LanaPie

You’ve gotten so big so quickly I’m actually surprised you still have clothes that fit. Well, fit in the sense that it just barely covers what it’s supposed to in order for you to wear that outfit out in the world.

For not being able to tie them yourself you sure do love getting shoes with laces, it must be just so you can picture my on my knees in front of you I would say it’s so you can see me on my knees but you and I know you can’t see me past your boobs and belly anymore.

tomorrow you'll be in the hands of another feeder for two days and one night, dear, and you're all giddy about it.

didn't you notice that in the last 24 hours you barely made 10 steps, dear?

you have rolls and creases on your ankles, dear... you're so soft, so squishy, so heavy, so tired...

didn't you realize this is the last year you'll be barely mobile, dear?

you still think you're going to be able to waddle next year... dear, oh dear... i may have some news for you...

do you see those puffy feet of yours? ah, my bad... you can't look at them since a while, can you, dear?

well, my dear, let me tell you: the reason they ache so bad is that they are almost about to give up on supporting your lovely weight; and the only cure is to never use them again, dear.

i will share your gains with whoever i want, then... my dear caged piggy, precious and tender and fattened and fattened and fattened and fucked up...

oh, dear, look at you!

helpless, and defenseless, your eyes devoid from anything that isn't hunger and terror and arousal, powerless against my total control, and so, my dear...

...tell me more about what you're gonna eat tomorrow with this colleague of mine, dear. tell me more about what this feeder wants to stuff you with. tell me more about your gluttony and your greed.

You set your first weight goal at 250lbs, but upon reaching it you don’t feel satisfied. You see all the praise and attention other feedees receive for their sheer size. You feel an envy brewing. You must keep going.

Before you know it you surpass 300, then 450, then 600..

Uh oh! It looks like you’re ballooned up so huge that you can’t even sit up anymore without the weight of your enormous gut pinning you down.. You know this isn’t good for you, but the attention you’ve garnered online for your disgustingly obese body makes you feel soooooo good. What will you do?

You’re now 780lbs, there’s not much more you can do from this point on other than stuffing your face daily with your greasy, stubby hands.. continuously packing pounds on faster than ever before now that you’re immobile. It seems you’re for sure doomed to gluttony.

You’ve officially ruined your life for something you swore you could quit at any time. Your body is permanently damaged, even doctors tell you that you’re well beyond the point of no return.

Gluttony and lust have consumed you whole.

Was it worth it, piggy?

True, I try to be patient. I tell you that we can take it slow, that it's fine that you're easing into things. And I do mean it. Sometimes. For now.

But I am waiting for you to lose your sense of moderation. I am biding my time, maybe. Suggesting a little more here and there. Letting you dip your toes into darker fantasies. Watching you start to pay more attention to the extremes. Not mentioning the way you've slowly graduated from, "maybe a few extra pounds," to, "450 doesn't sound so big," to, "walking should be a spectator sport." You're still exploring the idea, and I won't push you.

I won't push you, but I won't stop you from going a little further, a little too far. Heavy cream will become gainer shakes. A little weed to help you keep eating here and there will expand into days of weed and evenings of pub crawls and appetite stimulants until the overlap between your drunken stumble and your overburdened waddle leaves you leaning on me. Until you're groaning in my passenger seat, rubbing your impossibly large gut and still whining at every fast food sign we pass until I finally - finally - agree to buy you one more evening snack.

I'll pretend not to notice when I come home to you beached in the same place I left you in the morning - you're allowed lazy days, after all. I'll make you dinner even while I listen to your shallow breathing and stifled belches because you're still trying to give me the impression that you have this under control. I'll clean up the wrappers, bags, cans and cups scattered around you. I won't remind you that I get a notification every time you order delivery through my app.

And you'll pretend that you can think about anything other than growing for me. You'll get up and go to work as though everything is normal. You'll blush each time you admit that you need new clothes, you'll hide the evidence of drive-thru trips on your way home, you'll make excuses for the thirty extra minutes you spent in a parking lot shoveling down dinner for three, swallowing a milkshake almost without pausing for breath. You'll tug at the hem of your shirt while I tell you how hungry you must be after a whole day without me. You'll eat another meal rather than admit to what you've done. Seconds, because you always agree to them now, and I'll be suspicious if you decline. You'll wonder how you're going to heave yourself up from the table, be relieved when I absentmindedly help you to the couch. You'll barely be settled before you start wondering about dessert. Not because you're hungry - you can't possibly be hungry at this point, you can't remember the last time your stomach rumbled with anything other than complaints about overwork. You'll ask for it because you need more. Always more. More food, more calories, more fat, more touch.

You groan, tired and helpless, pushing yourself upright with both hands while your belly sloshes around unpredictably — a completely separate entity from you. You’re already winded. We haven’t even started the day.

“Good morning fatass” I coo, leaning in to kiss your sweat-damp temple. “Enjoy being able to get out of bed while you still can. It shouldn’t be long now.”

You shoot me a look, half blushing, half flushed from the movement, and try to get to your feet. The swaying of your body with the slightest movement is unavoidable now. You don’t walk at all; you waddle. You don’t step; you haul. All that lard packed tight onto your thighs, slapping and jostling against itself, belly dragging you downward like an anchor of pure fat.

I trail behind you as you lumber toward the bathroom, and I can’t stop smiling. The way every inch of you bounces and sways. The slow, rhythmic harmony of your belly chafing on your thighs and the floorboards creaking is hypnotic. And when you finally pull yourself into the shower and plop down onto the shower chair, you let out a huff that can only be interpreted as a sigh of relief. Because we both know you barely made it. 

When you come out, you use your gut to ground the towel in place around your waist, and you sit on the edge of the toilet. I hand you your socks and wait. Watch. You try to lift your leg to cross your ankle over your knee, but your belly presses up into your chest. You have to lean back to breathe multiple times, and I can’t hide the fact that your immense struggle at the simple task of putting on socks is making me squirm with pleasure. You roll them half on and you’re left red-faced and gasping. I can see the sweat pooling at your collarbone.

“You ever think about how permanent this is?” I say as I pinch a lump of your triple chin between my fingers. “How this isn’t weight you can ever lose? It’s your whole life now. You’re never getting smaller. There’s no ‘bouncing back.’ Your body is ruined, baby. Completely useless except to me. And all because you're such a hopeless, impotent glutton.

Just in case anybody ever has a question whether or not I am the fuckin GOAT 👅👑💖

By five years into the relationship, you’re a stupid housetrained pig. You cant remember the last time you had to do something yourself - any food you want is made for you and delivered directly to your greasy, expecting mouth. Who cares about whats going on in the outside world? You haven’t been outside in weeks - its much easier to focus on the vibrator between your thighs, on the rush of serotonin you get every time you stuff your face, knowing how happy it makes your partner. Its impossible to remember how to drive, how to hold down a job, how to even stand up without someone else’s help. You’re completely defense less, dependant on someone else for everything in your life. You’re so fat, even moving your toes or hands is too much effort. Who could be expected to perform any task when you’re this close to immobility? You dont need to worry about anything, you’re a pig - pigs don’t think, they only guzzle down more and more, moving as little as possible. Independence is a prison - you’ve been transformed into a play thing controlled on strings by the partner who controls everything about you. Your surroundings, your body, your food, your thoughts (fewer and fewer by the day), your mind.

A ball of lard, stupider every time you swallow, forced to beg for food from the only person you’ll ever see again, freed by your obesity from real life.