*Insert Awkward Name Here

I haven't posted in a lil while, but my fattening desires are always growing far more intense. Im constantly horny, constantly stuffing myself, constantly over indulging and constantly eager to grow fatter and fatter.

I need to be tied down to an industrial reinforced bed and force fed until I'm unrecognisable. I need a sick and twisted dominant feeder to take care of my every need and put my fetish to the test, see how far i can really take things. I want to be an immobile slut who cant even role over in bed. Im so wet and horny, the thought of being too fat to touch myself turns me on so much, i want to be completely depended on a feeder who wont give me the release i desperately need until they are satisfied ive stuffed myself with ungodly amounts of the most fattening, delicious slop.

Set up a camera above my bed, i want to be live streamed, broadcast to the world like a prize pig. I want the world to hear me moan, hear the constant sound of the vibrator humming softly between ginormous, ever growing behemoth roles of fat. I want to lie helplessly, grinding my fat hips to find any release whilst you shove bite after bite into my greedy mouth. Read out all of the live stream comments, words of encouragement and words of disgust turn me on just the same.

Take a step back and marvel and what you have enabled, yet we both know ill never be fat enough

Wow im so god damn horny

You glorp and gurgle as you drain another sack of your weight gain fluid, an awful mix of cream, butterfat, and lard, that to a normal person would be horrid to drink, but you guzzle it down so easily. Your montrously blubbery body demands an insane amount of calories now, addicted to them, addicted to porking up larger and larger. The tube falls from your mouth as you struggle to catch your breath, rolling down your lard-swollen chins on your mammoth chest, your fattened tits twice the size of your head.

“Did I say you were done, tubby?” I remark as I discard the empty feed bag, rubbing your bloated stomach, sending waves of blubber wobbling, rolls clapping together, and forcing a monstrous belch from you. You reflexively gulp to keep the contents of your stomach down, as it bubbles and groans in agony, but you know the punishment for wasting food is far worse. I trace some of the deep stretchmarks that line your massive, bloated midsection. “If you’re no longer hungry, we could go for a walk…” I threaten, your glazed-over eyes widening at the suggestion. Walking was torture these days, your frame incapable of supporting the well-over 350lbs youve packed on. It took a bariatric sling to haul your larded up body out of bed, and required you to use a walker, all while your joints scream and your heart feels ready to explode.

“N-no I’m still hungry” you lie, whimpering as you struggle to lift your flab-filled arms to grab the tube nestled between your swollen breasts. Even your voice sounds fatter, with your lard-encased voicebox, your speech slurred due to your heavy jowels and chins working against your jaw muscles. Your arms are so heavy, and your tits so big, you find it difficult to reach over them, but finally manage, weakly placing the tube back into your mouth. “Good piggy” I claim, as I hook up the next bag, this one containing a darker mix than usual.

You dread the thick slurry as you watch it ooze down the tube into your mouth, choking a bit a it hits your tongue, dribbles of it squeaking oit the corners of your mouth and running down your chins. It’s so dense and rich, far more so than usual. “It’s a special batch, for the anniversery” I tell you, seeing your flabby face contort as you struggle to gulp it down. “Now eat up, fats, while I read you some fanmail…”

Your feedee lifestyle is now partially bankrolled by all manner of deviants online, buying up pictures and videos of you showcasing - not always willingly - your gluttonous ways and the struggles of being a ginormous blimp. I start reading off a few choice comments: “Her ass looks like 200lbs of chewed bubble gum.” “This fat fuck is going to eat herself to death.” “How the hell does someone get so disgustingly obese??” “This poor girl needs help!” “Keep eating, porky - you could use a few more chins.” As I read them, you cab’t help but feel tears stinging your eyes, while at the same time getting incredibly turned on, instinctively gulping faster.

Your vision gets blurrier with each swallow, as you ingest countless calories, your head swooning. You can’t help but to rub the sides of your bulbous belly, your guts churning to process the fluid - you could swear you could feel your flab growing in your own hands. You feel your skin stretching, your limbs growing heavier, your heart pounding, as your senses are overwhelmed. Before you succumb to your stupor, the last thing you hear before drifting off is the ominous creaking of the bed beneath you, and the hypnotic heavy gulping of an insatiable hog.

———-

Given that that weight has broken countless beds, chairs and sofas single highhandedly. And that belly of your just has never stopped has it? You used to hold it and lift it while laughing, now days you are doomed by it, with it flowing past your knees and pinning you wherever your lie. Even trying to jiggle it with both hands leaves you sweating, heaving and huffing. It’s bottomless nature leaves you moving your fridge next to your bed and with a funnel in bed, next to the oxygen machine. 

Your boobs have gone from perky things you wore bras to show off to weighty, cumbersome pools of fat which work with your stomach to gradually crush your lungs. Long gone are the days of lifting them and swinging them around, these days if you have your bariatric bed set wrong, you could drown in your own tits and in the sea of your numerous chins. In the few times you to stand to walk, your bad fat is plain to see for everyone, as just more rolls on an already expanding body fit to burst. 

Red, violent and wide stretchmarks coat your body, from your thighs to even your third chin, obvious signs to everyone of your body’s limits. Although, those are pretty obvious these days. When you go end up going out, you are either relegated to waddling which leaves you looking like a hippo in heat or a scooter, showcasing your helplessness to the world. But sometimes going out is worth it, just for the food. Always the food, as that’s what fueled you the entire time, desire for more… 

Even on the brink of collapse, it was always ‘more’. A second shake to have one in each hand, an entire cake to eat in one setting, more soft drink to make you feel nice and bloated as your body transferred the thousands of excess calories daily to lard. You even had regrets, realizing that this could be a short path if you kept going, but second, thirds and dessert always seemed so delicious, and you are young, so it can’t be that bad, even staring at you can be funny, so what’s the harm?

Of course now, you stuff until it’s borderline painful with your normally blobby body looking fit to burst every night, your body is always craving for more, though the risks are obvious. Now it’s a tube for feeding right next to the oxygen tube you have. Now it’s a chef hired by your feeder to make the most unhealthily delicious food possible, now it’s the crane and forklift which does all the work of moving you knowing how it’s all too hard for this princess, and the regrets are starting.

You could ignore the risks before with the wave of a flabby arm and the snort of a piggish laughter, but now, with a heart monitor by your side, breathing machines on constantly and the risk of not even being able to fit in a plus size coffin coming up, you have those twinges of regret and times you wish you could turn back time, but we both know that even if it was possible, you wouldn’t take it. Morbid obesity is what you took on, and even with the facts, you would take it again.

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