GDylan91

There is nothing sexier than a man who lost control of his weight and reaching the edge of mobility. You know you've succeeded in life when you've become so engorged with lard that you're forced to spread your legs during your pathetic "waddle".

Men who overfeed themselves to severe obesity until they can barely stand up are the peak of human beauty and should be glorified as such. It should be the beauty standard for everyone to be incapable of putting clothes on because of your inhumane size.

Norms should reflect our growing epidemic of crippling obesity, influencing young adults to become more obese than ever.

As such, all men should have a belly hanging to their knees by their mid twenties. It should be expected for their legs to be incapable of bending by their thirties. Severe Immobility should be the norm for all men by their mid thirties.

So overfeed yourself, show the world how obese you can be. Become the definition of "overfed".

I want it so fucking bad. I need a feeder who doesn’t give a shit about limits, who sees how pathetic and greedy I already am and just… keeps pushing.

I want to be trapped under hundreds and hundreds of pounds of my own soft, useless blubber. I want my belly to sag so heavy it pins me to the bed, rolls cascading over rolls, sweat pooling in every deep crease while I wheeze just from existing. I want stretch marks like lightning bolts splitting across my skin, red and angry at first, then turning silver as proof of how much I’ve surrendered.

I want to feel the tube shoved down my throat when my jaw gets too tired, thick calorie sludge pumping straight into me 24/7—shakes so dense they feel like cement, heavy cream, melted ice cream, oil slicking everything. I want my body to forget what hunger even feels like because I’m never empty. Ever. Just constantly bloated, aching, leaking, my heart hammering against layers of fat like it’s trying to escape before it gives out.

I want my legs to fuse into useless pillows of cellulite, my arms too swollen to lift, my chins multiplying until I can barely turn my head. I want to be so immobile that the only movement is the jiggle when someone slaps my gut or forces another funnel session. I want my feeder’s hands sinking wrist-deep into my sides while they whisper how much prettier I’ll be when I’m closer to the edge, when every breath is a struggle, when my body is finally giving up exactly like I begged it to.

I’m already ruined for anything else. Normal life? Gone. Thin? Laughable. I don’t want escape. I want to sink deeper. I want to be their perfect, disgusting, dying pig—swollen, sweaty, horny and helpless, cumming from the pressure alone while my arteries clog and my organs drown in lard.

Please.

Make me so fat I can’t come back.

Make me so fat I stop breathing under my own weight.

I’m begging for it. I’m dripping just typing this.

I’m not leaving this path. I’m already too far gone. 🐷💦🍰

-To make my belly hang over my knees, and then eventually drag along the floor so it’s out of my reach, covered in stretchmarks and infinite rolls

-To condition me to cum from being stuffed so I always need to be filled to cum

-To make me too fat to masturbate so I’m reliant on them or just trying to hump my own flesh to feel something 

-To make use of all the new rolls and folds of fat they’ve added to me, fucking them instead of my pussy and making sure I’m trained to get pleasure from that

-To not let me stop gaining until I’m as big as they want me, even if I resist, because they want me to look like a circus fat lady 

-To make me so huge I’m forced to waddle around when I can still move, every part of me jiggling just for their enjoyment and amusement, out of breath and sweaty just from walking across the room

-To only be allowed to wear clothes that are slightly too small and be forbidden from doing anything that tries to hide my fat from view, if my belly doesn’t stay in my shirt I’ll have to just let it show, every humiliating inch of cellulite-ridden flab visible

-To be made to display my gluttony for all to see in public whenever my feeder wants, eating enough for 5 people and putting my body on display in crop tops and tight shorts

-To be tied down and force fed with a funnel if I’m not cooperative, because I’m going to keep getting fatter whether I want to or not. 

-To be forced to eat until I can barely move and have to use a scooter to get around, especially in public so everyone can see the consequences of what I’ve done to myself

You all reach a point in the binge where the body begs you to stop. The skin stretches tight across your belly. The nausea sits heavy at the back of your throat. You feel the grease coating your lips, and a wave of exhaustion hits you. You know you’ve eaten too much. You know it’s going to hurt to digest.

This is the exact moment where even feedees stop. They wipe their mouths, lie back, and let the food coma take them. They surrender to their limits. You are going to break yours.

The Directive: The next time you reach that wall, the moment you are undeniably, uncomfortably stuffed and ready to quit, you will not stop.

You will initiate the Override.

Leave the plate exactly where it is. Stand up. Waddle to get more food. The more impossible it gets the better. The more struggle you feel the more you have to eat. You know how grotesque your distended apron looks right now, so much you don't need to see it to feel the weight of it pulling your posture forward.

Find the most calorie-dense, sugary, or heavy item you have left. Something that sickens you just to look at because you are already so agonizingly full.

Keep struggling, and take it back to where you were sitting. Place your hands flat on the hardest, most unyielding part of your bloated gut. Press in just enough to feel the physical resistance of your own gluttony.

Say this aloud: "My body is begging to stop, but my fat demands to grow."

Now, force that extra food down. Do not savor it. This isn't about taste anymore. This is about establishing absolute dominance over your own biology. You are actively choosing to make the pain worse. You are choosing to stretch your body to grow more adipose tissue.

- first time having your belly button fucked as you get funnel fed with a ceiling mounted tank full of weight gain shake consisting of melted butter and pure lard

- first heart palpitations after getting fed a massive feast at the buffet, feeling your heart straining while you beg for more

- First time not being able to get up from the bed / couch with their fat growing body pinning them down after a huge feast

- first time having to use a mobility scooter in public, showing everyone what a real death piggy looks like

- first time having to put their oxygen cannula to help them breath and get air circulated through their lungs being crushed by the newly added weight

- first time breaking the bariatric scale from how much your morbidly obese body weighs

- first time having a heart monitor hooked up on you and seeing how much your lard ridden heart is struggling to keep you alive as you get fed endlessly

- first time having your feeder use the crane hooked to the ceiling so they can lift your massive gut and give you a reward for being a good piggy

So as you can see, lots of first ( out of many more ) will happen when you decide to let a death feeder take care of you and see how far you let yourself go

who will help me get my gaining journey to the next the level? 🐷

Every day starts with my feeder waking me up, my mind already foggy and empty from the weed he pumped in overnight through the tube, keeping me too dumb, lazy, and spineless to even think about resisting. He props up my flabby, 507-pound body against the pillows, my enormous belly flopping out like a sack of disgusting lard that overflows everything, and begins the morning stuffing right away, forcing stacks of greasy hash browns loaded with cheese and bacon past my lips. Spoon after spoon, he shoves it down my throat, laughing at how my triple chin quivers and my fat cheeks puff out, calling me a pathetic, greedy sow who drools like the worthless pig I am, too stupid to chew properly without making a mess.

Mid-morning ramps up the humiliation, making me crawl on all fours like a farm animal to beg for snacks, my knees sinking under layers of blubber as he stuffs greasy donuts and fried junk dipped in chocolate straight into my gaping mouth. Sometimes he grabs a funnel, yanking my head back and pouring thick, fatty shakes down while taunting me about my cracking stretch marks and how I’ve ruined myself into this immobile blob, a total failure begging to be mocked for getting so grotesquely fat. Lunch turns into a degrading marathon, him hand-feeding piles of oily burgers, overloaded pizzas swimming in cheese, and pasta drowned in sauce, controlling every bite so I can’t stop, recording the whole thing to expose later how this wheezing whale pleads for more despite the shame, my rolls jiggling with each forced swallow.

Between courses, he slips me more weed edibles to dull my brain even further, ensuring I stay compliant, mindless, and too foggy to care about the endless ridicule, just a lazy lump craving the next hit of destruction. Afternoons bring more torment, squirting full tubes of whipped cream into my mouth or cramming oily chip slop down my gullet, then weighing me and berating me if the scale doesn’t climb fast enough, slapping my swollen belly to watch it ripple like jelly while he calls me a disgusting project only fit for breaking. He ties my hands to make sure I gulp every crumb, hurling insults about how my once-decent body is now a sweaty ruin of folds and flab, humiliating me for letting it happen.

This is it, this is your sign. It's time to get fatter- you've got all year. Tighter clothes, new stretch marks, stronger appetites. You're going to get so big this year you even surprise yourself. Every new pound, every new jiggle is a celebration of your hard work. Bigger, softer, heavier... it starts today.

warning: dark morbid themes with this one so if not your thing stay away

You open your eyes to that dripping sound again. A slow steady drop that pulsed into head and matches the ponderous heartbeat you feel in your chest. You know it's either the insulin or the remnants of shake in the tank above your bed. Oh how you hoped for the latter. A sugary, greasy taste lingers in your mouth as you sluggishly raise your head, looking up towards your feeding tube hanging tantalisingly above you. Instinctively, almost without thought you move your head toward the nozzle of the funnel, carefully placed just in reach. You could still technically move your arms but anything more than trying to lift those plush lard filled sacks you call your upper arm leaves you wheezing and breathless. This was much easier anyway. It was second nature at this point, years of sucking down fattening slop had meant you have almost perfected the art of it, if it could be called art. As you suckle the remnants of the shake, you lift a hand up and rubbed your chest, it always got tight when the taste of the cream filled concoction hits your lips and you can feel the rhythmic thump speed up as you run a hand across the single tally mark tattooed on your chest like a badge of honour.

It was funny really, you'd never meant to get this big. You'd always craved it though - deep down. Pushed it away, forced yourself to be normal. It just came back stronger though every time. Every indulgence, every sweet treat, every sneaking glance at the calories you've inhaled. Your secret. Not that it can ever be anymore. Your bloated frame cant fit a bedsheets, let alone clothes. No hiding the hedonistic corpulence that overtook you.

You utter pig.

There's no turning back, there never was and you know it. You are as much to blame as anyone, you're no better than fattend livestock at this point and you relish that. Every milestone a trophy to your greed, your addiction. Your gut hanging past your knees, oxygen cannula to waddle, your final steps. You live for it, as much as you can call being an immobile lard pile living. It's your purpose.

You exist to grow.