god forbid a guy get a little peckish

➜ ꗃ tags: dumbification, (implied) intox/dr_gging, gaslighting, humiliation, exhibitionism

You're a streamer, mainly being famous for your body. You were naturally gifted with good assets, managing to maintain your figure by simply going to the gym once or twice a week with friends. It was a routine you gradually had to put on hold since when your friends went to the gym, you were too busy streaming.

It adds up after a little. You see signs of it and figure you need to head back to the gym. Your roommate, however, seems insistent that it's all gone to the right places either way. Comparatively, there's always been a slight heft to your chest, but now there's a bit more to be toyed with. It's an undeniably good asset in your line of work.

You figure a few more weeks is fine, until you start getting comments on it. A mixed review. Some are calling it hot or cute, others are saying you need to get yourself back on a treadmill. You've received questions about, some even asking what your workout routine is - to which you've bluntly lied about with your roommate in hearing distance. Some people give you some tips, to which you decide to discuss with your roommate. It's a safe space between you two.

Your roommate reassures you that it's still nothing much. Perhaps a change of diet would be easier, even. You figure it wouldn't hurt. Your roommate recommends a lot to you, ranging from 'low calorie' snacks to questionable beverages that taste way too addicting to be good for you. But they are really nice. Now it's in your diet, it's hard to stop.

It gets to the point where clothes feel tighter now. There's certainly a softness to your belly and a fairly noticeable jiggle in more than just your thighs. You still haven't gone to the gym and the comments just keep coming. It's frustrating. You promised yourself you'd go to the gym weeks ago and suddenly a month has passed with nothing changing except an extra 10-15 pounds.

You speak with your roommate again. They hand you another one of those suspiciously delicious drinks. Apparently, they help. You don't exactly question it. You have no reason to.

Your roommate insists it'll take a few trips to the gym to get rid of it and somehow, it's believable. It really isn't that much weight. It's something you could work off by being a bit more active, but you haven't exactly done that in a while. You're used to getting paid for simply existing in front of a camera. You don't exactly want to stop that. You need to keep your online presence.

But you really do need to keep your figure. A few trips to the gym is all you need.

On the day you wake up to go, you feel sluggish. You don't question it. Today isn't the day and you figure you'll go tomorrow. Then the next day, the same happens. Then again.

And again.

You don't exactly feel ill. You just feel heavy.

You wake up hungry most days. You've forgotten what waiting until breakfast feels like. Your roommate is more than supportive with your diet, offering you a supposedly healthy breakfast each morning. Yet you nap after each one.

Apparently it's supposed to happen. It just means your body is working on burning calories even more. Your roommate reads articles to you about it, the kind you simply can't be bothered to read through. It's too time consuming for someone like you and overtime you realise you'd rather not have to think about these things. It's easier to be told.

However, despite all the advice and help, it doesn't help. You're getting more comments each day by irritated viewers, others are in shock at how much you've let yourself go. You're still adamant to keep up your reputation, insistent that you're very active when it's far from the truth.

Even your roommate insists these things when you're talking one on one. You do plenty of walking around the apartment.

Your washer seems to suddenly be the worst washer to exist. Everything seems to be smaller now.

You noticed a tag on one of your clothes, three sizes up from what you're familiar with. Your roommate blamed it on the brand. Clothing sizes aren't consistent and you can't help but agree.

The obvious is practically in your face each day. You see yourself in your webcam whenever you stream, live for thousands to see. Your body is a lot wider now, with hips filling up the seat that complains whenever you position yourself. Your arms sit on either side of you now, hugged against each tit that's hoisted up in a dangerously tight bra. Your shirt seems tighter than ever, mainly because you can't let go of the idea that you've gained weight and if you just so happen to think so, you're quick enough to believe a few trips to the gym is all you need.

All of this is reinforced by your roommate, the one you've been completely trusting in so far. There's no reason to be suspicious. Your roommate almost seems to mourn your body in a similar way to you, commenting on how you used to be in such a good shape. It's such a shame. It's so weird that you've suddenly gained weight.

It crosses your mind occasionally, typically during the early morning or late night - you wonder how you gained weight. You've been perfectly active. You've eaten the right things. Surely.

Unless your roommate is secretly fattening you up.

You mention it once in the kitchen. You're sat on a stool, legs fully spread as you're struggling to pull your pyjama bottoms up over your belly. It's the third time they've rolled down this morning.

Your roommate takes slight offence, handing you one of your favourite drinks as if to sweeten you up. It does. Almost a little too well. You forget about covering yourself for a moment, letting your belly sit between your open thighs and hang out of your shirt.

It was best not to upset your roommate. After all, they'd been the only one to try and help you. It was too humiliating to call old friends and admit you needed help losing weight. It was never something you struggled with before.

Sometimes, the memory fades. You're used to it now.

Your roommate makes you feel like you did before. Skinny.

You have a stream scheduled soon. You two walk and talk. You complain about how bloated you feel and how much weight you think you've gained, but you're reassured it's nothing. It's mostly gone to your tits anyway. After all, it's a good asset to have.

When you're sat in your seat, you're given a prep talk. You're encouraged to do your signature bounce and you do. You'll do anything for attention. Your body seems to move with you as you raise your shirt and move a little in an attempt to jiggle your tits. The rest of you moves far more than intended, your breasts tightly packed into an ill fitting lacey bralette. Your chest practically pools over the cups and the band cuts into your back, accentuating the extra fat there. It's something you can't see, but even if you did, you'd be persuaded otherwise.

As the stream starts, you gradually become more aware again. It becomes impossible to hide your belly with the way your waistband rolls down and the struggle to pull it back up takes more than a mere two-three minutes. You take a break, sipping the same drink you've grown addicted to and feeling sated suddenly.

You're still bloated, unable hide it with the way you're leaning back. You don't even notice how fat you look right now, which is astonishing. Each time a comment comes in, you remain in denial. Whilst pulling down your shirt, you claim you haven't gained weight. As your hands rest over your belly, you claim you're not fat.

You decide to start up a game. Maybe that will ease the chat for today.

Unfortunately, you don't do well. You keep losing. You take breaks again, even like this. You sip at the same drink game after game before realising you're hungry again. You seem to have lost self awareness.

You shuffle a few times, hoisting yourself up with a belly fully on show to the camera. The waddle off, interrupted quickly by your roommate who seems to note quickly what you've moved from your chair for. They'll prepare a snack for you.

You make your way back slowly, once again taking the opportunity to pull your pyjama bottoms over your lower belly with struggle. You've forgotten you're being watched, yet when you realise, you somehow brush it off. You feel far too dumb to care.

As you wait, you lean back again, the chair being loud enough for most microphones to pick up. With each movement, the chair seems to whine and click. The sound used to be noticeable, but now it blends in for you. It only feels noticeable when pointed out.

You read the chat occasionally, although you're far too focused on yourself right now. You can help but look at yourself. You can't help but thibj about how fat you've gotten. Are you fat? Maybe you're just bloated. Even if you are, is it really that much? You can't remember if you were much skinnier than this. It's probably just that poor excuse of a washer.

As time passes, you have more time to realise. You really have gotten fat. You notice how much you've filled up the chair, the way it's hardly even seen in the recording now. Your chin has lost all definition now too. Your face fits the rest of you, incredibly softened up and pudgy. It's beyond recognition. You can't help but realise how much of a struggle it is to move around and suddenly, you're back to trying to shove your shirt back down again. You can't believe how much space your belly takes up now. You can't even see your own belly button, let alone your thighs. You wouldn't even know how much of your belly was exposed if you didn't have your own reflection right in front of you, recording.

It doesn't take long for your roommate to join in, placing possibly the biggest plate of snacks down in front of you for everyone to see.

You're pretty frustrated. You have an image you're trying to keep here, whatever it is. You've been actively lying on every stream, talking about how good you are at dieting. Which you are, of course. So why do you feel so embarrassed?

You make a remark about how this is far too much and your roommate sings in laughter, calling you out for everyone to hear.

that's your average snack

That definitely is not your average snack.

At least, it shouldn't be.

Your roommate seems to join in now, commenting far too vocally about your habits. You eat far too often, always eating the wrong things, being too far in denial, refusing to go to the gym- It's everything you've been lying about and your roommate seemingly intends to make a mockery out of it.

You attempt to justify yourself, calling your roommate out for all the things they've said- everything between the comments on how normal your habits were, how active you are and essentially all the obvious lies you believed because you craved denial.

It doesn't just stop there. Your roommate retorts, making a point by grabbing your belly and shaking it. There's a shiver of conflicting humiliation that runs through you. It ruins you.

Your roommate somehow attempts to comfort you, suddenly going back to the person you know and telling you that only a few trips to the gym would fix it. You're stubborn about it now though. It's hard to believe when you've just been publicly outed to thousands.

But then you're offered that same drink again and, as much as you'd love to show resistance, especially where it mattered, you can't. You take the drink, unable to help yourself from drinking the whole thing and sitting there. You suddenly feel far heavier than before.

Your roommate makes another comment about how you just can't stop yourself and despite all rational thought begging you to defend yourself, you don't. There's not exactly much to think about. You simply sit there for everyone to see, filled out and a complete mess.

You're told to eat something by your roommate and you don't even question it. You wiggle yourself to sit upwards with a groan, reaching out to grab a few cookies and start eating. Your roommate addresses the camera again, remarking how bizarre it is that you've let yourself go so carelessly.

You let your roommate talk as you eat, listening to what they're saying about you. There's a lot to be said, after all. You've been lying through your teeth for months. You don't have the energy in you to defend yourself anymore and as time goes on, you just start accepting it. You can't even remember what's the truth anymore.

Your roommate remarks how pet-like you are while playing with your body. They talk about how easy you are, making a point by lifting up your shirt and the fact that you don't fight back. There's no energy for it now.

You feel rounded out. Full. Practically exhausted and yet you've done nothing. All you can do is sit there, get played with and be viewed. You're known for your body still, but in far different ways. You've known for how fat you've gotten, how remarkably in denial you can be and how swiftly you can change on the whole. Perhaps it's something you can get used to, or perhaps you don't even have a choice.

Thank you so much to an anonymous contributor for this commission!

Would you like to commission me? Head over to my Ko-Fi page :)

TW: intox (alcohol and weed), manipulation, health issues, immobility, darker themes. Read with caution!

***

I didn’t realize it was going to end up like this.

I have always been into feedism. Ever since I remember, I dreamt about becoming fat; it had a thrill to me that was more familiar and intimate than the lure of sex. I would religiously observe people who gained weight; secretly stuff pillows under my shirts to see what I looked like – all the stuff that so many feedees experience ever since childhood.

It’s hard to commit to a fantasy like that when your choices aren’t entirely your own, though.

But that’s when college changed everything.

Of course, many people go apeshit in college. For so many of them, it’s their first time of being away from home and they feel like they can cut loose. There’s parties, alcohol, weed.

For me, it was the first opportunity to try feedism for real.

I don’t think it would have ended the way it did if it was a solo project. I would have eaten a bit more liberally, gained a couple pounds, passed it off back at home as Freshman 15, and gave up, scared of long-term consequences and judgment.

But instead, I had the (mis)fortune of meeting you. My future feeder.

It was literally my first party. Huge crowds at the frat house, and I barely knew anyone, so of course I drank a bit too much to give myself a little courage. But, having near to no experience with alcohol, I overdid it. I was just sitting by the pool table, having one beer after another, and the next thing I knew, I almost lost balance when I tried to stand up.

That was when I found myself leaning on someone’s strong arm.

The details of the night are a bit fuzzy. I remember suddenly finding myself outside with you, rambling drunkenly about something idiotic, and you listening with a gentle smile on your handsome face. You were two years older than me, and you knew how these types of parties went. And then you said something jokingly about gaining weight from drinking too much beer in freshman year… and I guess my brain wasn’t ready for how loose my tongue had become with booze.

“I – hic! – fucking hope,” I mumbled, poking at my own medium-sized middle.

“Sorry, what?” you asked politely.

“Hope that I – hic! – get fat. Like, proper fat. I fucking love fat. I want to be the-the fattest.”

In hindsight, it was really fortunate that it was you and not someone else who was forced to listen to my ranting. Anyone else would have shared with their friends how they accidentally met a freshman freak at that one party one time; but you smiled rather knowingly and said:

“If you want, I can help you make it happen.”

“Wait – hic! – really?”

“Yeah, really. And we can start with getting you another beer.”

“Wh-what for?”

“Empty calories.” You flashed me a grin. “Vodka will be an even better choice next time. For now, it’s probably a bit too much for you.”

“N-next time?” I asked uncertainly. My head was spinning, both from the booze and from the fact that someone turned out to be so receptive to my darkest secret.

“Of course. If you want to really get fat, you’ll need to be doing this on a regular basis.”

In a flash, you were back with another can, and you were explaining everything about alcohol and weed, and how they helped increase one’s appetite; about eating out late in the night and snacking; about adding sugar to everything and eating the most caloric options.

I really wasn’t entirely sure about all of this, especially the intox part. I was into eating a lot of food, not drinking a lot. But then again, you were so persuasive and you really explained the whole process very well. It would just make it easier to consume more calories, I reasoned. I hadn’t tried weed yet, but if it was true what they said about munchies… well, it was going to make it easier, too.

So I agreed.

I had no idea what it really entailed for me.

***

I was actually quite shocked how fast the first results came. I felt constantly bloated from the alcohol combined with late night fast food orders. My jeans stopped buttoning properly by the end of the month, and I switched to elastic. And then you introduced weed, and the munchies hit me really hard. I found myself ravenously shovelling full bags of chips into my mouth and still being hungry after.

Combined with my new sedentary lifestyle of a student, this radical change had radical consequences. It didn’t take long to start feeling heavy and generally fuzzy. The amount of numbing substances I was consuming sometimes meant that I barely felt fully sober – always either slightly drunk or high, or on my way to getting drunker or higher. Maybe that’s why I wasn’t noticing the changes too much… but they were happening.

My constant state of intoxication also meant not doing too well in college. I turned from a straight-A student to a B student in the span of two months, and it was only going to get worse. My brain was slowly losing the ability to retain information, and it was becoming solely focused on food and booze.

By the time Christmas rolled, I had a small paunch. I loved it so much, but I was barely able to appreciate the newfound fatness through the haze of intoxication. Were the circumstances any different, I’d be scared of reuniting with my family, but as it was, I barely cared.

My appearance raised some eyebrows in the family. “They’re feeding you well out there, aren’t they?” my dad commented, seeing my modest beer belly straining my sweater. My mother watched, horrified, as I inhaled the Christmas dinner, and asked for seconds, then thirds. But I didn’t care. All I wanted to do is to return to the campus, and to my newfound way of life.

I was sent away with some mild warnings and mentions of exercise. The first thing I did after coming back was to stuff myself with Chinese food as I smoked weed with you. I was so proud of myself: barely managed to confess my kink and I already had a feeder and a life of my dreams!

Well, and then around the time spring rolled, I started seeing the first cracks in the surface.

I officially reached the obesity threshold for my height. I was now visibly fat, with a sizeable beer belly and a double chin. My thighs rubbed as I walked, and I was starting to have a hard time bending over. My new weight combined with my utter lack of physical exercise meant that I was getting winded simply walking down the school corridor. As the weather grew warmer, it started to get embarrassing, with sweat pouring down my forehead and chubby cheeks. There was no mistaking it – I was now a stereotypical, certified fatty.

I didn’t go back home for the spring break. I cooked up a weak excuse about needing to study for exams. But the truth was, my mental fitness was deteriorating alongside my physical one. I couldn’t focus on lectures, constantly either in the state of mild intoxication or slightly hungover. All I could focus on, sitting in the lecture halls, was how the old flimsy chair was creaking slightly under my ass, or how my pants were struggling for dear life. It turned me on so much, and so the moment lecture ended, I would head back to my dorm room to stuff myself more.

I spent more and more time at your place. You had a lot of room, and a very large guest bed – something that I didn’t really question at the time, too spaced out to question anything. There, I would take edibles, stuff myself silly, and end up in a giggling fit when I couldn’t reach something over my belly.

And my belly was becoming more and more of a problem. Initially, it was a growing hard ball of fat, the typical beer belly – but over time, it started acquiring all that soft fat that I loved, hanging over the waistband of my pants, and forming double rolls when I sat down. It was starting to pool between my legs, and made everything more challenging, from standing up to walking to breathing, not even mentioning reaching for something on the floor. You bought me some grabby sticks that I could use and I started to slowly realize where my feedee path was leading me: to the world of reduced mobility.

By the end of my freshman year, I weighed 300 pounds. I was entering adulthood as an obese addicted glutton, and I was starting to realize it wouldn’t get better in the future. I couldn’t stop eating, drinking, and smoking if I tried. I typically consumed around 5000 calories per day, and often more, as I stopped even counting booze into that number.

I was testing out all the consequences of weight gain that I’d found so hot in stories I’d secretly read growing up. None of my clothes fit. I managed to upsize some of them, but I could barely ask my family for a whole new wardrobe expense. You, my feeder, were quite well-off, and you teased me more than once about buying me specialty clothes… something that I brushed off as a joke. But then later, I realized that the offer of new clothes was not a theoretical one; it was instead dependant on my behavior. If I stuffed myself even more, gave myself even stronger munchies, then maybe you’d consider getting me a new shirt.

For now though, you enjoyed watching me struggle.

I still remember that one class in May of my freshman year, one humiliation amongst many. I was quickly reaching 300 pounds, but wasn’t quite there yet. It was getting hotter. My t-shirt was damp with sweat, hugging my wobbly belly. I couldn’t even tell if it was covering its entirety, but probably not – I was developing quite an overhang these days.

I waddled into class, huffing and puffing with exertion, provoking stares that I had already somehow managed to get used to. I was always the topic of every gossipy conversation now, my ballooning figure on everyone’s lips, people barely recognizing my fat ass as I grew month after month.

I plopped myself on a chair in the back. By that time, I was firmly a C student who’d take every opportunity to escape the professors’ attention – even if it was becoming more and more challenging at my size.

Unfortunately, getting unnoticed was not to be my fate that day. As I sat, I heard a loud RIIIP and realized, mortified, that my pants had split. Panicking, I glanced around, only to notice a couple students giggling opposite me. I had no idea if they realized that I had just shredded my pants or if they actually thought I’d farted. I had no idea which would be worse.

I spent the entire lecture anxious about having to get up and waddle away with a large hole in my pants, and I waited until everyone was out of the classroom to painfully pull myself to my feet and waddle in the direction of the door.

Unfortunately, my humiliation was not over. The professor called out my name and asked me to stay after class.

Embarrassed, I stood there, in ripped pants, my belly hanging out of my shirt, and listened as she voiced her concerns. She was very worried about my skyrocketing academic performance. She didn’t want to pry, of course, but she had to ask: was everything okay in my personal life, or at home? Of course, it wasn’t her place to say, but she couldn’t help but notice…

“E-everything’s fine,” I mumbled. “I’ve just been so busy lately… and…” I couldn’t even finish the sentence. My fried brain wouldn’t let me come up with a good excuse.

She gave me the last worried look and let me go. Humiliated, I turned and prayed that she didn’t look at my ass peeking out of my pants as I waddled away.

When I told you this story, you were absolutely delighted. You grabbed my chubby cheeks, jiggled my hefty belly, and said:

“Oh, you’re so gone now. Turned yourself into a total fatass. You just can’t help but be humiliated now.”

“I – I,” I stammered as they pushed a bong past my lips.

“We’re going to stuff you so much today. As a reward.”

I could only nod. I couldn’t help it; I was addicted to food, to drink, to weed, to the attention you gave me…

By the time the day was done, my belly was tight as a drum.

***

The results of the final exams came. It was official: I had failed. The old me would be terrified for my future and for my family’s reaction; but as it were, I was honestly almost relieved. I didn’t have to try and concentrate on my classes anymore; I could just eat, drink, and spend all my days with you. I didn’t even think about having to leave my dorm room.

So unsurprisingly, I was quite shocked when my addled brain finally put two and two together. I had nowhere to go, except home. I knew I couldn’t go home, it would be a disaster.

“Just move in with me,” you said, and at this point, I knew it was inevitable. The last alarm bells sounded in my brain, but I ignored them. I didn’t have a choice. I had already been set on a path that led to ballooning beyond my wildest dreams.

Soon, I realized what the rest of my life would actually look like. You convinced me to change my phone number, so that no one from my old life could contact me. You moved me into the bedroom with the enormous bed and from day one I realized that I won’t be leaving it much. I still remember my first morning in that bed: you brought me a mountain of pancakes for breakfast and fed me past my already quite strained limits.

And when I asked for soda or something to wash down that massive breakfast, you handed me a beer.

By the end of the summer holidays, I was up to 350 pounds. My world was now restricted to the four walls of your apartment, and consisted mostly of me gaping at a TV screen or playing video games, whenever I was sober enough to even be able to move a controller. I would be feeling much worse with this if I wasn’t high or drunk all the time. I would be alarmed that one morning when I realized that it took me five minutes to get out of bed. Or when my hips brushed the doorframe for the first time.

Instead, I kept drinking, smoking, and eating.

***

I huff, trying to adjust myself in my reinforced bed.

I don’t even budge. I sigh, taking a swing of vodka with my one hand, while with the other, I reach into a pack of chips. I eat them loudly, belching and wheezing between chomps, as the chips fall from my chubby hand. My fingers no longer close over things properly.

As I gorge, I look at the TV screen, but I don’t even register what’s playing, and I don’t care. I’m hungry. I finish my chips, belch, and call out to you for more.

If my life went a different way, I’d be finishing college now. Instead, I lie in this king-sized bed, spreading over the mattress, my mobility long forgotten, constantly drunk or high as I wait for you to bring me another meal, clean me, or change me. I am a mountain of fat, and I can’t stop getting even fatter. And you oblige me: you bring me alcohol, weed, and copious amounts of food. You care for me pretty well, all things considered. I have all the “toys” I need, including a cpap mask, a bariatric bed, and a walker – when I could still walk, of course. Lately, it’s been getting harder to lift my arms to constantly feed myself, so you have been tube-feeding me more and more. I often notice that you mix in alcohol into the sludge I consume. But I don’t mind. These days, it feels almost like water.

When I met you, I was young and impressionable, sure. But I could have turned back, right? I hadn’t been destined to become and immobile blob, and yet, here we are. So many steps of the way I could have stopped, and yet I didn’t. I think we both know why: I got addicted so fast, and not just to alcohol or drugs, but to the heady feel of gaining and getting worse on purpose.

SSBHM Erotica

At first, I thought there was a dog behind me. The loud panting sounds seemed to echo off the trees.

I love dogs, so of course I turned around.

It wasn't a dog, though. It was you.

You were panting. Even with the help of your cane, you could barely walk across the park. Your mammoth belly, decorated with crimson stretchmarks and bigger than any I'd ever seen, was forcing you to shuffle instead of taking actual steps.

I saw your pudgy hand clutch your chest. I saw your face twist in pain.

Oh God.

I ran over, assuming you were having a heart attack.

"Are you okay?"

You couldn't hear me over your gasping breaths. With your eyes squeezed tight, you couldn't see me either.

To get your attention, I grabbed your sloping shoulder. That made your eyes shoot open. "H-hey," you gasped.

"Are you okay?" I repeated.

"Yeah. Just training for my next marathon."

My eyes darted toward your exposed gut again. I couldn't help it. I was too scared for you (and surprised that someone your size could even walk) that my brain couldn't process that you'd just made a joke.

"Help me sit, please."

"Uh, okay."

I placed my hand on your sweaty back and guided you toward the park bench where I was just sitting. You didn't lean your weight against me (thank God). I positioned you in front of the bench and just stood there. I didn't know how to help someone like you sit.

You smiled at me and let yourself collapse onto the bench. It creaked horribly but held firm. You sighed, clearly relieved that the wooden slats didn't crack under you.

And then they did.

I watched in horror as the bench gave way and you dropped straight onto the hard ground. Your cane toppled to the side and your body literally bounched on impact.

"Are you...?"

sit down, start stuffing. one burger in each hand while you rock back and forth in the chair to try and get any sort of friction. eat faster, feel your precum leaking against the underside of your belly, its okay if it’s too heavy, ill lift it for you!

keep eating until it hurts & then loosen your belt a notch. let me tease your nipples with your shirt on and mock you for being so desperate to get bigger…we will keep doing this every day until you either burst out of your pants or cum in them <3

then we will start doing the same on the bed, get on all fours and start eating without your hands. the only stimulation you will get is teasing words and permission to grind your desperate crotch into the mattress…that is until you get too fat to make the friction feel good, because your belly is in the way and you can’t reach the mattress properly…