanent monument, never letting you forget that you’re a fat pig.

Accept your gigantic ass, testing the strength of every piece of furniture you ever sit on and making creaking, collapsing, and crashing a constant soundtrack.

Accept your collasal thighs, hiding predictions of your even fatter future in their dimples, destroying every fabric that meets its path on top of everything edible that meets yours.

Accept your fat feet, bloating up to resist and turn the slow waddle into a crawl, inevitably making a scooter or rather bed your ass’s new home.

Accept yourself as a piggy, letting the pounds ooze onto you, the breaths escape your catch, and your gluttony win.