Fatlifeshortlife

I want to go to a restaurant and barely fit in a booth because the table squishes my belly, and have to pretend I don’t care how noticeable it is.

I want to have to stiffle a grunt whenever I stand up, so as to not look like I’m struggling.

I want to have to avoid laying down on the ground because my heavy gut might pin me down, and simply trying to get up would make me look helpless.

I want to have to make my friends wait when we go out to eat because I ordered enough to fill myself up, and it’s just that damn much!

I want to sit on a three person couch and make it impossible for more than one other person to sit next to me.

I want to have to make others wait for me before we go out as I struggle to get my shoes on.

I want to have to make everyone go to the mall so I can Maybe find clothing that fits me.

I want to go to the fair and have to sit out every once in awhile because I won’t fit in the rides.

I have this fantasy…

I spend all of my days cooped up in a room that my feeder calls my “special place.”

The room is a soft, comforting shade of pink. I am told to either wear as little clothing as possible, or none at all. He says it’s practice for when I grow out of clothes made for people, not pigs.

Snacks are within reach of me laying down on my back with my body splayed out.

And of course I am in bed.

My mobility is declining. My feeder can’t take me to the grocery store anymore to pick out my snacks and meals for the week because, well, I’ve put on weight. My belly slaps against my thighs when I walk.. my thighs are just a bit too big to be swaying back and forth in the aisle, bumping and knocking down displays of food.

And we tried mobility scooters for a while, it was great! Until the cart could no longer hold my heavy body and the excessive amount of food I planned on eating that week.

Extra large Pies.

High sugar content cookies.

20 pack boxes of cupcakes.

But anyways, my special room.

From there, I order groceries online for my feeder to pick up. There is no moving of my body involved at all. In fact, there is little brain energy required as well.

Double chocolate cake in the bakery section?

*added*

Oh I love that soda, 5 bottles would be nice.

*added*

Premade family size tray of lasagna dinner…

*added*

Needless to say, I live a simple, non thought provoking life.

I don’t get up to make my food, he does it for me.

I don’t leave the house to work, he provides.

I’m too fat to fit my hips and ass through the doorway…… I stay put in bed.

My feeder expects me to put on at least 10 pounds a month. 120 pounds a year, with the hope by 25, I’ll be 600 pounds worth of sweet lard.

By then, my ass will have grown to a size that only my feeder will know how to handle.

“Huge growing pigs need special care”, he claims.

I trust that he knows what’s best.

In time, my thighs will be big enough that they will permanently be spread apart , with my fat laden sagging belly wedged in between them.

“ No, that’s not too big, beautiful. After all, a sow like you should be at least 650 pounds.”

My ankles are lost in the sea of fat that is my calves.

My wrists can barely move from all the weight of my monstrous forearms.

My chins are made for nothing more than a means to keep my face propped up, mouth open, for my daily funnel feeding sessions.

My life may sound quite boring. What a life for a girl my size. Barely 23, the size of small car, and a room just for me to spend my days in and just eat. It’s all I do.

I eat.

I scarf down my food because I know one thing for sure, I will NOT disappoint my feeder. What else is there to do? My only job is to eat. To grow, make more fat. To be an obedient pig.

I get lost in all of my favorite phrases of his.

“You’re such a good girl”,

“I knows what’s best for my growing girl.”

“open wide, I know there’s more room in there.”

cpap cutie

*plap*

🔪 Reblog if you are an evil feeder, want an 🐷 🐷 evil feeder, or have evil feeder fantasies 🔪

I need chins that threaten to suffocate me with every breath, greasy fingers and a greasier, tightening chest, I need my stomach to be so concerningly large that I can’t even reach to touch my belly button. Fat rolls cascading from my knees, a king size bed becoming way too small for my ever-expanding form. You’ll need hoists just to spread my legs wide enough that you can slide inside of me; better yet, you can reach under my sagging lard and shake my pussy. Hopefully that’ll stimulate me enough eventually, right?