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C'mon, fatty, don't look so shocked. You always knew that this day would come soon, didn't you? That's just a natural part of being someones deathfeedee. Just remember how often we spoke about death to prepare you for this day. And after you passed that magical 1000lbs last week, it's now time to call it a life and say goodbye as I'm already in search of your successor.

Remember when I asked you what you'd like as your last meal? You told me that you'd like pure grease to be your last "meal" as it would fulfill your life as a literal pig best. Damn, even I as your Deathfeeder was surprised just how f*cked up and what a naughty pig you are. Well, I hope foryou that you won't regret your choice, because I bought a lot of grease to fill both your huge body and those last hours of your life.

You always fantasized about growing huge as someones pig. So I fed you and you ate and ate and ate. Your fat became softer and your blubber heavier in no time. But the real fun began, when we both confessed to each other, that this was not enough; that this was not satisfying enough for both of us. We wanted more. Growing you into immobility became the next logical step. And after you became bed-bound you confessed to me with that naughty, piggish smile that you seriously could imagine being fattened to death by me. That's what made you the ideal hog to me.

It will now proceed as follows: I will feed you spoon after spoon full of fat, slobby grease and you will suck it down for me like the good pig you are, although you know that it'll kill you. Because you are gluttonous. Because you are greedy and submit to me, your feeder. I know that your body hurts. How couldn't it after we overfed you for so many years now. Face it, reality's kicking in: your body's about to give up.

You should yet be much fatter by now, you disappointing bag of blubber.

Remember what you agreed to when moving in two years ago? I bet you do, piggy. You promised to reach your goals and eat yourself into an early grave for the pure joy of both of us. So what's the matter? Your belly still doesn't hang to your knees. Your mobility is still there somewhere. And you still don't depend on oxygyn 24/7. You disappointed me, piggy. But I will get you where I want you - either with or without your "help".

The rules were clear: Your weight should always be equal to 35-times your age. And with you turning 23 years old today and weighing in at just 750lbs, there are at least 50lbs missing on your frame. 50lbs of heavy, clogging, soft, pure fat. And I won't give up what is rightfully mine. I will add those 50lbs to your body no matter what.

So here's the deal: you will be fed and fattened without any mercy from now on until your body is heavy enough for your age again. You need to finally lose your mobility and make it nearly impossible for you to breathe without supplemantal help. I need you so fat that your heavy blubber, that pins you down to your matress, reminds you every moment of your life who you are: You are my pig, my property to fatten how and how much I want. You're body is a bag to store as much fat in until it fits perfectly into a XXL-coffin made for blubber-pigs like you.

You are in a race, piggy, in a race against time. It had always be the common plan to give you the life, you demanded and begged me for: the life of a real pig: lazy and sluggish instead of fit and active, submissive and obidient instead of self-determined and independent, fat and heavy instead of thin and normal-figured and - most important to me - a short and unhealthy instead of a long and healthy life.

You know when I found out that you were the right one? It was when you told me that real hogs shouldn't make it to their 30s. That was when I first funnel-fed you. That's when both of us decided to make your wish become reality.

You ate so well in the last months and years, always keeping an eye on our goal. And I've always been proud of you for eating yourself closer and closer to your grave. But for some months now I can not longer be happy with you. You slowed down and didn't eat the necessary amount of food to keep your gaining ratecon track. I don't know why you did so. Maybe because of doubts that came into your mind now that the end is visibly near? Or maybe your overfed body just can't take much more food? Or is it because your arms become too heavy to lift them up and bring food to your once greedy mouth? Well, no matter what the reason is: I don't care! I do care about just one thing and that is your blubber destroying your body and shortening your piggish-life.

That wheezing, shallow rasp that passes for your breath — it echoes between your chins and your bloated chest, rattling with every labored exhale. I can’t help but smile as I watch your eyes flutter, too tired to stay open, too full to rest.

I stand at the edge of the bed — or rather, what’s left of the space not taken up by you. You’ve sprawled outward in all directions. Flesh domes and folds and swells under thin sheets. There’s no position that’s comfortable anymore, is there? You’re just too far gone.

And all I can think is: you did this to yourself.

Well, with my help, of course.

"Feeling it now, aren’t you?" I ask, casually swirling a spoon through a bowl of melted ice cream I’ve brought you — not that your stomach could take another bite. “All that talk about how you wanted to see how far you could go… how massive, how immobile. Bet you didn’t think this far.”

I lean in, letting the spoon drip onto your lips — sticky, cold, useless. You turn your head just slightly, a wet grunt of protest escaping, but we both know you won’t refuse it long. You can’t. I trained you too well.

"Regretting it now?" I ask, mock concern in my voice. "Aw, poor thing. All that fat… and now it’s turning on you. Your heart races so much as I touch your belly. Your blubber lays heavy on the old matress that's left of your former world. Your legs are practically dead under the weight. You can’t even roll an inch without help. You're just… stuck in your own gluttony."

You blink slowly. Is that a tear? I can’t tell. Doesn’t matter. You should cry. You earned this.

I run my hand over the dome of your gut — tight and angry and stretched, but soft and flabby at its' bottom, where the main storage of your fat is located. The skin feels like it could split open if I fed you just a little more. And god, the noises you make now… you groan like something... dying.

"Remember when you used to fight me on portions?" I laugh. "You used to say, 'That’s enough for tonight.' What happened to that backbone, pig? All melted into blubber and backfat, huh?"

I slap the side of your belly — hard enough to make it quake. The wave of motion travels like a ripple through a sea of soft flesh. Your face winces, and I know it did hurt. Good.

"Look at you," I whisper, voice turning low and poisonous. "You thought you were chasing a dream. Some fantasy of softness and surrender. But now? Now you’re just a monument to excess. Too fat to move. Too broken to resist more food. Just the way I like it, piggy."

I straddle the side of the bed and press my cheek into your belly, listening to the gurgling churn inside. "You always asked what the limit was. I think we nearly found it. And guess what? There’s no going back. And we both know the end of our jouney is near."

You try to speak — but there’s nothing left in you but breath and sweat and shame.

You can barely breathe now, pig.

I watch your chest rise in those desperate, pitiful little jerks, gasping through layers of your own fat, drowning in yourself. And still, I lift the spoon. Still, I press food between your lips, even when your mouth barely opens — even when your eyes beg me to wait, to slow down, to give you a moment to catch your breath.

No.

You gave that choice up when you chose this life — when you squealed for more and let me break you into the animal you are now. There’s no pause, no mercy, no easing up. You exist to be filled, stretched, suffocated by indulgence. Every wheeze, every groan, every flicker of pain in those swelling eyes is another sign you’re mine.

You don’t get to stop now.

Your skin’s purple in places, where blood struggles to move under layers and layers of ruined tissue. Your belly is hot and red, split with stretch marks and sores, sagging across the mattress like an avalanche of spoiled meat. Your legs are useless. I don't even pretend to clean beneath you anymore — that part of you belongs to rot now.

But you’re still alive. And that means you can still eat.

I hear your lungs whistle when you try to speak, so I hush you like the dying sow you are. I don't need words. Just the faint tilt of your chin. Just the twitch of that overstuffed jaw. That’s enough. You want it. You always wanted this — to be force-fed beyond recognition, buried in your own fat, fed until the veins give out and the heart stutters under the weight.

I spoon in more. Grease rolls down your chin. Your nose flares like a panicked animal's. But I don’t stop. I won’t stop. I feed you through the coughing, through the choking, through the tears. Your life is measured in calories now, and I’m counting down the final thousand.

Every moan is a lullaby. Every new pound is a nail in your coffin — hand-carved by me, padded with your own flesh.

You begged to be ruined, and I listened.

And now, here we are. On the edge of the final binge. One more gallon of cream, one more tray of fried butter, one more bloated gasp for air. You’ll die the way you were meant to — helpless, hideous, magnificent. Surrounded by the wreckage of meals you were too weak to refuse.

You don’t get to stop now, pig.

You’ll stop when your heart does.

You can barely breathe now, pig.

I watch your chest rise in those desperate, pitiful little jerks, gasping through layers of your own fat, drowning in yourself. And still, I lift the spoon. Still, I press food between your lips, even when your mouth barely opens — even when your eyes beg me to wait, to slow down, to give you a moment to catch your breath.

No.

You gave that choice up when you chose this life — when you squealed for more and let me break you into the animal you are now. There’s no pause, no mercy, no easing up. You exist to be filled, stretched, suffocated by indulgence. Every wheeze, every groan, every flicker of pain in those swelling eyes is another sign you’re mine.

You don’t get to stop now.

Your skin’s purple in places, where blood struggles to move under layers and layers of ruined tissue. Your belly is hot and red, split with stretch marks and sores, sagging across the mattress like an avalanche of spoiled meat. Your legs are useless. I don't even pretend to clean beneath you anymore — that part of you belongs to rot now.

But you’re still alive. And that means you can still eat.

I hear your lungs whistle when you try to speak, so I hush you like the dying sow you are. I don't need words. Just the faint tilt of your chin. Just the twitch of that overstuffed jaw. That’s enough. You want it. You always wanted this — to be force-fed beyond recognition, buried in your own fat, fed until the veins give out and the heart stutters under the weight.

I spoon in more. Grease rolls down your chin. Your nose flares like a panicked animal's. But I don’t stop. I won’t stop. I feed you through the coughing, through the choking, through the tears. Your life is measured in calories now, and I’m counting down the final thousand.

Every moan is a lullaby. Every new pound is a nail in your coffin — hand-carved by me, padded with your own flesh.

You begged to be ruined, and I listened.

And now, here we are. On the edge of the final binge. One more gallon of cream, one more tray of fried butter, one more bloated gasp for air. You’ll die the way you were meant to — helpless, hideous, magnificent. Surrounded by the wreckage of meals you were too weak to refuse.

You don’t get to stop now, pig.

You’ll stop when your heart does.

Good pig.

You're sweating already. Just from standing. I can see your thighs trembling, your breath whining out like a busted bellows. But this is important. Today’s your check-in. I want to see the numbers. I want to document just how far you’ve fallen.

Let’s start with the tape.

Arms up. No, higher — or as high as they go now, which is barely past nipple-height with all that lard weighing you down. I wrap the tape around your gut, burying it beneath the folds, pressing into the warm, stretched-out blubber until I hit resistance. There. I pull it tight. You flinch. The flesh squirms around it.

“Eighty-nine inches,” I read out loud, slow, amused. “That’s over seven feet of belly, pig.”

You blush. I see you blush — somewhere under the puffed cheeks and the fat-padded neck, a bit of shame still flickers. Good. You’re supposed to feel it. You're supposed to feel exactly how unnatural you are.

“You know the average waist size for a healthy adult?” I murmur in your ear. “Thirty-four inches. That means you’re almost triple. You’ve got more belly in one side roll than most people have on their entire body.” I pad your blubbery gut that's hanging in front of me.

Then I slide the tape lower. Around the hips now. More numbers. I take my time.

“Your thighs — forty-three inches. Each. That’s a full waistline just in your leg. And your upper arms? Bigger than most gym guys’ chests. And not an ounce of muscle to show for it.”

You shift, awkward, half-aroused and half-horrified. Your eyes lower. But your body betrays you — the way you tremble, the way your breath comes faster. You want this. You need this. The shame only makes it sweeter.

Now the scale.

I tug the leash. You grunt, stumbling forward. It takes effort to hoist all that mass. Your belly slaps against your knees with each tiny step. But eventually, you make it. I guide you onto the platform — steel, reinforced. You pant, drool threading from your lip.

And then the number appears.

“936 pounds.”

I smile.

“That’s nearly five of them. A whole family’s worth of meat stacked into one greedy, wheezing carcass. And you’re still gaining. Still swelling. Still pretending this is just some kink and not full-blown biological ruin.”

I lean down. Grip a love handle. Knead it. Soft. Hot. Leaking sweat. “They’d be in shock if they saw you, pig. Just a regular person, walking past the grocery store scale, and there you are — almost a thousand pounds of bloat and feeder’s pride, barely mobile, breathing like you’re being strangled by your own body.”

You shiver.

You’re turned on.

I can tell.

Because this is what you really want, isn’t it? To be broken down into numbers. Into stats. To have someone take stock of the damage and call it beautiful. Or disgusting. Or both.

I pull the tape measure off you with a snap. You flinch.

I tug the collar, lead you back to the mattress, let you collapse into your own overfed ruin.

“Next month, we’ll pass a thousand. And then we start comparing you to livestock weights.”

You don't answer.

You just moan.

You’re sweating again, and I haven’t even fed you yet. Just lying there, buried under your own blubber, pink and soft and panting like it’s work just existing. You make the bed groan louder than you do. Honestly, I’m not sure which is more strained — the mattress or your skin, stretched drum-tight over that monumental belly of yours.

"You're leaking again," I say with a little smirk, dragging a fingertip along the sweaty crease where your side rolls into your hip. The layer of fat there is thick, jiggling even from the lightest touch. "Poor thing. So overfed you can't even cool yourself properly."

You whimper a little — that pathetic, needy noise I’ve trained you to make. Half shame, half lust. Music to my ears.

Your belly dominates everything. It’s huge, grotesquely proud, rising in front of you like a fleshy hill, crisscrossed with stretch marks that shine under the overhead light. I cup the underside — it’s hot, heavy, almost too much for my hands. Not that you’d know. You haven’t seen your feet in a year. Maybe more.

"I can’t believe how far you’ve let yourself go," I whisper, feeding you the first bite of syrup-drenched pancake. You chew slowly, eyes fluttering. “No control. No dignity. Just lying there, waiting to be fed, like a piglet on its back.”

You try to shift — to move, to respond — but even that small effort makes your cheeks flush and your breath catch. Your own body is a prison now, built one bite at a time. And I hold the key.

"You wanted this," I remind you, voice low, coaxing. "Remember how cocky you were when we started? Said you'd never get that big. Said you’d stop before you lost mobility. Look at you now."

I slap your belly lightly — a soft, satisfying whump that echoes off your thighs. You groan, partly from the impact, partly from the reminder that you can’t even flinch away.

"You're mine," I say, leaning in, my voice syrup-sweet. "My spoiled, spoiled blob. A mountain of lard I keep fed and helpless. You can't even roll over without me pushing you."

Another bite. Then another. I press the shake to your lips again. You hesitate — full already, maybe even hurting — but I tilt it anyway. “Drink. That belly’s not done growing yet.”

You whimper as it goes down, eyes wet, belly churning beneath the surface. Every swallow is a surrender. Every breath, a struggle under the weight you’ve begged me to build.

And I know you love it. The shame. The helplessness. The way I talk to you like you’re not even a person anymore — just a thing to fatten and admire.

You're mine. My project. My prize. My pet. My pig.

Starting at the day then move in

First 6 months

All prior commitments will be cancelled (work, schooling, ect)

All social medial accounts that don't revolve around feedisum will be blanked out

There will be a push to sign you up for every available feedist community (more extreme the better

Daily calorie intake will sit around the 4000cal mark

Next 6 months

Contact with anyone not completely in support of your goal of immobility will be broken

You will have regular posts about your gains on any and all available feedist platforms

Any content that does not revolve around obesity and weight gain will be banned

An expected gain of 40-60lbs a year

First year

Trips from the house will be limited

Decreasing step limits will be applied

Most media will be replaced with feedist porn

10000cal minimum per day

1 funnel feeding per day

Increase rate of post of feedist content

Second year

Leaving the house will be disallowed

Trips from bed or couche will be severely limited

15000+ cal minimum per day

3 funnel feeding per day

Clothes will be disallowed

Only consumable content will be extreme feedist porn

Any communication on social media will be limited to extreme feeders and other pro death feedist feedees

Expected 100+ lbs per year gain

Third year

Any movement beyond 3 steps must be done by scooter or wheelchair

Minimum 4h of viewing extreme feedist porn per day

25000cal+ per day

Tube feeding is standard aside from the occasional food "treat"

Must spend 4+ hours a day tube feeding

Forth year

Involuntary immobility, you will be confined to bed regardless of current mobility status

35000+ Cal per day minimum, to be consumed primarily as fats and sugars cut with only a minimum of nutrition supplement

Every hour from wakeup to sleep will involve tube feeding and a constant stream of the most extreme feedist porn

Sleep will be deferred if calorie goal has not been met

Fifth year

24/7 live stream of you're immobile fourm

50000 cal minimum

All windows blocked, all clocks removed, no indicators of date or time

Feeding tube lives in your mouth

Diet is mostly fats

Sixth plus years (don't expect to survive this long)

No contact with outside world, other feedist included

24/7 feedist hypno playing for you

Feeding tube size increased and feed slop made even less healthy and even more fattening

Start of year calorie goal of 100000+ an additional 1000 a week to be added to the minimum every week for the rest of your life

Then again, maybe your whimpering has to do with the fact that we are nearing the end. Your end, little piggy. Well, that’s what happens when old fantasies and dreams turn into reality and nightmares. You were kinky; you spoke openly about how much you loved being fattened up and how huge you wanted to get. You kept saying how hot you found the idea of ​​becoming immobile. And, of course, you said you’d keep eating even then—right up until your heart couldn't keep up anymore. That’s what you used to say so often.

I don’t see much of your former enthusiasm or kinkiness in your eyes anymore. Your eyes are heavy, tired, and empty. You can see regret, shame, and fear in them. Years ago, at your request, I designated you a "death-feedee" and set a target weight; up to that point, I guaranteed you a comfortable life under my care. You laughed and agreed to this kinky "game" without hesitation; the number seemed so far off. The day before yesterday, you crossed the 370kg mark.

You were always a good little pig for me, eating willingly or letting me fatten you up with a firm hand. But nothing lasts forever—especially not when you’ve fulfilled your purpose in life.

I pour a few more liters of fattening slurry into the bucket—the one connected to your stomach by a thin tube, ensuring your belly stays constantly full. Your body isn't meant to recover. A year ago, I took away your ability to swallow; that allowed us to effectively ramp up your rate of weight gain, little piggy. But that’s something you’ve experienced firsthand, isn't it? I can tell you want to say something. You lack the breath to utter even a single sound. I place my finger on your full lips: "Shh, little pig. Don't try. Don't speak again in this life. Pigs can't speak. And pigs marked for death certainly can't." I stroke your soft, fatty belly, admiring the thick rolls hanging down your sides. So young, so fat, so helpless. So close to the end.

"Let it happen, little pig. But take your time. Real fattening pigs suffer a little..." 😈 I’ll come back when the time is right. I absolutely want to be there for your greatest and most important moment.

I climb the creaking stairs, turn off the light, and leave you behind in the darkness. I pull the cellar door shut behind me and engage the locks.

Let me get on my knees between those doughy, roll covered thighs as you recline on the couch. I want to feel the heavy softness of your stuffed belly and fat pad as I struggle to push them out of the way of your cock. I want to hear you gasp as your engorged head is pushed out of its soft, fat swaddled home and feels my wet tongue swirl across it. I want you to groan about how much pressure is on your gut from my pushing your lard out of the way, only to feel it all come plopping down on my head as I let go, making you gasp again.

It's been 100lbs since you've felt this good from your own hands, so I might as well remind you what an orgasm feels like with mine.

I want to hear your desperate moans as my mouth and hands work what's left of your shaft. In 50 more pounds I won't be able to reach it anymore... By myself. Can you imagine being so fat you need two feeders just to unbury your cock? Oh, but just think how much bigger you'll get with two... It'll take a third just to fight all that new fat down to your dick then.

...Aside from your massive weight gain, I mean.

Jesus you look like a pig. You're just huge. Genuinely, I think your gut might weigh more than I do. God, you're hilarious. I hate to be cliche but it looks like you ate the old you, you're so fat. How do you even fit through the door?? How do you function in a body so useless?? Everything must be so hard for you and the only one you can blame is yourself. The amount you'd have to consume to get this big is downright disgusting. How can you live like this? You're so fucking enormous it's almost like you did it on purpose. You can't accidentally get this fat.

...Wait, you're telling me you *did* do it on purpose?? What on earth would possess you to do that?

You're ruined, you have no hope of ever being the size of a normal person again! What the fuck are you going to do?! You're such a fatass, I can't even imagine how you afford to feed yourself! Look at you, that physique must have cost several thousand dollars at least, and you just kept on stuffing yourself. You've eaten all your money away! Hysterical! God, you need help.

Oh? Is that so? You're telling me you essentially exploit yourself on the Internet, gaining weight for fetishists?? That's how you make your money?? Oh my God, it just keeps getting worse!! You had so much potential. What a waste, truly a shame, all you are is a slut for food and attention.

No one's forcing you into this right? You aren't doing it against your will, are you? No!? You've got to be kidding. It makes you feel, good? Sexy, even! Oh my God, you're one of them aren't you? You like it, don't you? You want it as much as the people who pay to fatten you up. You need it, don't you?

Fuck you're pathetic, you should honestly be ashamed... That's part of it isn't it?? You have a shame kink, too? Oh that's so fucking funny, I bet everything I've said has turned you on, hasn't it, fatty?

You've completely given in. To further encourage your gains, your partner started rewarding your stuffings with absolutely amazing oral, and the more you eat, the better it seems to feel. The result of their efforts was your appetite snowballing, and now after only two years of being together you've reached a staggering 500 pounds.

Now it's the middle of the night. Your belly is painfully stuffed, glowing with a bit of redness, yet you're digging through the pantry looking for food. The bulbous red ball hanging to your knees doesn't need more food, but you're too horny to follow your own body's limitations. You need to keep eating. You're not full enough to cum yet.

You cram a fistful of mini donuts down your throat. You rip open a box of pizza and throw it in the oven. You go to the fridge and chug down a little heavy cream. Eating more hurts, but you need it.

As the pizza begins to cook, you walk back to the pantry to eat while it finishes. You scarf down a few chips, chug a bit of soda, and have a couple of chocolate eclairs.

*GRRRGG!*

Finally you realize how full you are. It hurts so much, but...

*Ding!*

Your eyes widen with regret. There's no way you're eating that whole pizza, but you can't just leave it there.

"I'll just toss it in the dumpster and tell them I ate it. You think to yourself.

However, as you turn back into the kitchen, you see your partner, bent over and presenting their ass to you as they pull your pizza out of the oven.

"I wasn't expecting you to be sooo hungry tonight. What a good piggy you are.~" they whisper coyly.

You stammer for a moment, trying to think of an excuse, but as they playfully pet your double chin and walk toward the bedroom with the pizza, you are quick to follow.

"Lay down." they command. You listen, and lay back against the headboard of the bed.

You feel a rush of pain and arousal as your partner leans onto your stuffed gut, and holds a slice of pizza to your mouth. You're still so full, yet you accept the slice without question, finishing it off in only 3 bites.

"Ready for another one?"

You groan in pain. You're so full you can barely breathe, but before you can say anything there's another slice in your mouth.

"Wooow, so greedy." they whisper teasingly.

There's hardly any room left for your stomach to breathe. You know another slice might be too much, but—you are so desperately horny. Every inch of you is burning, begging you to keep going.

"M-more..." you mumble under your breath.

Your partner smiles, reaching under your belly to give you a teaser of your reward.

"How about this? You finish this pizza, and I'll finish you. Deal?"

The next few slices are gone in no time at all, and by the end of it you can't even move. Your partner laughs as they try and fail to sink their finger into your completely packed gut.

"You know, that was nearly twice as many calories as you normally eat. I think that means I'll need to increase how much I'm feeding you. Can't have my poor piggy going hungry.

The pain is nearly unbearable you're so full. You know you're not going to be eating for a while after that.

However, a moment later you feel the warmth of your partner's tongue under your massively bloated belly, and as your thoughts fade into a horny fog, you mutter under your breath.

"I think—

I could eat——

just——

a——

little——

Get used to your clothes feeling tight. You're going to keep outgrowing them, outfit after outfit. Just let all your lard stress the seams and spill out over your waistband...

Get used to not knowing what a "normal" portion looks like. You're going to keep eating at every meal until you're too full to take another bite. Bit by bit, those servings will just keep getting bigger...

Get used to seeing that double-chin in the mirror. And feeling it press against your neck whenever you look down at your growing mass of tummy paunch. It's a sign for everyone you meet, telling them what you have no self-control over your own endless gluttony.

Get used to working up a sweat just by walking upstairs. Hauling that fat ass and all those pounds of blubber with you up so many steps is bound to be exhausting. All that panting, the sweating, the way your heart races and pounds loudly in your ears... That's your reminder that you're supposed to be sedentary instead, not wasting calories on moving.

Get used to letting yourself go.

Get used to being an embarrassing hog in public.

Get used to feeling the softness of all that fat as you're falling asleep at night.