feedeer

it’d be hard being told i have rest and let myself heal. there are plans coming up that have to be cancelled, the few active hobbies i have left take a hit. but…it’s so easy to accept every snack brought to me. after all, i sought out a feeder—this lifestyle is the one i’ve eaten myself towards. and he knows i have an inclination towards eating too much. that first week goes easier than it should; weight starts to pile on. but i miss going out, even running errands sounds nice. in the few moments my hands are absent of food or a shake i am regularly in contact with my friends.

the next week i’m better but… i feel slow. my feeder has started to keep people away because i need to rest and he’s right, healing is taxing on the body. i start responding less to others, too. our funnel has gotten so much more use in the last few days. the sugar and constant snacks step up and i can tell there is an agenda behind it all but *god* it feels good to be doted on. he helps me through the necessary exercises but trips across the house are rare. i notice how difficult it is to lift myself up now—how sedentary have i been?

that question doesn’t cross my mind again, there are better things to focus on. my feeder knows how to use my adhd to his advantage—food, sex, TV, and games all provide the dopamine hit needed to keep me distracted. the 3rd week is similar enough to the 2nd: ritualistic feeding becomes the norm. we don’t need a valve to control the flow on the funnel anymore, he knows i can finish everything. my belly is swollen out into my lap all of the time now, if i hold my boobs aside i can see new stretch marks creeping across my expanding hips. i expect the snacks, “babe, can you grab me something from the fridge?” is a phrase heard several times in the day. and my feeder obliges.

the 4th week we have an appointment and im told i should walk and start being active again. the doctor looks nervous though and tells me i need to watch my weight, he says something like “its alarming how quickly this happened,” but i blocked it out because—i can’t even see how much i weigh? my belly blocks the view now. oh my god.

in the car afterwards my feeder expresses doubt at the situation: “you don’t look so steady on your feet, i think you should still take it easy.” his eyes meet mine and i don’t miss the brief glance away, desire obvious at the sight of my rounded figure that’s entirely his fault. i know what he wants and i can’t deny myself that want, either. and he knows better in these situations, i trust his judgement. maybe it is best to stay in. plans can be pushed further back… the walk back to the car was a little difficult, too.

the next weeks—or does it span months?—pass in a blur. staying in is all i want to do. although i’m supposedly healthy again, i rarely get up and walk around more than needed. “needed” means a slow, clumsy walk to the fridge and back to either the couch or the bed. when my feeder is not there to feed me himself he takes time to order food to the door. bending down to pick things up is a monumental effort for me—a heavy, wide belly pressing into my fattened thighs. my swollen tits obscure my vision but serve as an excellent table when i need.

my feeder comes home one day and im asleep, taking up more than my fair share of the couch. my breaths are not easy and its obvious how much i ate beforehand: mostly-empty 2 liters, takeout containers haphazardly stacked on top of one another as they were finished, countless snack packages balled up and stuck between the couch cushions because sometimes i like to squirrel stuff away. as if there was a chance of hiding these habits my feeder built.

but the best part of it all is the empty pitcher sat against the corner of the couch, because i couldn’t reach to the coffee table to properly set it down with so much fat making every movement difficult.

You know you’ve gotten fatter by the way your thighs get so warm from your belly resting on them for too long. This wasn’t a problem back when you had a lap — which I suppose you technically still do, but it’s so thoroughly buried by that sack of blubber hanging off your midsection that it doesn’t really count anymore. You have to lift that thick flab roll any time you want to let your thighs and fatpad cool off, and you notice that’s getting harder and harder to do by the day.

You know you’ve gotten fatter by the way you get out of breath by the end of your walk to the bus now. It’s not that far — a few dozen steps to the end of your street — but by the end of it, you’re having to work to get your breaths in and out, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks and the perspiration beginning to seep out under your arm fat and down your back rolls. The hunger, too, is telling; the sugary treat you used to save for your first cup of coffee at work now disappears by the second stop, a sacrifice to the rumbling in your stomach that inevitably follows this briefest of workouts. The crumbs of sugar and pastry, and sometimes daubs of icing, trickle down over the rolls and belly filling your lap and spilling over into the necessarily empty seat next to you. None of your fellow riders are surprised to see them there.

You know you’ve gotten fatter when you go to stand up from your office chair, and the chair comes with you. You’d tried to ignore all the splitting seams, the periodic blowouts in your pants seat, the groaning chairs, the growing inertia of all the weight sloshing around on your rump. But ignoring it is no longer an option, not now that you have to squeeze yourself out from between the armrests of this XL roller. Your hips and ass may not be the widest part of you, but there’s no disguising the state you’re in now that they’re bigger around than even most beer bellies. You’re not gracefully squeezing past anyone on the way to the lunchroom — they’re getting out of your way, fast.

You know you’ve gotten fatter when clothes that can fully cover your body simply don’t exist anymore. When your thigh rolls bulge and sag out of the biggest pair of shorts you can find, tumbling over one another in a shapeless cascade past where your knees would be, if you could still point them out. When you have to cut the sleeves off of your 8XL tee to make room for your massive doughball arms and the sideboob rolls that hang over what’s left of the seam. When your belly hangs too low and wobbles too much with every minor movement to stay covered by your circus tent of an outfit. On the rare occasions when you still go out, you can’t help but put on a mutually unwanted show for everyone in the vicinity, who try with greater or lesser success to hide how horrified they are at the sight of your unmanageable obesity. Fortunately, there are plenty of chasers and feeders out there happy to fill in for you on the grocery or takeout run.

You know you’ve gotten fatter when you can’t even manage to shuffle into the shower without getting stuck. You always thought the shower seat you started using, once it became impossible to hold your shameful bulk up for the pathetically short duration of a shower, was going to be the failure point. Instead, it’s the cold, rigid stainless steel of the shower doorframe pinching the unreachable extremity of your belly on one side and the stacks of lard-filled back rolls on the other. You can already feel the burn in your leg muscles, underneath the shapeless lumps of fat disguising them as useable extremities, that tells you you’re rapidly reaching your limit for physical exertion. The same burning spreads to your overworked lungs, fighting against the weight of your blubber-packed tits to keep you breathing, as you struggle in vain to get yourself free. Good thing your feeder is there to extract you and bring you a couple dozen cookies to help you calm down.

You know you’ve gotten fatter when the slight pressure of your feeder’s touch against your blubbery chest is enough to make getting up from the couch impossible. You can still just throw your weight forward with enough force to tip forward onto your feet, pushing your hundreds of excess pounds up from a squat until you’re in a standing position. But not when he doesn’t want you to. It takes you so much effort, fighting against the flab smothering your body, that his halfhearted push is enough to send you rolling backward, out of breath and stuck in your divot on the couch. The perfect spot for him to caress your triple chins as he feeds you something greasy and fatty and soporific enough that you can’t even consider trying to get up again. You were probably too big to try it in the first place anyway, or so you try to convince yourself.