This one's very dark and quite explicit. Please only read it when you definitely are into the fantasy of Death Feederism. 🐷📈
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.
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.
turnnoffyourmind
blakekathryn
vaporwave
prguitarman
