Untitled

I can't help but think back to when we were still just mutual friends. We hit it off at a local show after realizing we both knew someone in the band. The conversation went well and it was clear there might've even been some chemistry but you were dating someone at the time and so we both mutually understood we'd just be good friends. And so we just started hanging out. At times with our broader shared friend group or sometimes just one on one. I thought you were really cool but there something strange I sensed you were hiding from me. You always looked uncomfortable when we would go out to eat. I was honestly worried there was something else going on but you were able to convince me it was just a personal quirk, which I guess in retrospect wasn't that far off. I just don't think either of us thought that it would become your life.

So it's just a shock looking at you now. Both of us realize how terrible of a situation this has spiraled into. From what was once just some kinky post-breakup sex with your best friend, to the horrifying reality that your weight is rapidly climbing into the quadruple digits. Both of us long for the days when we could just go hang out, watch a local band, loiter around thrift stores, but now we're left in the aftermath of frantically indulging your kink for the past 5 years. I've tried my best to keep you in a stupor of weed and gluttony simply as a means of mercy to avert your mind from the massive pile of lard that is your body now. I slipped up once a few months ago and it took literal days for you to stop sobbing and get you under control. Yet even through that, you never once stopped eating. I wouldn't let that happen to you again so I simply have no other choice but to buy wholesale palettes of food and the federally allowed maximum for possession of weed.

I'm sorry I let this get out of hand. When I had to order your clothes from special websites I should have stopped. When I had to call a carpenter to widen the doorway to your bedroom I should have stopped. When I bought you the first palette of gainer shakes I should've had stopped. And now, as you're nearing the moment when I might have to call the fire department to lift you out of your collapsed bed and into the living room...I still can't stop. We still can't stop.

I've done something terrible to you, haven't I...

There are so many scenarios I find romantic, sexy, hot, etc, but my deepest, darkest dream feedee is someone completely annihilated by this kink.

Of course I'm poly, babe

Of course I have an actual wife who isn't you

You don't wait to be a wife, or a partner

You don't want to go to dinners with my family, host Christmas, or anything of the kind. No. You just want to eat.

Your world is your bariatric bed, and us rolling you to the bathroom or hauling you onto your scale

You're a pet- property of us and all your other feeders. Others? Oh, yes. We live stream your disgraceful hedonism for ten hours a day, making them pay to be in the audience, and letting them buy you food.

You never know how much money you make- if your little job makes us a profit, or doesn't cover all your food, pleasure and medication. You don't have to. You never have anything to want for, so what does it matter?

Your life is this bed, the constant stream of fattening slop food, your sex toys and VR porn. Nothing else matters- nothing else exists. Whatever your once sharp mind and once strong body could have done are wasted potential now, decayed into rusting nothing within a flabby, weak, pathetic body that's only good at getting fatter

We only let your mind escape the numb of THC pills and sedatives when we want you to take a moment to get off to how far gone you are.

We only let you move your body beyond the necessary when we want to get off with you on how you've let yourself go. Make you waddle around, try to sit or stand up without help and get that underworked heart throttling before letting you lay back into this life

My dark dream feedee isn't even human any more: she gave that up

She's just our good little girl

i have a medical phobia that’s somehow twisted itself into death feedism ngl. also, evil feeders. 😳

someone hellbent on keeping me as fat as possible for as long as they can—knowing what cocktail of drugs keeps my heart pumping, dumbing me down and keeping me pliant with edibles hidden in my food, waking me up every few hours for feedings and funnel sessions instead of letting me sleep so the weight piles on faster than it should..

somewhere deep down i know it’s not good for me. maybe my feeder tells me about all the health problems i have while the feeding tube is in my mouth and i can barely think, but i can’t focus on what they’re saying without getting overwhelmed. if i don’t remember later, it doesn’t really matter, right?

maybe occasionally i’d “come to my senses,” during a lull in the feedings. when my feeder is busy and away for a while, after i’ve made my way through a small mountain of snacks and the mini fridge (full of shakes laced with THC to keep me docile) is just out of reach. maybe i’d try to get up, only to collapse back down because my knee problems finally caught up to me and fuck, it hurts to even try to walk. maybe then i’d finally take a look at where i am, how i’ve given up my life for someone’s (and my own, let’s be real) sick pleasure.

i’d have to deal with that realization for a while. maybe i’d start to cry, unable to handle the reality. eventually, though, my feeder would come back. they’d find me in this state and console me, getting the funnel ready because they can hear my stomach rumbling and it’s been too long since i’ve eaten. they’ll coo into my ear about how it’s all okay, how i asked for this and it’s what we both want.

they’d give my belly a shake, grasping the lowest roll in their hands and enjoying the way it makes my entire body wobble. they’d press a kiss onto the vast expanse of fat above my belly button, an area they were so excited to see expand under their care. they’d struggle a bit to lift one of my tits, eager to see how my breath hitches at the thought of their mouth on me. these are all distractions. they’ve mastered this game of manipulation and there’s no way i’d be able to find my way out of their control. their touch, the food they offer me, even those moments when i’m not high or in a haze of fullness and pleasure, were meant to further ensnare me and ensure i’m theirs for as long as i live.

I’m thinking about a massively overfed partner struggling to roll over in bed, needing time and attention for every little thing because there is just nothing their ballooned body is made to do anymore other than eat.

They can no longer cum unless it's at the tail end of a multiple thousand calorie binge, being held in a threatening manner by their feeder, and being commanded to squeal like the dumb, pig-brained slut that they are gradually turning into over the past several months.

The same person will tell you they don't want to be immobile. They'll go on about how 500lbs is going to happen. It has to. It must feel amazing to be so big. They'll even see My 600lb Life and envy some of those setups. Oh to be that big...

But no, they don't want to be immobile. Right?

Their tumblr likes betray them. A spotless record on their blog posts. Just an obese girl who loves getting fatter! But the likes are a certain level deeper. Dark, aggressive feeders. Kidnapping fantasies. Locked in a room. Forced enabling. Conditioning someone to eat more. Vignettes of someone coming to grips with the fact they cannot walk. Every movement is a desperate shuffle to a nearby place to collapse onto.

Of course, just fantasies. As if that's something to be proud of. You'll gain to 600lbs but won't become immobile? How noble. The picture of self restraint.

This all coming from the same person who panics at the mention of going on a walk. You can't prove to me that you'd be able to reign it in for one day? One measly day? We'll park in front of your favorite restaurant and walk around the block. Will you cry because I don't let you have dinner here? Can you resist wanting to stuff yourself in public? Aren't you proud that you can walk? I thought these things mattered.

Or are you a pig. A cow. A weak-minded food addict.

I see through these lies. You hope and pray that telling yourself and others about not wanting to be immobile will make it feel true. A terrible fate that you aren't stumbling towards. As if eating 5,000+ calories a day and taking fewer than 20 steps at a time isn't going to catch up to you in a few years.

Yet you'll dance as close to the line as you can go. The mental gymnastics of suggesting that 600lbs isn't bad! It's those last 50lbs+ that would suddenly become less pleasurable.

You hope they become less pleasurable. Or is it the fear that they'll hit even harder? Knowing you're trapped. Unemployable. Months and years of restriction away from being able to live independently.

Gasping for breath from laying motionless. Whimpering from another mindless binge session. Having a feeder warning you that you are NOWHERE close to being big enough for their perverted desires. Terrified at the occasional realization that your body and increasing weight is entirely decided upon by someone else.

Unable to resist the way your feeder makes you cum. Will it look especially pathetic to orgasm at that size? Your body twitching and jiggling in pleasure, too overloaded with fat and weight to properly shake and cum like you did hundreds of pounds ago.

Once everyone leaves, and it's just the two of them, of course there will be some frustration from the feedee. "What the hell was that?!", "How could you do that to me?!", etc., etc. But then there's a knock at the door. Just outside are several bags of takeout. So soon after everyone left, the feeder had to have ordered it during the intervention. The feedee turns, and the feeder is right there, taking the feedee's love handles and pulling them close.

i have a medical phobia that’s somehow twisted itself into death feedism ngl. also, evil feeders. 😳

someone hellbent on keeping me as fat as possible for as long as they can—knowing what cocktail of drugs keeps my heart pumping, dumbing me down and keeping me pliant with edibles hidden in my food, waking me up every few hours for feedings and funnel sessions instead of letting me sleep so the weight piles on faster than it should..

somewhere deep down i know it’s not good for me. maybe my feeder tells me about all the health problems i have while the feeding tube is in my mouth and i can barely think, but i can’t focus on what they’re saying without getting overwhelmed. if i don’t remember later, it doesn’t really matter, right?

maybe occasionally i’d “come to my senses,” during a lull in the feedings. when my feeder is busy and away for a while, after i’ve made my way through a small mountain of snacks and the mini fridge (full of shakes laced with THC to keep me docile) is just out of reach. maybe i’d try to get up, only to collapse back down because my knee problems finally caught up to me and fuck, it hurts to even try to walk. maybe then i’d finally take a look at where i am, how i’ve given up my life for someone’s (and my own, let’s be real) sick pleasure.

i’d have to deal with that realization for a while. maybe i’d start to cry, unable to handle the reality. eventually, though, my feeder would come back. they’d find me in this state and console me, getting the funnel ready because they can hear my stomach rumbling and it’s been too long since i’ve eaten. they’ll coo into my ear about how it’s all okay, how i asked for this and it’s what we both want.

they’d give my belly a shake, grasping the lowest roll in their hands and enjoying the way it makes my entire body wobble. they’d press a kiss onto the vast expanse of fat above my belly button, an area they were so excited to see expand under their care. they’d struggle a bit to lift one of my tits, eager to see how my breath hitches at the thought of their mouth on me. these are all distractions. they’ve mastered this game of manipulation and there’s no way i’d be able to find my way out of their control. their touch, the food they offer me, even those moments when i’m not high or in a haze of fullness and pleasure, were meant to further ensnare me and ensure i’m theirs for as long as i live.