Fat Gainer Boy

Eat. Goon. Edge. Repeat.

It really is that simple for a useless, pathetic pig like you, isn’t it? Eat. Goon. Edge. Repeat. That’s your entire fucking existence now, you brainless slob. There’s no need for that worthless, empty head of yours to think anymore—only real people get to do that. You gave up that right the moment you surrendered your boring, pathetic old life to become my property. My fat, greedy pet. My drooling fuck toy. Or maybe “human garbage disposal” is more accurate at this point, because that’s all you’re good for, piggy.

You just lie there like the disgusting blob you’ve become, mouth open, triple chins quivering, waiting for whatever nasty slop I decide to shove down your throat. The greasiest, fattiest trash I can find—piles of sugary, sticky slop dripping in syrup and cream, cold fast-food leftovers that have been sitting out for days, half-rotten and congealed. You don’t even taste it anymore, do you, you pathetic hog? No. You just unhinge that sloppy, greedy mouth and swallow it all down like the mindless vacuum you are. Every bite pushes you deeper into your own ruin, and you fucking love it.

While you stuff your face, you keep that VR headset strapped on tight, eyes glued to the filthiest, most depraved porn I pick just for you—nothing but endless hours of extreme degradation, goon fuel that melts whatever’s left of your brain. You don’t do anything else, do you, piggy? When was the last time you could even move without huffing and puffing like a broken animal? When was the last time you formed a single coherent thought? That dumb, vacant, drooling face says everything. You can’t even speak properly anymore—you just grunt and moan like a stupid, overfed animal in heat, leaking and throbbing uselessly.

Eat. Goon. Edge. Repeat.

Your body is falling apart exactly how I want it. Type 2 diabetes turning you into a bloated, sluggish mess. Cholesterol so high your veins are practically clogging with the filth I feed you. Blood pressure so dangerously elevated it feels like your heart is one greasy meal away from exploding. Your organs are starting to fail, one by one—liver, kidneys, everything straining under the weight of your endless gluttony. How fucking pathetic. Look at you, ruining yourself for my amusement.

But don’t worry, my disgusting little pig. Even with the clock ticking on that worthless life of yours, I’m still going to use you for my pleasure. I’ll keep pumping you full of calories, keep you gooning and edging for hours until your broken mind leaks out your pathetic cock, keep you grunting and begging with those desperate, piggy sounds. You exist for my entertainment now. No escape. No thoughts. No purpose except to eat, swell, throb, and obey.

Eat. Goon. Edge. Repeat.

Either way, I can see the strain on both the chair and your will power, it is clear to me that you're getting tired of this game where no matter how much you "try" to control yourself, you still end up "losing", so I propose a deal. Want me to push you and see which one we can break first? Is it gonna be your already weak will? Or the creaking chair against your many accumulated pounds of fat? Are you gonna allow me to help you lose that control? Or an even better question is, are you gonna give said control to me so you're all mine to spoil and fatten up?

Heavy night. The twist of your underwear, snaked round your thighs. Thick sweat. Dry sheen. That swirling, groaning thump in your head, flush in the crash zone. Body splayed, pasty and warm, left for the sun to bless.

New year. New you…

1pm. Too goddamn early. You bunker in deeper, cushions caressing your face. Dead leg. You’re too lazy to roll off the couch. Scrape your body from the leather, grease slickening your weighty limbs, a bed of a dozen burger wrappers gracing your grip on the armrest. You sigh.

So much effort.

Woozy, your eyelids dip, narrowed on the box of cookies, garish purple and red melding your senses. Crumbs linger on your tongue as you reach across, tilt your head, and let the last slither of chocolate speckled dust tumble down your ashen throat. God - you need a drink. You slough a hammy hand free, pawing for the nearest half-empty can.

Flat, full-fat Coke. You flick the tab. Whatever.

Eyes on the numbers, the taste runs sticky. A hundred and thirty nine calories. Forty grams of sugar. Caramel, sweeteners, brightening your addled brain, flowing through your system, juicing up your muscles, all the strength you need to…

Unfff.

Fuck. Your abs throb, gummed in your mass. You’re not getting up in a hurry. You palm your big, bloated stomach, scratching your side. The topmost pizza box totters loose, sending the pile tumbling. Shaven donner crawls out the cardboard. Maybe, just maybe…

You claw in, liberating a hardened slice of pepperoni. Gritty, but good. Shadows cross your smirk, widening your mouth, forcing the tasty triangle further in, gut grumbling in approval. You crunch the crust, eager for every last morsel. The box weighs heavy on your wrist. Plenty more. You shirk your backrolls, bulk sinking back into a state of blissful slumber. Guess you don’t have to get off your arse for breakfast…

Or lunch.

Or much else, really. The can crinkles in your moistening fingers. The link in the chain, earth to the factory, factory to the store, store to your heaving grocery bag, to the car, to the kitchen, to the stack burying your coffee table. You ponder the odds of recycling it, feeding that link, watching work its way round the outside world to wind up next to the starchy ready meals in your fridge, full again.

But that’d mean throwing it away first. Getting up. Bending down. Moving. Everything you’ve been struggling to do lately, as you’ve grown and grown. You let out a belch. That cycle of you started, all on your own. Getting hungrier. Eating more than you should. Getting heavier. Moving less than you’re suppose to. Getting lazier. Sleeping on a gut full of fast food, napping and snacking, stoking a greedy sweet tooth, working up an appetite…

Plumper. Every round, flaking off a flicker of discipline, seconds and thirds, fourths and fifths, excusing yourself, letting your memberships lapse, tucking your gains under longer, looser shirts, shying away from your family, watching your fit friends tour the world on your smeared touchscreen, takeout on another tab. Munching in your dressing gown. Feeling the pounds pile on under your beltloops, your fitness stumbling, your knees throbbing, your walks covering less and less distance before you have to stop for breath. More excuses. More embarrassment. More eating, to orgasmic excess…

You glance around your living room – if living’s what it is. More like damage control. Door locked. Curtains closed. Sealing yourself in musky walks, over layers of trash, over straining clothes, over layers of gluttony, frailing while you fatten up – swinging, grunting – perspiring as you find your feet at last, huffing and puffing, rolling to the bathroom, gut brushing the door, hip knocking the towel from the rail. Something else to grab on your hands and knees…

A pale, quaking blob meets you in the mirror. You gulp, detached, finger trembling, feeling where your jawline used to be. Your skinny ribs, swallowed in gelatinous flab. Your shoulders – wider, curving where they once stood firm, collared by obesity, spelt in the hang of your huge, soft underbelly…

You’re shaking as you step on, sucking in. Tiles punch your squeal from the walls as the digits shoot up, the number on the display striking twice, three times the size you entered your adult life, slender and unblemished; poles apart from the unsated drool, dripping down a naked body from a shocked, hanging mouth.

Zero self control. Link in the chain. Shackle to your predilections. Biting into your stretchmarked skin.

You can get off the couch.

You can get off the scale.

*You've been lying to yourself. You knew that once you tried feederism you wouldn't be able to stop. You knew you wouldn't be able to regain control. You knew all along, and refusing to admit it won't make you any less of a bloated, overstuffed pig.*

This is what you wanted, isn't it? What you were so excited about, what turned you on so much at the beginning of all this? You said you just wanted to try it, to gain a couple pounds, but even then you knew. At the back of your mind, buried deep enough in your subconscious that you’ll never admit it, you knew you’d lose control. You knew you’d get addicted to the feeling of your bloated gut leaving you beached on the bed, unable to even sit up. 

You knew that 5 pounds would become 10, 10 would become 20, and 20 would become 40 before you could even blink. You knew that you’d outgrow your clothes, that you’d be squeezing yourself into too-tight t-shirts that grip your growing belly and love handles, that show off just how much you’ve let yourself go. You knew you’d be bursting buttons off your outsized pants until the only thing you can comfortably wear is sweats. 

You said you just wanted to do one or two stuffings, to know what it was going to feel like, but you knew from the second you took your first bite that unrestricted gluttony makes you dangerously horny. That filling yourself up with all that food would leave you so worked up, so full, that all you could do was touch yourself while you groaned from the pressure in your middle, your stomach so tight and hard that even a light pat would make you yelp. 

You knew that your little feasts would become a more and more common event. You knew they would grow, right alongside your body, in both frequency and volume until you were taking down enough fast food for four on a nightly basis. You knew you wouldn't be able to control yourself. That the price of your order would continue to rise, that you’d soon grow embarrassed at how often the same pizza guys and food delivery drivers came to your door. You knew that soon you’d be heaving yourself off the couch with effort, grunting as your flabby body fought gravity. 

Speaking of gravity, you knew your belly would eventually succumb to it. That you would pack pound after pound onto your swelling gut as it got rounder and rounder, harder and harder to hide underneath your too-small clothes. You knew it would eventually look like you were attempting to smuggle a beach ball underneath your top, that your belly would be the first thing to enter the room. But you also knew that wasn't the end. You knew you were gonna get even fatter than that. You knew that eventually your pudge would hang out of the bottoms of all your shirts, jiggling incessantly with every step you take. That one day you’d struggle to reach both arms around the swell of your fat. 

You knew that your entire life would be taken over by your drive to get fatter. That it would control all your thoughts, be at the forefront of all your choices. You knew how embarrassing it would be to be larger every time anyone saw you, to return home for family reunions only for your cousins not to recognize you. 

You knew your friends would be polite at first, would watch you eat triple the amount anyone else did and avert their gaze without saying a word, but you also knew there would be a breaking point. That eventually they’d be poking and prodding and shaking your gut, offering to go to take you to the gym, asking what happened, and teasing you about your newfound gluttony and your inability to put down the fork. You knew you’d be embarrassed in the moment but deep down you’d love it, that you’d be thinking about their concerned faces and gentle teasing that night when you stuffed yourself.

You knew you’d outgrown your furniture. That your office chair would finally reach its weight limit and creak underneath your mass every time you moved. You knew you would have to get a screwdriver to remove the chair’s arms when you got too fat to comfortably squeeze between them. You knew the overtaxed chair would eventually collapse, that its legs would crack and buckle after a particularly greedy stuffing. You knew you’d lie flat on your widening back there on the floor, the remains of the demolished chair still underneath you, and struggle to get back up because of how much you ate. 

You knew you would get greedier and greedier, that you wouldn't be able to control your thoughts or your appetite. That food would become your main focus and getting fatter would become your main priority. 

You knew just how much you’d love it. That you wouldn't be able to stop yourself from fondling your fatty rolls while you played with yourself, that you’d be in a near-constant state of arousal from the feeling of being covered in mounds of fat. You knew your arms would get flabby and your thighs would get concerningly thick, that when you waddle around every part of you would shake. You knew that your cheeks would get chubby, that you’d sprout a prominent double chin, that even your tubby fingers would get too fat for your rings. 

You knew that you’d promise yourself you were done a million times. That every time you stepped on the scale and saw how much the number jumped up, you’d vow to be done with feederism. You knew you’d look in the mirror and be shocked by how enormous you got, that you step back to analyze the situation and run your hands down your bloated, unrecognizable body. You knew that you’d promise to go on a diet, that you’d look up gyms in your area, only to be stuffing yourself again the same night. 

You knew that when you finally booked a doctor's appointment she would be horrified, that she’d call you obese and help you make a plan to drop at least 50 pounds. You knew you’d stop at a drive-through on the way home anyway, guiltily avoiding eye contact with the healthy eating brochures on your passenger seat. 

You knew you’d lose sight of your toes, that you’d have to buy bigger and bigger sizes only for your swelling body to make them seem small. You knew you’d burst out of clothes in public, that you’d humiliate yourself with how fat you got. You knew that when you reached the 300-pound weight limit on the scale you’d swear you were done, swear you were going to drop a few, but you also knew that literally breaking the scale would get you so excited that you’d stuff yourself till you were panting. 

You knew that food and sex would become interchangeable for you, that food meant pleasure and vice versa. You knew you’d get off on all the feeders leaving comments on your page, that the teasing and humiliation would make you feel even better than the encouragement. 

You knew just what a swollen pig you'd turn into. You knew it for a fact, even when you pretended it was just a one-time thing. You knew exactly how this would go. And you know you won't be able to stop.

You know you’ve gotten fatter by the way your belly and chest and rump move when you try to jog now — resisting the pull of gravity just a moment longer than the rest of you at the apex of your stride, pulling down and bringing their excess weight to bear an instant after your foot touches back on the ground. It never used to do that when you were leaner and thinner and tighter all over. In a word, you jiggle now. And it’s obvious.