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if your ritual snakes are just being kept in some sort of enclosure, especially something like a pit or a katabasis (the Greeks were really big on a Amigara Fault-type procedure where people would go into holes in the earth in various ways and then come out of the holes in various ways and during this process be understood to have visited the underworld or received a vision from an oracular ghost such as Trophonius, the mechanical details of the process aren't clear), you probably aren't directly observing them very often except for any part of the rituals that involve handling, during which the snakes wouldn't be eating anyway. but alone in their enclosures with a bunch of bakery snacks, the rodents and bugs could sneak out of hiding and get grabbed by the snakes.

also I imagine a lot of the smoke and mirrors of the staff at these temples involved managing the various sacred animals somewhat like a petting zoo or a feeder goldfish tank at PetSmart, and just disappearing any of them that died so the clients wouldn't see them. it's likely the staff were cleaning, feeding, and taking care of the snakes at various locations and the dogs at the Asclepias temple and so on.

I just can't help myself anymore. My poor brain has been rotted away by my own greed. All's I can think about is stuffing my face even when I'm painfully full and beached in bed for my own gluttonous tendencies. I can't stop thinking about growing fatter and heavy. I looked down at my stomach and at my fat rolls and my thighs all caked and blubber and still just think I'm too small.

I must keep growing.

It's like the voice in my head. It keeps telling me to take another bite that this isn't fattening enough. I should add gravy or butter. I find myself lured to drinking more heavy cream just as a beverage. Guzzling it down as quickly as I can, and a desperate attempt to fatten myself up even faster. And knowing that I shouldn't be this heavy that I should lose weight and that I should stop only he turns me on more making me reach for the next greasy fattening morsel.

I must keep growing

And then the other thought that runs through my mind is that if I had a feeder I would probably already be immobile and bed bound being forced to devour an entire feast of fattening foods every few hours with a funnel shut down my throat forcing me to guzzle down whatever fattening can concoction they came up with. The very idea of this Spurs me on hoping that if I get big enough one of them will come to push me even further.

I must keep growing

I picture all the thoughts and mocking words that so many people have for me calling me a fat cow and a pig or a whale telling me I need to lose weight for my health commenting on the jiggle or how my belly doesn't fit in my shirt anymore. All their comments just make me want to keep growing and eating to keep stuffing my face and guzzling down the most fattening and unhealthy things I can.

Some people have their milestones mapped out, right from the start. Some people carefully chart their desired journey, perhaps starting at 250. Planning to gorge themselves up to 350 or 400lbs, knowing they’ll then need to be pushed past their limits until they finally arrive at 500, overshooting by 30lbs with worrying ease.

Others might begin nervously, gingerly creeping up the scale, pound by pound, feeding by feeding. Of course, once they breach 200lbs, things suddenly become very real. They find themselves craving the next hundred, then another hundred, and then the hundred after that. Maybe they want to get heavier still, maybe their feeder wants them to stabilize, maybe they both make a compromise and agree to stop at 700lbs. Maybe they set a secret goal of 770, as a treat.

Others still might only realize that these options even exist after meeting a partner, weighing in for the first time in years, and unexpectedly thrilling at the sight of their soon-to-be feeder’s wicked grin after watching the scale flash “ERR”. They think “1200” is an impossible number as they head steadily in that direction, encouraged and helped along the way. The months and years marked only by buying scales of increasing capacity, until one day they themselves decide to change the goalpost, crossing out the “2” and replacing it with a “6”.

I, however, don’t believe in any of that. Is it exciting? Sure. Is it frightening? Probably a little. But is it really the most effective way for you to grow? Don’t get me wrong: there will be measurements, charts and graphs to reflect every thickening roll, each added fold, and all the new jiggle. But you’re not going to be like any of those people. You’re different. I have just one goal in mind for you - speed.

I’ll start you off small, having you gain one pound a week. Easy, manageable. You could almost do it in your sleep, and you certainly don’t need any help. A couple of weeks roll by and you’re crushing it - you don’t feel any different, other than the comforting warmth of knowing you’re doing such a good job. Then, I’ll have you move up to three. You’re probably already there anyway, but I want to see you keep it up. One month and 11 pounds later, you simply need an extra stuffing or two to push you over the finish line, no big deal. But then, a new week means you have to do it yet again, and on top of that, now I need you to get to five. How long will it take to get used to making that happen, week in, week out?

Maybe this is where you start needing a little help. A session to test your limits once or twice a week, on top of all the grazing in between meals. Maybe you get a little too used to the new routine, shooting up by seven pounds - impressive! Just don’t forget, you still have to do five more next week, you don’t get to roll over those two extra pounds - they’re just icing on the cake. Heavy, sweet buttercream for you to keep wherever you like. Tomorrow, you’re back to zero.

Your eating habits have had to change to keep up with gaining 20lbs each month, but you’re doing great. You’re starting to really feel bigger, too, going up a few more sizes and occasionally knocking things over with all the new inches going to your butt. It’s desperately cute, but you know you won’t stay this way for long. You also know you aren’t going to be growing five pounds per week for much longer, either - next stop, seven pounds.

That’s a pound a day, every day. Your stomach is used to the stretch, it takes a while to get full now, and you can handle being hand-fed long after you’re too full to get off the couch, even if you do stagger to bed in the middle of the night because the couch gets lonely. But that was then, and this is now. Now, this is less than the minimum. You have to tolerate more. You need to do this every day, as much as you can. You’ll gladly accept help, of course, but now you’re getting used to stuffing yourself, then needing help to eat even more after that, at least three times a day. The idea of every meal requiring help is exciting, but this is the new norm now. This isn’t an experiment that stops one day, this is just how your life is. You don’t remember the last time you felt hungry.

You are tearing through sizes. You’re outgrowing furniture. You’re too wide for some seats, and too heavy for most benches. Getting wedged in tight spaces is a thing of the past - you simply can’t maneuver your enormous body anywhere without plenty of room to work. Your stomach is practically bottomless, you’re being hand-fed more than you’re feeding yourself, and you’re still setting personal bests for calories consumed. You’re regularly more then eight pounds fatter every single week now, and it didn’t really take that long for you to get there. You’re doing so very well. By most standards, you are huge.

Being huge, however, isn’t what you’re training for. You know what’s coming, and you’re prepared for it. You wonder what the next bump will be. Does this mean you’ll need to get filled with a funnel and tube? What if you like it? You know you haven’t found your real limits yet, though. You can take more, a lot more. Can you do 12lbs in a week? Can you do 15, then do it again the next week and again the week after that?

You don’t get hand-fed on the couch, long after your heavy arms hurt too much to lift, any more. You don’t get to snack between meals, because you mostly don’t have meals any more. On special occasions, if you’ve been particularly good, you might get to eat food like you used to, even if you do need a lot more of it than you have the stamina to deal with before being fed the rest. All you have to do these days is lay reclined in your bed, breathe through your oxygen tube, and rest your hands on the sides of the top slope of your belly as it grows upwards and widens, ever so gradually, but surely. Always full, always being made to stretch just a little more to support your size. Always in motion, the thick layer of fat covering it sloshing lazily as you breathe. Dwarfed by the expanse of your lower belly, stretching out forever in front of you, as far as you can tell.

Every couple of hours, you drink from a tube. Sometimes there’s a funnel, sometimes there’s a bag, sometimes you can control the flow, other times your jaw is held open with a gag and all you can do is try to open your throat and feel it flow into you. You no longer wince in pain as your stomach becomes more and more burdened, you’re used to it.

Before you sleep, a small, flexible tube is threaded through your nose, into your stomach. As you sleep, a pump makes sure you never dip below “painfully full”. You’re not sure how much fatter you’ll be by the end of the week, but it doesn’t really matter - you just know that you’re finally growing, comfortably, to your potential.

Feeders i have a question