He's standing on the scale again, the thick slab of his fat belly and sides wobbling with his labored breaths as he leans forward enough to read the number. His mouth scrunches a little. Dissatisfaction atop his oversatisfied body.
"What is it?" his feeder asks, coming up behind him and resting a comforting hand on the shelf of fat made up by his love handles. "360! Oh my god, that's great! See, I told you those shakes were making a difference, that's up twelve pounds from last month."
"It's… not enough."
"Look, you've been literally drinking down as many liquid calories as you can. Every day. Three pounds a week is a lot! I know you want to be bigger, it's just—"
"I don't just want to be bigger," he says, his hands running soothing, longing lines along the stripes formed on his belly where the skin is already struggling to stretch over the fat being packed on, pound by pound. "I need to be bigger. So much bigger."
"We can try adding more fat. Cooking things in butter and maybe fitting another shake in before bed? I know you don't sleep as well on a full stomach, but…"
"It just won't be enough," he says, more than a little crestfallen. In the last half-year, he packed on sixty pounds. Ten additional pounds of fat was finding its way onto his body every month. His belly had widened and spilled out at his sides, started hanging lower and pushing out rounder against his shirts. His chest and face were fuller, swollen with fat.
But he needed more. And his feeder knew it.
"There is one thing we could try," his feeder says. His attention perks up immediately. "You remember my college roommate, the one that does that food science stuff? There's… something sort of experimental. But it's supposed to be pretty reliable…"
Not even a full second lingered before he could blurt out, "Yes. Please!"
His feeder goes into the kitchen and brings back a vial of liquid. He looks skeptical. "What is that some magic thing to make me gain a hundred pounds in an instant? Something out of one of those stories to blow me up?" he snorts.
"No, but it… you'll gain a pound a day. Every day that we add this into your food, if you really fill yourself with enough food, it's a metabolic—it doesn't matter, but you'll gain a pound a day with this. Should we try it out?"
He grabs one of his softened pints of ice cream from the counter, peeling off the lid and offering it to his feeder to as a vessel for the compound. "A pound a day, huh? Let's try it out."
True to the claim, when he stepped onto the scale the next day, he was exactly 361 pounds. This one pound felt more exciting than any of the previous sixty; it felt like it came with a near-certain promise of more. The compound made the shake sit heavier in his belly than normal, like his belly was somehow needing to stretch a little more into discomfort to accommodate that one single drop, but the next day brought another pound. And another the day after.
For the first week, he had fun searching for the extra pound on his body with his feeder.
"I think it was a tits pound yesterday, I can feel it," he laughs, waking up bloated on the seventh day and taking the blender into his hands to chug down the new day's shake, giggling through his greedy gulps as his feeder gropes at his swollen chest.
The first month brought thirty pounds as expected, bringing him to a heavy 390. His belly was rounder, his sides were thicker, his rolls and thighs visibly puffier with the as his body tried to allocate the weight around somewhat evenly. He was laying on the couch, his hands jostling his extra fat around, feeling for himself how much more of his belly rested against his widening thighs when his feeder brought the shake in.
"Are you sure we can't try more than a drop? It feels so good being able to tell I'm getting fatter like this…" he asks.
"If we pour the whole thing in, you'll still just gain a pound today, and then we'll be out," his feeder assures him, taking his belly in their hands and coaxing his mouth open to chug down his shake, watching as the creases on his neck bulge with his every swallow. His arms rested more against the swollen bulges of fat at his sides than against his torso. New, pink stretch marks were dappling his skin everywhere from his lower belly to his arms.
"What if I ate more?" he pleads, kneading his doughy fat with such intensity that it seemed he was expecting it to rise.
"I could spoonfeed you the most fattening thing you have in the kitchen, but you'd still gain a pound a day."
Grumbling a little, his plump face in a cute, eager pout, he goes back to tipping the blender against his mouth, making sure every drop slides down his throat.
By the end of the second month, things weren't fitting him well. His underwear waistbands had gotten tight, shirts clung to the roundness of his middle belly and let the bottom hang free. The warmth of the summer demanded shorts, but his thighs could barely squeeze into his biggest pair. His feeder shifted his wardrobe, everything elastic and forgiving and oversized as they continued dropping a pound per day into his swelling form. The 400 milestone had come and gone, the next day's pound always spurring him on.
"You could just not wear anything, you know," his feeder teasees, folding all of the once-oversized shirts that were now frayed and torn at the seams where his fattest parts strained them.
"I'd bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" he grins, lifting handfuls of his belly fat to show that there wasn't much exposed at all beneath it, given how much his thighs pressed together and his underbelly sat heavy against them. His feeder's hands admired and soothed every inch of his swelling body.
"At this rate, you'll be too big for anything in your closet next month," his feeder smirks, always wanting more of him.
Halfway through the fourth month, he was starting to feel the extra weight adding up. He was breathless, panting and red in the face from carrying groceries from the car. The exertion needed to move his body these short distances was proving enticing to both of them; it didn't take long for him to be breathless and panting on the couch for entirely different reasons.
His feeder was straddling his lap, pressing against the mass of his belly, with their thumb on his chin to guide it open for his daily shake.
"It's not getting to be too much? A hundred extra pounds isn't enough for my big guy yet?" his feeder asks, dangling the first drops of shake at the blender's edge.
"More. I can take it. I want it. Please," he says, that same eagerness from when he was a meager 360 pounds holding steady in his voice and on his face, "please make me even fatter."
As he gained, every day felt like another opportunity to feel the excessive weight affecting his body in new ways. He felt huge, and knew he'd get even bigger the next day. The next week. The next month.
His feeder started to take care of some of the little things: tying his shoes; holding the blender up so his heavy arms wouldn't get tired during his daily shake; lifting his deliciously-inconvenient rolls out of the way when their mutual affection for his body demanded reaching and spreading to reward his indulgence with even more pleasure. The almost-anxious need he'd felt to push himself to grow and grow at any cost was softened into a blissful relishing of how much of his day was filled with thoughts and sensations of food and his own fat.
Five-hundred pounds seemed like a good point to reevaluate. The number seemed so far off, until it wasn't. His weight climbed by a pound a day, but the sheer size of his body was reaching the point where even a couple weeks' worth of pounds seemed to be lost in the swollen, blob-like mass of his belly or the spreading rolls of soft fat on his sides and thighs. Spaces around his body were closing rapidly: his chin brushed his chest; his side rolls folded onto his butt; his thighs pushed each other apart until his belly was resting on the couch, demanding more and more space.
The shake with the compound would earn him his pound, but he was finding more and more that his love for the immense amounts of food he could eat was retuning. Why, after all, if he was going to gain a pound anyways, wouldn't he want to cram himself full of as many sweet, greasy calories as his growing stomach could accommodate? His feeder delighted in feeding him as much as he could handle.
"You know, five-hundred pounds was last week," his feeder says, tracing small circles on his immense belly as they dipped a spoon to scoop another mouthful of ice cream-soaked cookies into his mouth.
"Really?" he says, shifting a little, his weight making the couch groan, the distance imposed by his belly between him and his feeder making his mind tingle. "How do you know? I haven't made it onto the scale recently…"
"Because I can count," his feeder says. "The number is practically tattooed on my brain, then I add one to it first thing in the morning. Plus, these are unmistakably the tits of a five-hundred pound guy," they add, lifting and letting his swollen roll of a moob flop onto his belly. "You're 506 pounds, in case you were wondering."
"Mmmm say the number again?" he says, breathing heavily as he struggled to lean forward against his own bulk for his mouth to meet the next bite.
"Five-hundred," his feeder says, tipping the shake into his mouth, listening to his growing moans as the shake filled him and his feeder's hands pressed against the bloat. "Six pounds."
Six-hundred, he admits to his feeder, was really the number he wanted to experience. Big enough that he could retain some shreds of independence and mobility, but enormous enough to struggle a little. The colder winter months were designed for him to lounge on the couch, his body swelling to take up the tiniest bit more of it each day. The warmth of blankets, baked goods, his feeder's touch, and his own soft fat keeping him happy and growing.
He didn't need the scale anymore. His feeder would write the new number on a small dry erase board on the other side of the room so he could see it ticking up. 525. 526. 527. He wondered when he would feel it again. When he would have one of those oh shit moments about how much bigger he'd gotten. But the couch's support and his feeder's care kept him growing with ease. 541. 542. 543. The holidays arrived, with many extra treats for the big guy.
Tracking his weight wasn't enough. His feeder documented the spread of his hips, the size of his arms, the weight of his moobs. He became obsessed with finding new ways to quantify his fatness, eating his way through more and more of his day, most pleased with himself when his jowls were wobbling against his chest fold mid-chew.
The food was the work and the food was the reward.
The compound upheld its part and he continued his growth into spring as the impossibly-big 600 pound milestone loomed.
The weather warmed and with his feeder's help he emerged into the blooming yard at 598 pounds, not daring to sit on any furniture that couldn't handle his weight, feeling the warm rays of sun hitting all of the new fat that had accumulated on him since hunkering down for such a cozy, caloric winter.
"There's not that much left," his feeder warns. He looks up, face smeared with frosting as he eats his "happy 600 pounds" cake by the handful. The vial had a little less than a quarter left. "I should've known you weren't going to spread this out."
He grins. "I am spreading out," he says, leaning back on the couch and letting his fat splay outwards towards the arms, hardly any room for his dedicated feeder to join him to sit without being on or tucking under his bulk.
"What if… we just used it up," he suggests. He was heavy, very heavy, but he could still manage to move. He'd get some more movement in. The depth of his belly threatened to spill past his knees when he sat, the fat folding into thick, biteable rolls for his feeder to admire and attend to.
"You know I can't say no to you," his feeder says, their mouth locking onto their favorite roll on his neck as their hands interlaced with his and they made a meal of feeding him his shake.
The days passed more quickly now, though he moved less and less. He would accept some help heaving himself up from the couch to take few wobbling, breathless steps to the other side of the room. He spent hours with his hands running across the vastness of his own fat, knowing each day and each shake meant one more pound and one fewer day remaining that he could unwaveringly count on growth.
His hips and thighs reached the sides of the couch at 640. For fun, he showed his feeder how he'd outgrown the entryway to their kitchen by 650. "I guess it's really up to you if I get fatter now, I literally can't get to the blender" he says. His feeder only grins in return and lifts the shake to his lips again, utterly devoted.
Soon he shifted to counting down the pounds he had left to gain before the vial ran out. He estimated 30 left. Then 20. Ten, probably. Was it the 697 that mattered more or the ten?
Everything about his body drove him wild. Every dimple. Every fold. Every spot his feeder touch felt electrically charged by the swelling fat expanding his area of perception. His feeder spared no teasing detail about how utterly cumbersome his body had become to navigate and the intensity of their shared pleasure at those inconveniences grew together, too.
The last drop made its way into his shake one morning, topping him out at 714 pounds. His body was enormously fat, every part of him overflowing with soft, heavy flab that cocooned him and his feeder in their embraces together.
"I'm so, so huge…" he hasps, like an exhalation from the unrelenting journey he'd taken over the last year. His soft arms rested against his front, chubby fingers kneading constantly on his belly as though he needed to physically verify the weight was still there.
"Does it feel like you'd hoped?" his feeder asks.
"Better," he admits, taking the time to feel how the weight encumbered his limbs and begged him to stay as sedentary as he and his feeder would allow. "I can't believe we used it all."
"I can," his feeder says, warmly, their hand patting the middle of his belly to ripple out across the few hundred extra pounds caked onto his increasingly-shapeless body.
"I guess this is it then…" he says, with a sigh. His eyes and hands moving along every inch of his body they could reach, trying to soak in the feeling of being this big, knowing the compound-assisted gravy train had come to an end. His feeder's hands wrapped around him, sinking into the mass of his body.
"What if you… maintained," his feeder suggests.
"You mean… stay this big?" he asks, turning over his hands to survey his arms, thinking about the potential of carrying around this weight for more time.
"Yeah," his feeder says. "It'll take a lot of eating, but I think you might just be ready for that," they said, playfully squeezing the bulk of his cheeks. "You might need to really pile on the sweets and stuff to keep the weight on, but what's a few extra desserts a day when you're seven-hundred gorgeous pounds?"
"Feed me as much as you want, being this big I don't ever need to gain another pound," he says, moving his hips to entice his feeder to return quickly with his vanilla shake, grateful for everything the compound had given him and determined with his feeder's help to sustain all the weight he'd grown during the year.
Every single pound felt like the most important one he'd gained.
~
this one goes out to the ever-inspiring @stonednsoft, whose greed for his next pound is unmatched :)
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Playfully leaning into her eating away every single one of her emotions as to give her the impression it's all her fault, when with careful coordination it's solely mine.
She should depend on the fact that the cupboard and fridge always seem to magically be full in the morning, no matter how many times she gets up from bed in the middle of the night.
That she even still gets up without waking me to help is probably a sign I'm not being doting enough. She needs the feeding bag slipped over her head, she needs to let it sink in just how entitled she is to each and every single bite. I'll be so happy to see her grow rude & snappy, letting being my favorite fatty go straight to her big fat head.
Convincing her to have her interior design modified so that we always keep the next snack and another seat only an ample armful away. Not that I would mind seeing her getting up as little as possible, especially after watching how well she takes to having a mini fridge for a nightstand. Observing her evolution into grander scales of obesity purely because I put every finger I have on her livestock scale is a privilege.
Ever since it became too laborious to peek over herself, she's been lost in a world of hedonism completely relinquished from the constraints of numbers beyond the answer to 'how much more?' Her chemistry altered to reward her immensely for forgetting whole stock what true hunger is like.
Swapped out for a Neverending supply of synthetic, gnawing, homegrown greed. Enough is never enough until it manifests itself as too much on your plate, for you to ever set down again. Not that I'd ever let you get as far as putting your fork down...
Feedee who grazes all day and eats the equivalent of 5 or 6 meals on a light day. Feedee who feels like they don't eat that much because it's so spread throughout the day even though it's more than most people eat in several days because they never dramatically stuff themself.
Feedee who wonders why they're gaining so consistently and starting to struggle so much with their mobility even though they're just a casual feedee who likes to snack and not one of those hardcore feedees who do nothing but stuff themselves.
2025 seems to be the year you not only absolutely blew up but your brain also started to change. Really extreme sizes and immobility are finally on the table. We're going to see you at Echo or Vanilla Hippo sizes and you're not going to bat an eye.
When I actually think about it, I think this has been a slow march towards this state ever since covid. My resolutions this year, the physical progress I made, and just how much I've really enjoyed it has probably been the tipping point. I love this. I won't stop. I can't stop. I'm excited and aroused by this.
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Please tell me exactly how dirty and filthy is your diet? How much are you eating regularly in order to fatten your body up this drastically?
My diet is 100% fast food and my belly is a bottomless pit... like 3 or 4 bags a day at least. For context, Ive eaten 9 cheese burgers since Thursday lol
Your account's done serious damage to my life, bro,,, I've never needed 2-3 screens to goon to gainer porn before,,, or order take-out 2-3 times a week,,, Only time my brain isn't blasted with weed is at work. And even then, I'll take bong hits on my lunchbreak occasionally,,, (and take multiple bathroom breaks to binge more porn hehe) I used to smoke one joint every few nights. Now all my free time is spent lounging in my jockstrap and surrendering to my cravings. Chaining bong hits + joints all day, snacking on junk food and leftover delivery, gaming for hours, and lots of bating and edging. Getting high(er) makes me slow and horny, which makes me hungry,,, and the munchies have fucked my appetite, bro. Binge eating 'til my belly pins me to my bed, but a few more bong hits and i'm stuffing my face with more which makes me throb and leak,,, Repeatedly spiraling in a cycle of smoking, eating, and edging feels so good and constantly relapsing on my addictions because I have zero self-control is so hot,,, I recently had to upsize my clothing to 2XL, and the days feel like they're blending together. But damaging my brain and waistline because you tell me to feels too good and writing this out should make me worry. But it just makes me desperate for more. My addictions are slowly taking over my life, but It's so hot,,, i'm only 21, so where's the harm in letting go a bit, right? 🐽
Look, guys. Listen. This is how you should be living your life. The endless quest for self control and weight loss is pointless. Give in, and be just like this. 21 is a perfect age to give in. You have plenty of time, buddy. You don't even need to worry about it. It's not a concern. You have nothing to worry about. This is the ideal lifestyle for men, actually.
You say it's addicting, but what's so wrong with that? The world is so obsessed with unhappiness. How many times have you heard someone being jealous or upset that someone else is doing better than them? And those are the people you won't to appease? I don't think so. I think you should do whatever makes you feel good. There's nothing wrong with being addicted to pure pleasure when most people deprive themselves.
Smoke weed before work too. There's nothing wrong with that. It makes the shift go by so much faster. That way when you get on lunch you can just take a few rips and reignite the high, and spend your lunch doing what you're meant to do: eat a fuck ton of junk.
Don't change. Don't try to "improve" or "do the right thing". You already are. You're doing such a good job. Let the days blend. Let the haze take over. Let your brain turn off. Let your body expand. It's going to happen. Just let it. Don't fight it. You've found the answer to the stresses of life. What's so wrong with that? Absolutely nothing.
if you were here, you’d hear me coming, my short breaths and my heavy foot falls and my skin slapping against skin. Back and forth, back and forth, asking you to get us more food, because I’m *still* hungry. I’d swear you were putting something in the food to make me hungrier, and you’d just smile and say it’s because I’m happy to be such a adored and spoiled piggy.
and then you’d shove my face in some more food because I’m your constantly growing good girl 🐷💖🥰😇🐷
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Feeder who is hyper aware that their feedee eats more when they're intoxicated. It starts with them getting their partner buzzed, and steadily adding more food to their diet. eventually their partners a solid 500lbs, smoking and drinking a ll day, and just gorging on whatever's in front of them
i love shutting my brain off to eat because what if one day i can’t turn it back on? what if one day after being stuffed and lingering on a food coma my head just stays empty and docile, and i forget how to turn it back on. i forget i can turn it back on. something in there broke and now more is all there is. lazily opening my mouth for anything that’ll make my lard-coated brain feel so nice and fuzzy in the way i like it. constant chewing swallowing chugging. stretching my stomach more and more and more for reasons i don’t remember but it’s not like i remember any reason to stop either. hazily waddling around and passing by people who might know me, but who i don’t need to recognize anymore because they are not me growing. they are not more. i only need more.
Need a feeder to force independence on me after growing me hundred of pounds heavier. Pamper me, take care of all my needs, satisfy every whim while I’m growing. Severely limit my step count, do whatever it takes to make me fat and dependent on you.. make me heavy.
Then step back and leave me to do daily tasks by myself. Watch me struggle to reach over my belly, struggle to put on clothes, close buttons & hide my flab. Watch how embarrassing it is for me to go in public and have to buy my own food and have people whisper and stare. Watch me clumsily waddle & jiggle. Watch me desperately shovel thousands of calories down my throat just to feel comfortable & full.
I’m stuck like this. Just a pathetically fat pig struggling to do the basics due to my weight.
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Weight Gain Denial Affirmations - Declining Mobility Edition
🍒 It’s normal to struggle to reach to pleasure yourself. That’s what toys are for.
🍒 Getting in and out of chairs isn’t supposed to be seamless. It’s perfectly healthy to need to use your arms to push up off a chair or out of bed, especially any that are lower to the ground.
🍒 Car manufacturers are making them smaller - it isn’t your fault that cars just aren’t built for humans of a regular size.
🍒 Losing your breath after short walks is just a sign you’ve worked hard and need a little more rest, so be sure to take a few hours at least on the couch after this.
🍒 Elevators are there for a reason - nobody actually finds stairs easy.
🍒 The walk from the car to the store is difficult. It’s totally normal to get a bit winded doing it. It just means you should park closer next time.
🍒 Your knees, hips, or back being sore after walking anywhere means you’re doing too much. Take it easy, take seated breaks, and ask for help when you need it.
🍒 Sitting to tie your shoes is the standard thing to do. Nobody finds it easy to tie them standing, and if it’s a bit difficult sitting, that’s just your sign to treat yourself to a new pair of slip ons and get some rest.
🍒 Its healthy that you notice your heart rate increase when walking from you bedroom to the kitchen. That’s just your body responding to movement.
🍒 10 minutes standing is no short time. It’s important to remain seated for a few hours when standing tires you.
🍒 They make seatbelts far too small these days. It’s not a reflection of your body, manufacturers just try to cut costs by not using as much material.
Rest assured that it’s perfectly normal to struggle with these things. Treat yourself today, you’ve worked hard and you deserve it 🌹
