mica

i want you bigger. lazier.

i want you hungrier. i want you going to bed each night stuffed, and waking up each morning a little softer and puffier than the day before. shirts fitting tighter, pants becoming harder to button.

i want you desperate. constantly craving, constantly thinking about eating and getting fatter. when you’re not eating, i want you thinking, fantasizing about it.

and when you do eat, i want you giving in to it completely. mindlessly swallowing thousands of calories, moaning as you eat. oinking when you’re finished. i want you losing track of yourself, focused solely on the taste of the food and the feeling of your gut filling up until it aches.

so helpless and pig-brained that it’s all you think about. all you desire. and maybe you’re dimly aware of the fact that you can’t stop. maybe part of you knows that your level of addiction is unhealthy, and that every stuffing just feeds into it more and more. that every time you get turned on by stuffing yourself, or by playing with your fat, or even just by observing the changes to your body as you gain, you push yourself deeper and deeper down the path of no return.

but any concern or self-awareness is far overshadowed by the pure pleasure you’re chasing. the pleasure of being overstuffed to the point of discomfort, of waking up bigger the next day. tighter clothes, and the feeling of soft fat as it clings your body. all of it just feels too good. you can’t help yourself. you can’t stop, and you don’t want to (though you and i both know that wanting to wouldn’t change anything).

i want your gluttony to consume you until it dictates every choice you make. i want you huge. hopelessly addicted. make yourself a symbol of gluttony, a cautionary tale to ordinary members of society.

Is that just me? Do I want to be face first into this metal silo cut open just to feed me enough to keep me quiet?

Being comfortably full is not their goal, satisfying their own hunger is barely anything, they need to feel stuffed to the brim. I mean whining and groaning, short breaths leaving their lips and their belly sticking out from all the food they've eaten.

It's the need they have to eat until they feel they're about to burst and barely able to stand up on their own. It's the unrestricted gluttony, not just overeating because something tastes that good, but rather eating with the intention of getting temporarily immobile from all the food they managed to cram inside their belly.

I daydream about this all the time. Having a partner who wants nothing more than to see my weight increase week by week. I want you to make me fat and then tell me how my clothes are getting tight on me. I want to feel like someone’s trophy.

I want you to take me to a buffet and let me eat until I don’t want to get up anymore and then you start getting plates for me even if I say I’m full.

I want to go on a two week cruise with you and see what damage it does to my waistline. I want to take pics with you while you have your hand resting on my belly.

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. 🐷💦🍰