I canβt stop thinking about it anymore.
I want it so fucking bad. I need a feeder who doesnβt give a shit about limits, who sees how pathetic and greedy I already am and justβ¦ 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 Iβve surrendered.
I want to feel the tube shoved down my throat when my jaw gets too tired, thick calorie sludge pumping straight into me 24/7βshakes 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 Iβm never empty. Ever. Just constantly bloated, aching, leaking, my heart hammering against layers of fat like itβs 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 feederβs hands sinking wrist-deep into my sides while they whisper how much prettier Iβll be when Iβm closer to the edge, when every breath is a struggle, when my body is finally giving up exactly like I begged it to.
Iβm already ruined for anything else. Normal life? Gone. Thin? Laughable. I donβt want escape. I want to sink deeper. I want to be their perfect, disgusting, dying pigβswollen, 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 canβt come back.
Make me so fat I stop breathing under my own weight.
Iβm begging for it. Iβm dripping just typing this.
Iβm not leaving this path. Iβm already too far gone. π·π¦π°
