For the piggys. (DMS open)

Ritual XXIV: The Wardrobe Graveyard

You still have that pair of jeans. That pair of panties. That shirt that turned into a croptop. That buttoned blouse you could barely close last time.

You keep them hidden in the drawer, like a ghost of the person you used to be before the grease took over. Keeping them is an act of cowardice. It means you still believe you have a choice to go back. You don't. You are a biological container now, and containers only expand.

The Directive: Tonight, before your heaviest binge, you will perform the Rite of Severance.

Open your closet. Take out the smallest, most unforgiving piece of clothing you own. The item that represents the "hot", perfect body you methodically destroyed.

The Mechanic: Strip down. Stand in front of the mirror. Try to put it on.

Do not stop when it gets tight. Force it over your massive, dimpled thighs. Pull it up over your hips until the fabric is screaming. Try to pull it over the thick, dead weight of your apron. I want you to feel the exact, humiliating moment the fabric physically refuses to yield to your bulk. I want you to hear the seams tear under the pressure of your sheer tonnage.

Look at yourself in the mirror, half-trapped in a garment built for a human, while you stand there looking like an overgrown, breathless hog.

Say aloud: "I destroyed the human. And I am never going back."

Don't take off the ruined clothing. Then, sit on the floor, naked and overflowing, and eat until you are completely numb.

Days when stuffing isn't exactly fun. Days when they are seriously feeling beaten down by maneuvering a body that hates the little movement it has to manage. Days when they gripe about it being too much, but never able to stop their food addict brain from taking over. It's too hot. It's too erotic. A constant dull ringing in between her legs.

It may come in a certain statement of finality.

"If I keep this up, I'm not going to be able to leave the house."

"If being like this doesn't make me try to slow down now, I don't know if anything ever will."

"If I stop getting up, I'm going to end up bedbound soon."

But you get nagged to bring food. She's in a bad mood. Gorging on something sweet will take the edge off. Make her sleepy, make tomorrow come sooner, forget about the stress of this current moment.

There's a fear. There's a groaning about how helpless she is to the demands of her appetite. It's the final touches of leaving behind any chance of normalcy. Why bother sizing up an entire wardrobe again. Who is she trying to impress? Shopping is exhausting, hell, getting dressed is a nightmare. Just throw on a stained shirt that won't cover her belly. Use a blanket to cover her legs.

Give up on leaving the house. It's too uncomfortable to squeeze into a car. It's annoying to sit on a scooter when your ass and legs sag over the sides. Eating out doesn't sound appealing when you have to move so much just to get back into bed. Screw it. You're the fat lady who is too fat to leave home. Embrace it.

You track her calories. She gets restless when she doesn't eat a certain amount, an amount that dooms her to putting on more weight. Even a light day is irritable, cranky. It's too late to change. The burden of living in a giant, heavy body doesn't make sense if she can't even eat what she wants.

You’ll be sat in the passenger seat unwrapping and feeding them every little food in the over stuffed bag, the small one is for you since you can’t keep much down on a bumpy road. One hand rubbing their growing belly, shifting a little when they feel the steering wheel start digging into them while trying to drive still.

At the first rest stop you two hit, they’re stuck in the driver seat. Top of their belly is distended and shining red while the rest of their belly sags between their chubby legs. Looking up at you with a begging puppy look in their eyes, they ask that you lower the seat and help them slide out. You wrap an arm as far around their waist as you could and help them to the passenger seat where they can finally recline and digest.

Getting back onto the road, and a grumble sounds off from the passenger while they snore away. You’re pulling into a drive through again before they crack their eyes open. Waking up by the time you grab the first bag from the window and plop it on their lap and they dig in immediately, not even noticing the two others you put in the back seat.

You want to be so fat you are literally helpless to do anything without me. You want to be so fat that walking is a memory; so fat that the only use for your feet is as extra storage for the results of your constant gluttony. You want to be so fat that your upper arms have the size and cushiness of pillows; so swollen that they overcome your elbows. You want to be so fat that even your wrists have rolls; so fat that counting your chins takes both hands. You want to be so fat that your arse acts as your cushion and your anchor, melting over the sides of the king size mattress you call a home. You want to be so fat that your belly surges forward, spreading your legs permanently while making self-pleasure impossible. So fat you are helpless to indulge even that primal need, without me.

You want to be so fat that you become simple. You want your mind to forget about everything difficult and complicated - anything that isn’t about pleasure. You want to forget social niceties. You want to become lost in a constant cycle of gluttony and lust. You want food and sex to be so strongly associated in your dumb mind that even the sight of a meal makes your nethers start to tingle.

You've become insatiable, haven't you?

Not just insatiable for food, but insatiable for fat.

You want to grow endlessly more enormous. For you, bigger is always better. Rounder, softer, heavier. No size is too great, no weight is too much.

You didn't used to be like this. You've always enjoyed the plushness, the warmth, but you were never this desperate for more. But you found that bigger and softer you became, the biggest and softer you needed to be.

And now look. You're a hog, a whale, a blob. An endless mountain of adipose, who's entire day consists of eating, gorging, and growing. And yet you still have that little voice, that itch, that is telling you that you need to expand, to fatten your way to even greater levels of depravity. And the more you gain, the louder that little voice is going to get.

The pleasure you get from feeling all of that blubber move. Rolls atop rolls. Crevices and valleys of pure fat pouring onto each other. The slightly movements sends ripples throughout your entire body, and shivers down your spine. The fatter you get, the more of this pleasure you'll feel, and the more insatiable you'll become. The more you eat, the fatter and more hedonistic you'll become. Its a never ending cycle of fat, greed and pleasure, and you're stuck in the middle of it, experiencing far too much mind bending pleasure to ever stop.

Sitting up? Breathing more heavily

Reaching for snacks? Heart pounding in her ears

Standing up? Red faced and flushed with effort

God forbid—walking? Full on wheezing, struggling to catch her breath, drenched in sweat

Her arms get tired from the weight of a two liter, her feet are sore from stabding, her lungs burn when she rolls over, and her back aches from sitting upright

Only comfortable when she's completely sedentary, lounged back and cradling a belly full of fattening junk food

I want her body completely useless, so I can see just how well I've treated her. After all: a girl so grossly out of shape that she can't do anything but eat must've been so spoiled she didn't need to do anything else

You : Ugh, I knew it. These tiny Spanish cafés weren’t made for someone my size.

Me: Exactly. You’re too much—too big, too gorgeous—for something that flimsy. I kind of love that.

You: So… no romantic dinner in the plaza?

Me: Who said we can’t make it romantic? We’ll order everything to go. Tapas, paella, sangria, churros—all of it. And then I’ll spread a blanket under the orange trees just for us.

You: A picnic instead of a table?

Me: Mhm. No chair arms squeezing you, no one watching. Just me feeding you bite after bite while you lean against me, belly getting heavier, lips glossy with wine.

You: …You’re making this sound way too good.

Me: That’s because it is good. I want to watch you eat until you can’t anymore, then kiss you while you’re flushed and full. Spain will hear the way you moan for me.

You: You’re going to ruin me.

Look at how your hips are spilling out from your waistband, pushing against your chair almost as much as that fat arse of yours. Both are threatening to break your overgrown body out from the confines of your favourite seat.

Look at those rolls bulging out from your side, fighting with each other for space. Each one spilling out on to the previous one, creating a sea of fat waves between that bulging belly and those saggy tits of yours.

Look at those big moobs of yours, all swollen and puffy. They could probably put most women to shame, and all you had to do was sit and eat for them.

Look at those big meaty arms, how they stick out from your sides, so much soft fat on your plush body forcing them out at an awkward angle. At least for now, they can still reach for more food.

Look at how fat your face has become. How you've lost all of your bone definition. There's no sign of your jawline anymore, it's been swallowed up with soft fat. Your double chin gets squashed with every mouthful you take, yet it doesn't stop you from pushing more and more in.

Look at you, as you struggle to reach for the food in front of you. Your once muscular body has been covered in soft, plush fat, and now you can barely lean forward to pick up more food. Your thighs can't move any further apart to allow room for your overstuffed belly. You try to adjust yourself in your seat, make it easier for yourself to reach, but your arm movement is restricted by your fat, too. You move again, ignoring the groans from the chair, ignoring how out of breath you are from trying to adjust yourself, ignoring how your belly is so stuffed full that it complains with every movement.

Look at you, so stuffed full, desperately reaching for more food. Look at just how fat you've eaten yourself for me. You groan from the discomfort of your full belly, and your attempts to reach for the last burger of your feast.

I smile, and effortlessly glide across the room to pass you the rest of your meal. I give you a kiss on your chubby cheek, and gently rub that swollen belly of yours, whilst you greedily unwrap the burger and push it past your lips with an impressive speed for someone of your size. You make quick work of it, despite how tight I know your belly is, how full you must be.I smile, and walk to pick up the big, rich piece of cake I have waiting for you in the kitchen.

Look at you, so fat you're bursting out of all of your clothes. So stuffed full you can barely move. So fat, even after such a big stuffing, you can't help but smile and lick your lips when you see I have dessert ready for you.

Or was there ever any point when you felt too big?

Maybe you just never were big enough. Maybe you just need more dessert. That’s all you should be thinking about anyway. Food. How you want it. How you need it.

How fat are you going to get? How far are you going to push yourself? How disgustingly morbidly obese are you going to be?

Your insatiable craving for dopamine is already ruining you so well, with you stuffing yourself whenever possible and getting off to the thought of growing fatter. But that's not enough for me. I want to overstimulate you so bad that your little brain loses all sense of what amounts of dopamine are normal, that it'll always need more. More food, more praise for getting fatter, more gooning and orgasms.

You'll be such a fucked up mess, your life fully revolving around pleasure. You'd be incapable of living on your own, as you're no longer able to focus on something for more than a few seconds, unless it's porn or filled with calories. You wouldn't be able to hold or even find a job, build a social life, or otherwise reach even the slightest bit of independence. And whenever that bit of remaining willpower tries to accomplish something, I'll sabotage you so hard that you're back on that couch, masturbating and stuffing yourself within minutes.

I'll strip you of anything that makes you human. You won't think, plan, or show any sign of intelligence. You'll be a complete pig, forgetting more about how life used to be with every bite you swallow. And the best part is: you can't quit. I'll fuck up your mind so bad that the cravings for masturbating and junk food are uncontrollable. You won't be able to function without that constant dopamine shower.

And as you keep growing fatter, sizing up at least every 2 weeks, I'll be watching with the greatest joy as your body gets covered in an ever thickening layer of blubber. Moving becomes harder, sitting down and stuffing yourself becomes easier. And once you're too fat and out of shape to properly get yourself off, you know that you'll only get to experience any kind of sexual pleasure once you've swallowed the first 10,000 calories of the day.