Feedee Fan

I would train him to never say no to food. I would train him to only feel full when he’s completely stuffed to the brim. Even when I’ve stuffed him so full that his distended, groaning belly is causing him to pant and moan, if I ask if my pretty boy wants more food, his answer will be “yes please mistress.”

I would train him to never hold in his burps or precious moans of pleasure, even in public. He would become oblivious to his shirt riding up as he eats. It’s only a matter of time before he bursts a button in public, and even then if I’ve done my job right, it’ll only make him hungrier and hornier. He would always say yes to another drink or another hit, not even realizing how fucked up he’s getting. And afterwards, he’d all too eagerly let me have my way with him.

He would be confused as to why his clothes aren’t fitting the way they used to, and then blindly smile and agree with me when I tell him that he doesn’t need to wear any while he’s in the house anyway.

He wouldn’t be able to think about anything other than food and sex, “anything else is for feedress to worry about. Have another cookie and don’t you worry your pretty little head,” I’d say. All he would care about is eating, getting stuffed, getting horny, and impressing feedress. “And feedress treats you so good, doesn’t she?” I’d coo as he nods rapidly, taking another bite of the slice of pizza I’m dangling in front of his face.

“You’re such a good fat boy for me aren’t you? So perfect. You make feedress so proud, my precious, plump, pretty little himbo.”

Working out, how it start, how it ends