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You live for me. Eating and eating yourself heavier for me. You are my little pet. My fat hog. I want you stuffed at all times. I want you to be record breakingly obese. I want people to see what I’ve created. A grotesquely obese unrecognizable blob of a human. I want people to gawk at you when I put you on display. I want your insides stretched so big that its impossible to keep you full. You have submitted your life to being my subject and I will feed your desires.

I will start by feeding you more and more every day until you belly buldges past your pants. I want you to pop the buttons from them by sitting down and letting the pressure do the rest. I want your face to grow softer and your ass to swell bigger. You are my pig now and you will eat until I say you can stop. I know you love being teased you fat sloppy hog. I’ll push you and make you eat until you think you will explode. You might cry but its part of my plan. I want your gut to turn into two big doughy rolls for me to play with while you eat.

I will feed you for hours on end and measure you while you grow. You will be my fat storing piglet. After you have glutted yourself up to five hundred pounds I will get you an extra large bariatric bed to grow into. Even if I have to tie you down and force feed you to that size. I know you would love it anyway. Your body will be piling on so much weight so quickly that your muscles will give up on you ever walking again. I will rub your fat engorged body with lotion to keep your skin soft. Your belly will be slumped between your legs forcing them apart at all times. Your arms heavy and saggy laying uselessly to your sides. Plump and fat just for me.

But thats not enough. Nine hundred pounds is not enough. I need you to be extremely obese. Your body needs to be filled with so much fat that you are basically floating in a sea of lard. At this point you will not be able to resist. Plead all you want I’ll just stuff your piggy mouth with cake and watch you eat it slowly. I’ll hook you to a heart monitor to watch your heart become weaker while you swell. Thats the downside of being a pure hog. It won’t stop me though. I’ll roll you over onto your giant pillowy belly and rub your globular asscheeks while your face is buried in a trough. I will break your will and soon you will become a greedy feeding machine. Eating faster and faster slopping food all over yourself. Your body inflating with cellulite and fat rolls.

There are so many folks looking to gain weight etc but how many legitimately want to be 600lb+? I’m not talking fantasy. I’m talking IRL and all the thing s that come with it.

Reblog if you’re looking to be truely supersized.

Reblog if you’re also wanting a partner that’s truely supersized.

I want to get fat. Not just a little chubby… but breathtakingly obese. I want the walls to shake, the floors to quake if I decide to waddle my hefty ass out of bed in the morning. That fear, of course only accomplished if my one or two hunky feeders help me up. They’ll maneuver my doughy love handles and mountains of fleshy rolls just to sit me up… and then tug on my soupy, fat-laden arms until I finally rise to my round, blubber-filled feet. Though the journey from bed to kitchen is short, it can be exhausting nonetheless, as I slowly waddle, panting and puffing, my body under stress as it carries hundreds of pounds of excess lard. Just a few more steps and I’ll make it, to plop my ballooning ass down upon the steel-reinforced bench rated for 1500 pounds. Today the bench creaks as I lower my great heft onto it… and I just think it’s a shame we spent so much money on something that’s going to be useless in a few short months, when I’m packed away on the bed for good. But in the meantime it’s just easier to feast in the kitchen… the food is right there, spread out on the vast table in front of me, and I don’t have to be shy about making a greedy hog out of myself, because cleanup out here is so much easier. When all is said and done and I’m a burping, food stained, pathetic pig… my boys will pick me back up again and help me back to my bed, where I’ll rest after that exhausting, albeit short waddle.

Sometimes my feeders complain that they have to devote more time to the gym just so they can help me move anymore, but I always remind them that it’s sort of their fault in the end… they’re the ones that keep feeding and feeding me plenty. Never mind that I’m the one greedily sucking down every last crumb and guzzling back ice cream by the bucket. But they love it. They fucking live for it. Nothing makes them harder than seeing their blubbery fatboy stuff himself even fatter… even now after that big meal. We’re nearly to the bedroom, and I’m sweating and gasping for air… one of them let’s his big cock sink into my pillowy thigh and says “c’mon piggy, just a few more steps and you can have your bedtime cakes…” Ah yes, bedtime cakes. I get a little spring in my step as I fondly let my mind wander so I can focus less on the physical pain and exhaustion I’m in from hauling my tubby ass around and more on the sickeningly sweet tradition that’s ended every meal since I crossed 700 pounds. What started out as one, chocolatey, gooey, absolutely FATTENING three-layer cake right as I settled into my bed had recently become two and even sometimes three when my feeder boys were really excited. I greedily chow down on them with my face and bare hands… often getting crumbs and frosting lodged in my double chin and plump, heavy moobs. The boys just clean me up (sometimes getting the crumbs and frosting off of me with their tongues) and rub my belly until I fall fast asleep, destined to do it all again tomorrow, until the day comes when I can’t leave the comfortable bed.