Imagining a feeder who actively makes sure you don’t realize you’ve gotten massively fat. They size up your clothes without you ever noticing, never make comments about how big you are but how small you are. Lying about how there should be faster results, telling you that you should eat more followed by a painful stuffing. When you scroll places like tumblr admiring fellow gainers, seeing how big some people have made themselves, you start to realize how you look bigger than them. Your gut hangs lower, your thighs explode out of any pants and stretch marks cover your bulging belly. You tell your feeder this and they say how people always look smaller online, that you still have a long way to go to be as big as the fatties you once dreamt of becoming. All the while knowing that they had made you far bigger long ago and the only way to keep you going is to get you to a point where turning back is no longer an option.
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Are you prepared to make sacrifices? How badly do you want this? Can you handle when the fantasy becomes the reality? Will you continue when it gets hard? Am I worth it to you? Is the fat worth it all?
The answer better be a yes.
If it isn’t, I’m not sure what to tell you because if you’re here reading this right now… I’m already in your brain. My words are in your ears. My hands are already holding the beginnings of your growing rolls.
You see I’ve been giving you the illusion of choice all along. You thought you had control? HA. You never stood a chance. Look at me. I’m everything you crave in a woman, a partner, a FEEDER.
Don’t get me wrong. You’re a beautiful pig and I love how you’ve evolved. You were made for this. Through my hands you’re become this.
I’ll be DAMNED if you think you can change your fate. Unlike that family sized bag of potato chips you’re finishing off, your fate is sealed. I’m taking you all the way hog.
So, be prepared to grow. Be prepared to lose mobility. Be prepared to become a bottomless pit of gluttony. Be prepared to become my gluttonous, immobile, wheezing, unhealthy whale for my own pleasure.
I’ll take complete care of you. You’ll be my prized pig in a herd of cattle. You’ll know no life better than the one you have and it’ll be your slice of heaven I’ve created for you.
Now, go on… go grab another bag of chips, crack open a sugary soda, and think of what else you may need to do to secure your spot in my care.
When you’re all stuffed, bloated on on the couch and unable to even think about eating another morsel, I’ll set next to you with a blender of fattening milkshake and a funnel. You can’t say no, you can only cry and moan and feel the urge to cum as I shove it into your mouth and make you take something that’s going to fatten you up.
You love this, love how I push you and rub your tummy, telling you what a good pig you’re making of yourself. How soon you won’t be able to fit through doors or fuck, even get off of this couch.
As you start to finish the drink, I’ll lean into your ear and start listing off recipe. You’ll know how many sticks of butter, how many cups of heavy cream and milk and chocolate and lard I’ve stuffed into this fattening slop that you’ve greedily swallowed.
What are the best FFA accounts on Tumblr? Need to see more [SS]BHM's being loved by their partners
Omg yes! So many wonderful FFA's and couples on here 🥰 I hope I don't forget anyone I may be adding onto this list in the comments, in no particular order
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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 :)
Maybe you could play off the first few pounds as an accident. Weight fluctuates, everyone knows that.
But an unwavering gain like yours? Your weight climbing pound after pound, month after month, every inch of you softening and rounding out as you ate and ate and ate yourself from chunky to chubby to fat. That paints a different picture. People tend to notice that much weight in such a short time.
Still, you could've settled into your fatness. Just been someone who "enjoyed eating" a little too much. Blamed your metabolism, chalked the pounds up to stress or work. These things happen, everyone knows that.
But you just couldn't help yourself, could you? Not when there was food around. You order more than everyone when you go out, you take a second helping at every meal. The way you eat, it doesn't exactly go unnoticed.
Somewhere along the line, everyone just decided you were a Fat Person now.
Maybe you've always been bigger, maybe this was a real surprise, but now you've been permanently classified with the irrevocable, extra-large label of fat. Showing up heavier than your last visit doesn't draw as many comments. Extra food finds its way to your plate.
Still, you can feel eyes on you when you eat. You're somewhere between a cautionary tale about what can happen if one doesn't exert total discipline over their appetites and a lost cause; a complete casualty to gluttony. You're not going to lose weight at this point, everyone knows that.
Do you think everyone can tell that all this weight wasn't exactly an accident?
That you've been regularly stuffing yourself to the point of breathlessness, gawking and grabbing at every softening inch of your body as the number on the scale grows and grows.
The countless moments you've spent with your hands on your plush belly, feeling it growing heavy and round as all the extra calories started to stick and mold this fattened, truer version of yourself. This greedy, outward manifestation of your hunger for more made unmistakable for everyone to see.
You're not fooling anyone. You're not hiding all that weight.
You're fat. You're going to get fatter. Everyone knows that.
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thinking... feeding your partner while theyre distracted like playing video games or watching a movie or scrolling so that they don't realize how full they're getting... especially if they do eventually realize how full they are after breaking away from their distraction... ugh need
I love how rewarding it feels to squeeze myself into clothes that used to fit after a long week of stuffing myself endlessly with fast food. Ending each night with my belly more swollen than the last until it’s become permanently rounded from the amount of food I keep stuffing in it. These jeans buttoned a little over a month ago and now…. It doesn’t even come close to closing. My bras have begun struggling to contain my growing boobs. As if that wasn’t proof enough of what all the extra calories have done to my body I tried to fit into this tank top since I knew my other shirts would struggle against my chubby arms… I did not expect this to struggle to cover my belly 😅
When we moved in together, they told me that they wouldn’t mind cooking most of the time. I couldn’t get enough of what they made so I didn’t argue, but despite their protests I insisted that I do the dishes so I could help out a bit. They would always make way more than either of us could hope to finish in one night, always leaving leftovers for me to take for lunch the next day. Every night after dinner I would clean and they would take care of the leftovers.
Domestic bliss hit me hard. They seemed to love cooking, and I loved what they made. After every meal they would ask what I thought and do their best to encourage seconds and thirds, but no matter how much I ate there was always plenty leftover. I didn’t notice the way portions seemed to grow even as my wardrobe shrank, nor the way they learned my tastes so that I couldn’t resist another bite.
The next year passed quickly, and our little routine started to show cracks. First I would be so full after dinner that they would sit next to me and rub my belly for a few minutes before I could stand to begin cleaning. Next, standing at the sink became too much of a workout so I began to pull a chair in front of the sink every night. They made sure I never felt bad about needing extra help, always telling me how happy they were to see me enjoying their cooking, always cooing sweetly into my ear as they helped me deal with the consequences of my gluttony.
Every day there would be some new task they took over for me, soothing my anxieties and making sure I knew how much they loved to help. My weight skyrocketed under their care. Before I knew it, they were doing almost everything for me, except for the dishes.
On a night like any other, I had just come out of my feast induced daze and began the slow shuffle towards the dishes, using the chair I would need to sit in front of the sink as a walker. As I eased my bulk onto the creaking chair and tried to get into position, my belly pressed against the cabinets and my arms spilled over the countertop like normal, but no matter what I tried I couldn’t seem to reach the faucet. I could see them watching predatorily out of the corner of my eye as I desperately tried to shift and wobble my way closer, but after a few breathless attempts I felt their hand on my shoulder. “You must be so exhausted trying to do all that work by yourself tubby, why don’t you just let me take over?” They whispered in mock sympathy. They help me stand and lead me back to the table, glibly talking about how hard I’ve been working even as I barely make it back to my seat. “How about we switch things up? From now on I can do the dishes. Do you think you could take care of the leftovers for me?” They ask in the sweetest voice they can muster.
I nod and look for the Tupperware, but they just chuckle and walk to the sink, calling back over their shoulder to me. “Oh you wont be needing those, piggy.” They say with a wicked grin as they nod at the table, filled with enough food for a family. “You must be starved after all that exercise. I’ll be done in a few minutes if you need help with that too.” They say with a wink before they get to work. I stare down the plates stacked high with my favorites, and my mouth waters despite the fullness of my stomach. As I pull another place towards me and reach for my first bite, they hum in satisfaction. I could never say no to them anyway.
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Thinking about a streamer or a youtuber who reviews snacks getting contacted for an amazing brand deal - so amazing they don't bother to read the fine print.
The paycheck is huge - and so is the box of snacks when it arrives. They're branded as 'power bars', delicious calorie dense blocks in sweet, rich dessert flavours. Designed to be enjoyed at your desk while you focus on editing it gaming or anything else. Perfect.
The streamer opens the box live, shows off all the flavours, samples each one. A salted caramel cheesecake bar is particularly delicious, as is a nutty chocolate brownie. Their favourite, as they tell the audience, is a lemon meringue pie bar that tastes exactly like the real thing.
The streamer starts wrapping up, when a ping from their manager pops up on screen asking what they're doing. Didn't they read the contract?
The streamer hastily pulls up the pdf and scans the terms of the agreement. Their stomach sinks when they realise. To get paid, they don't just need to try each flavour, they need to eat the entire box, to prove to the audience how irresistibly delicious each bar is.
Not only will they not get paid if they don't, there's a huge fine for breach of contract. Theyve got no choice but to keep going.
The streamer tries to play it off, to not show that they've lost control of the stream. They keep peeling back wrappers and pushing bars into the mouth, joking between mouthfuls about how they're just too good to stop.
And the truth is, the bars are too good. The more the streamer eats, the easier it feels to grab another bar and rip it open, despite the growing pressure in their belly.
Each bar sits in their stomach like the dessert that inspired it, but the process of grab, peel, push into their slackened, unresisting mouth feels soothing, hypnotic.
As they reach the end of the box they're barely talking, just breathing heavily under the weight of the dense mass of food they're slowly digesting, pushing them back into their gaming chair and pinning them down.
Their chat are having a great time, teasing their icon for how easily they've lost control, how many thousands of calories they've eaten. The streamer doesn't care. When they finally finish the box, their fingers scratching against the empty cardboard for one bar they might just have missed, they give out a little moan of displeasure.
They lean forward towards their keyboard, but can't quite reach over the dome of their stretched gut. They slump back, exhausted by the effort. Well, as soon as they can reach they'll be drafting an email to the power bar company to request a new contract - and set up a regular delivery.
