Spooky month fantasy #2
(Please be aware this is dark-gross-fantasy/body horror. I never claimed I was a sweet unicorn, ok thanks bye!)
Imagine being used as a sort of feeding tube for another feedee. You’re glutted for years and years by an obsessed feeder until you’re a huge, squishy pillow of a person with no other purpose than to hold fat. You’ve lost all muscle, lying on your side on a mattress in a pen that’s equipped with a feeding tube dangling from the rafters for easy-ish access, along with a trough near your head just in case you get the crazy idea to wiggle around and snuffle through whatever’s left in there. For the most part you simply lay there in a pool of your own plush comfort, occupied by the goal of expanding and distracted with some harmless tv programming on a monitor in another corner. All meaning of your life is gone except to grow, something you and your feeder agreed on ages ago and honestly, there’s no going back now. You enjoy being taken care of with no thoughts or decisions of your own to make. It’s nice.
One day your feeder begins pushing you harder, citing your stomach’s gross capacity needing to be even larger.
It already oozes out in front of you, taking up the majority of your pen in a beautiful, bun-like shape with a sweet dimple hiding your belly button. Sometimes it’s relatively flat, undulating when you shift around to make yourself comfortable, but other than that it’s a relatively sedentary slab of pork. Other times, particularly when you and your feeder are in the mood to stuff you to capacity, it’s inflated like a swollen water balloon, sloshing back and forth with each labored breath you manage to take. When that happens your navel peeks from it’s cavernous dimple, a cute little knob of wrinkled flesh that acts like a pleasure button. Your feeder usually takes moments like those to clean out the little cavern and make you all hot and bothered, playing with the nub like one would a nipple. It gets you off every damn time.
After a lot of research, your feeder has decided to capitalize on this sweet feature. They seem to believe they can punch a hole in that lovely little nub and turn it into a built-in nozzle for someone else to drink directly from your stomach. You have a couple worries regarding things such as stomach acid and what organs might be swimming around in your blubber but they assure you they can get around it all, and besides, you’re too intrigued by the idea to really care.
Thus, the two of you begin the herculean task of figuring out how to keep you filled like a balloon in order to achieve this feat. It’s a struggle at first; you’re sucking on your feeding tube near constantly, plugs keeping waste in so your stomach is forced to turn itself into it’s balloon state. Of course, your feeder allows for waste cleanings but the first few weeks of this are torture.
Until one day, they aren’t, and you become used to the sensation of being packed full on either end, your gut becoming the sole reason of your existence. The fact your feeder exploits how good it feels to have a stretched-tight drum of a belly probably helps greatly, always paying attention to how you’re doing and doing whatever they can to ensure you’re taking this transformation as smoothly as possible. Soon your feed becomes thinner instead of its usual thick, creamy consistency. You don’t really question why; it still tastes pleasant, if a little chalky.
By this point you’ve become unrecognizable as a human, more like a living, breathing rock surrounded by overinflated, purple and red streaked flesh. You’ve been fitted with permanent tubes up your pudgy, squished nose, oxygen being forced into you at all times. You can’t even remember the last time you moved on your own, or your limbs and, let’s be honest, most your flesh is numb to anything except when your feeder rubs you so vigorously you can feel faint pinpricks of sensation. The only part of you that’s been conditioned to feel is that sensuous button crowning your near-constantly round belly and the skin around it, where your feeder spends plenty of time giving you the best belly rubs and scratches exactly like one would a dog.
Finally deeming you ready, your feeder ceases your consumption for a couple hours, deflating your gut just a little but suctioning your belly button out of its dimple in order to keep the fleshy nub exposed. You moan and groan over the sensation. Your tiny mouth, surrounded by an endless amount of lard, bobs open and closed as it searches for something to suck on. There’s nothing, and your feeder soothes your upset grunts, reminding you you’ll be back on your own tube in a matter of minutes. You certainly hope so—you’re feeling faint without the comforting liquid constantly running down your tube-widened throat.
Parking themselves in front of your awesome belly and kneeling at the altar that your belly button’s become, your feeder grabs the required equipment and gets a good hold on your engorged navel. The sensation alone makes you mostly forget you’re not sucking something down right now, and you’re practically in heaven when they place a sharp pressure on the nub. The pressure goes extremely sharp for a second, but after that you can feel something…something pushing through the sensitive, tortured flesh, sliding through perhaps a foot or two of creamy yellow fat until it punctures through to your stomach.
The feeling is orgasmic, turning you into a shuddering, blubbering mess. You lie there helplessly, the most thrilling ride of your life having taken over, and all you can do is feel so proud of yourself for reaching this heinous goal. Your feeder agrees, praising you immensely while they set up everything necessary to keep the tube in position from your stomach to the end of your belly button. They pat and caress you like the fattened cow you’ve become, delighted that their idea seems to have worked.
Once everything’s in order they lay straps over your whale-like body to keep you locked in position. Not like you’re going anywhere anyway, but you appreciate the safety feature. Then, your feeder rubs you down with several containers’ worth of oil to keep you nicely stretched and supple, and then your own tube is turned back on, the flow flooding your throat and bringing you all the relief you could ever need. You’ve done it; you’ve become the proverbial sacrificial pig, and you’re going to get even more pleasure out of it here soon.
Very soon indeed. No less than 2 days pass before your feeder decides to try the little experiment they’ve cooked up. You’re back at full capacity, looking like a stuffed sack of jelly that’s just a couple breaths away from splitting open and flooding the pen, and the tube they’ve put through your navel has healed nicely, without infection. The tap at the end of it reaches just past your flesh, meaning you need to be at your most inflated for it to be seen outside your crown of a dimple, and what luck it is that you’re near constantly like that now anyway. Deciding to test it themselves, your feeder kneels at your altar once more. You couldn’t see them the first time they did this, and you certainly can’t see them now either, but you can definitely feel them prodding at your bloated, unimaginably taut gut, then grasping the nozzle and giving it a wiggle that sends pleasure all the way to your core. It almost makes the feeding tube fall from your mouth, but they warn you there’ll be no reward if you don’t keep sucking.
So, you do, and with little fanfare they begin to do the same, suckling right from your navel like one giant, fattened teat. Unfortunately you can’t remain too compliant, the sensation of liquid being pulled from that location too powerful to handle. You begin squealing in unadulterated ecstasy, nearly choking on your feeding tube, helplessly wriggling around in your own fleshy prison. Forget how it felt to have your navel touched—this is suddenly the entire reason you were ever put on this earth. It is bliss beyond belief and you lose yourself in the moment, unsure when your feeder even stops.
They must, because they’re amping up your tube’s flow and congratulating you on a successful test run with the excitement of a mad scientist. As they do they begin a loving rubdown of your temple, sharing with you exactly how things are going to go from now on.
Your first pig to fatten up arrives the next day, and if you thought your feeder feasting from your belly was the most delicious feeling in the world, it doesn’t even compare to that of a greedy, voracious piglet who looks very similar to what you used to look like many, many years ago. Where your feeder was gentle, this one is rough, feeding from you as a starved animal would, guzzling down whatever liquid your feeder has made you consume and further fattening up this new pig in what seems to be a never-ending cycle.
And honestly, you never want it to end. You hope your feeder never runs out of new pigs to paw and grope and suck from you. Ever.
Not like you had other plans anyway.
-007
