Posting this because I need to get it off my chest...
My feed has been overflowing with the most incredible, overfed, plushy hogs the last few days. I can't think about anything else.
It has me thinking about how I went from the leanest I've ever been to my fattest (+22 lbs) by just...living life. No stuffings (or at least, not intentional), no weigh-ins, no math...just going to work, letting go of extreme discipline, and just enjoying myself.
I stopped cutting myself off when I was merely nourished, and I opted for a few extra beers here and there. It was not--at least consciously--intentional.
I just accidentally gained 22 lbs.
It makes me wonder how huge I would get for an obsessed feeder. They'd text me all day, telling my they're dreaming of the next 5 lbs. They'd want to know exactly what I ate and when I ate it. They'd demand I eat more, and become distant when I didn't.
Every morning I'd wake in a groggy, puffy daze, and every evening they'd help me to bed and I'd doze off before I could even pleasure myself.
The months would blur into years to the constant soundtrack of my labored breaths between bites and strict 'encouragement' from my feeder. I'd pack on another 30...50...100...200...I don't know if I could place a limit.
"Oh, please, tubby. Enough with the whining. We both know you want this...." Their voice would cut through me while they stuffed pastries down my throat.
"I could easily find some other hog," they'd brag, pouring more into the funnel. I'd watch desperately as the shake emptied the tube and into my mouth. "But I chose you. Don't make me regret that."
I'd be beyond my limit, but how could I say no to such an outpouring of lust in my direction? I'm needed. They need me, and they need me to be much, much fatter.
I see that picture of me at my fattest, and imagine that shape with another 300 lbs. I'd quake with little rhythm as I tried my hardest to please my feeder from behind. They'd stop me and laugh with a little pity as I catch my breath before easily knocking me down to the bed. The bed frame would moan under my weight as they climbed on top. They'd use me to get off. Buried under my own fat, they'd have to grind on my belly to climax.
They'd roll off and and catch their breath post-climax before falling asleep. Some nights, they'd seem frustrated even after climaxing.
"Still not fat enough," they'd sometimes say.
I'd lay there, weighed down by the mass of my gut, aching below from unreleased pleasure. This would become a nightly ritual, and while I wish I could get off every once in a while, it's ok.
They need me, after all. I must get fat enough.
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