witch who is fat and makes you fatter

You're raiding the fridge every five minutes, begging your feeder to order you more food. A burger, large fries and onion rings barely satisfies you for an hour before you're shoveling chips into your greedy mouth by the handful, while a frozen pizza cooks in the oven. By the end of the day, you're so desperate to feel full that you let your feedee funnel heavy cream into your bloated, aching belly, moaning as the thick, cool, rich liquid fills in every last inch of remaining space. You're panting, sore, rubbing your distended gut...

And you're wetter than you've ever been.

You come that night to your feeder riding you, groping your flabby chest and praising you for being such a good cow. You're not quite sure why that turns you on so much.

A routine quickly forms, and it isn't long before your feeder's efforts are rewarded. With every day of gorging, you expand further. Thighs spread and ooze across the couch cushions where you now spend most of your days. Your neck is adorned with a blossoming double chin. Bulging side rolls stack up like flapjacks, forcing plump arms out at an awkward, unflattering angle. Your belly inches first forward and then down, a wobbling, gelatinous ball of lard that hangs off your middle, rising like dough with every stuffing then settling overnight into pounds upon pounds of decadent flesh. Atop its peak, your breasts sit proud and full, sagging slightly to either side with their growing weight. Plump, pink nipples adorn each of them, thicker and longer now, embarrassingly visible through most of the ill-fitting tops you wear.

The real change comes a week later. You wake the way you've grown used to, your belly roaring urgently. You give it an idle pat as though to quell it, but there's another feeling warring with the desperation for food. A deep, throbbing ache in your chest.

You sit up, grunting with the effort as your heavy gut, still bloated from a late-night binge, settles between your thickening thighs. Sitting up, your tits are pulled downward, and the ache intensifies. And that's not all. The front of your shirt feels... damp? Perhaps you'd spilled some soda on it last night? You reach up to feel, and whine at the pain.

Your pathetic whimpering draws your feeder's attention from the kitchen. They appear in the doorway, first worried, then intrigued. They strip your shirt off, exhaling sharply at the sight of your breasts, bulging and red, before lifting steady hands to cup and jiggle one curiously. Every poke and prod sends you squirming in both pain and arousal as they handle you like a farmer assessing their stock.

"My poor little heifer," they coo, pinching an engorged nipple and grinning at your moan. "Look at these udders, so swollen and full... let me take care of you." It's intoxicating, the sweet, condescending way they speak to you. The final shred of permission your brain needed to turn completely off and give itself over to your base desires. Your needs. The need to submit, to obey your feeder. The need to be fed. The need to have the pressure in your udders relieved. When they crook their finger, you heft yourself to your feet, waddling desperately after them as they lead you down the hall.

Every inch of you wobbles and sways when they direct you onto all fours. A plate of food appears in front of you, the rest of a large chocolate sheet cake you had ended your third dessert with yesterday. Immediately, instinctively, you shove your face into it, breathing a sigh of relief at finally being able to satisfy your needy, demanding belly.

"Greedy thing," your feeder chuckles. You hear them settle next to you, then something gets propped underneath you, in the small space your pendulous belly and udders haven't yet expanded into. "Such a gluttonous cow, aren't you? But that's okay. That's what a good heifer is supposed to do. Get good and fat, to keep these udders nice and full."

Their words seep into your mind as you glut yourself, and as you feel their fingers grip your aching teat, the first drops soon hitting the bucket beneath. The relief is like rapture, and you can't help but moan into the cake, face smeared with chocolate and frosting.

Good cows eat... good cows have full udders... Good cows get to be milked...

You had just fallen on your ass when he appeared, suddenly, materialising as though from smoke before you. Tall and lean, the shadows of his sharp features stood out like shards of glass, his face a devastating, beautiful mosaic. Fear had flooded your senses, suffocating you with the energy you could not use to run. He inhaled deeply, and a grin spread across his handsome face. Behind perfect lips, a pair of bone-white fangs caught the torchlight from the wall.

"I've been watching you for a while. You're much prettier up close. I think I have chosen well."

Your mouth was far too dry to swallow. "What are you going to do to me?" The question was a formality. You knew what he was, what he wanted. And yet, even then, you couldn't help playing his game, by his rules. Playing the trembling, desperate victim.

"I've grown tired of hunting for new victims every time I need to feed," he explained. "You will be my personal blood bank."

You had been too horrified by that thought to realise at first what he was doing next. It was the smell that roused you from your stupor. The rich, savoury aroma of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the dank cell as, with a flick of his elegant wrist, tray after tray of food floated in, then through the magically-opened cell door. The utter confusion had been enough to stop you from using the opportunity to escape. Your captor gave his simple command;

"Eat."

"...What?"

You had paused a moment to consider what might be happening.

"No. You've poisoned it."

The laugh he had given was shockingly genuine.

"Oh, no, no. I'd have no need for that, sweet thing," he had chuckled.

"Then what are you doing?"

He clicked his tongue, like a parent whose toddler had just asked a particularly inane question.

"If I am to feed from you long-term, I need you strong. Well-fed enough to take it. So, eat."

And what could you do? Certainly not disobey. So, you ate. You had been surprised by how delicious it had all been, but fear had gripped your appetite, and you had slowed after only a meagre helping.

"You're not finished," he had growled.

You swallowed your last mouthful of mashed potato. "I'm full."

His eyes had darkened.

The next thing you remember, you were fuller than you had ever been, nursing a painfully distended stomach and surrounded by empty trays.

That's when he had fed from you for the first time. Less brutal than you had expected. Almost gentle. A sharp sting, a spreading numbness, and strong arms holding you in place as he took long drags from your neck. Then, just like that, he was gone. Leaving you to nurse your bloated, stuffed stomach in your cell, moaning and hiccuping until you fell into a fitful sleep, wondering just what was to come of you.

Oh, how naive you were.

Today, you lounge in a plush, lavish four-poster bed, swathed in silk sheets. You haven't seen the cell in years, now. You doubt you could even make it down the narrow staircase to the dungeon if you wanted to. Across the room, the door opens, and your heart flutters. With a grunt of effort, you try to sit up, your prodigious belly slapping your thighs with the sudden movement. It takes a little finesse, these days, but if you get the momentum of your wobbling gut into the right rhythm, you can still heave yourself up on your own. You brush flakes of pastry and powdered sugar off your tits and belly as you catch your breath.

"Ah, my darling little morsel," your captor-turned-benefactor coos, moving to sit on the edge of your bed, pinching your plump, cherubic cheek. He has a box in his hands, the branding you know well- your favourite patisserie in town. The one you could no longer go to yourself: it had been months since you could waddle anywhere near that far.

You don't wait for permission, ripping open the box and moaning pornographically around a mouthful of blueberry tart.

"My, my," your Lord chuckles. "Such a greedy pet. And to think, you used to resist my feedings." His claws dig into a bulging side roll, in a way that makes you shudder. He grins. "But not for long. It took you weeks, didn't it? Mere weeks for you to embrace what you always were. Most people would have controlled themselves for months. But you, my sweet? You're just too much of a gluttonous hog to suppress it, weren't you?"

The tart is gone now, disappearing down your throat and into your bloated belly. You give it a satisfied pat as it growls greedily for more, your free hand already moving to oblige. Your Lord adores the gesture, leaning in to lick a spot of cream from your double chin, as one hand cups and bounces one weighty, flabby breast as they spill over either side of your gut.

"That's right. I knew deep down you were just a greedy, hungry little lardass, just waiting to be set free. I mean, look at you!" He leans back, taking all of you in. "You used to fear my feedings. Now you eat double that amount and beg me for more with those adorable little puppydog eyes. No wonder you've blown up into such a blubbery, round hog."

He shifts, straddling one ponderous thigh and positioning himself at your thick neck. You whimper around your mouthful when he sinks his fangs into your neck, lapping up the blood that wells to the surface like it's ambrosia.

"So rich," he pants between sips, hips shifting instinctively. "Such a good little glutton, so lovely and fat for me... Your blood tastes better than any other, my sweet..."

You tip your head back, basking in the praise, lifting another pastry to your lips. You don't doubt his claim.