Yuki

50, 80, 100lbs fatter. No makeup. No discernible neck, buried under her fat face and bloated shoulders. She isn't just fatter, she has an entirely new identity. Unrecognizable.

Telling my friend that my feedee has been told, trained to not acknowledge anyone. She is methodically eating a burger. Slowly chewing. Mouth hanging open, huffing. She's clearly stuffed to her limit. All by design. No one should lay eyes on her unless she's glutted out. No one should speak to her. She's in Pig Camp, and right now she's meant to behave scarcely more humane than an animal, a pig.

I'll talk to my friend in the kitchen. They'll remark on the ways I've fattened my sweetheart. She's now the biggest feedee in our social group. I have her housebroken to a meticulous degree. So brainwashed that she doesn't have manners. A true elephant in the room.

The last time we all got together, it was so much fun. Board games, a few drinks, laughter, my feedee was impressively sharp and cute.

But I unraveled her. Stains on her shirt. A few crumbs decorating her vast, unthinkable cleavage. There's an emptiness in her look. It's unsettling to watch her take another large bite of her food while she stares ahead at nothing. Literally existing to eat.

She once begged me to be dominant, to satisfy that primal need to have a partner to please. The result has been morbid. Rather than fearing how easily manipulated she could be, she accepted how it made her feel. It felt right. It feels right to be bossed around. It feels right to have structure, clear instructions to eat. It hurt her soul to disappoint, and it made losing dignity easier if it meant a more direct focus on food.

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.

It's alarming! Booths are one thing, (even that came kinda quick...) Seating though? Chairs? How many other places are you too big for. Are you really the fatass who can't go in public because you're a bit too big for the world. You don't FEEL that big yet. You like to go places! You can't be shut out this soon.

And yet here's your feeder. Not a care in the world. Shushing you. Reassuring you. It's not so bad. Someone's getting plump. They are in denial. This is bad? Can we talk about this? Oh. They brought you cookies in bed. Maybe this can be discussed later. No. Wait.

Maybe you did hate going out to the restaurant. It was a hassle. Those aches and pains... they weren't so bad, but they won't be missed.

But. You might leave the house once a week. Always for that restaurant? Are we replacing it with anything? Is there any reason to leave home? Please? Promise we'll talk about this tomorrow?

I'll start by saying a lot of dark milestone moments tend to be mutual between a couple. Your ask was not that though, you asked what ME MYSELF ME would find most erotic. I'll try to answer from a pure feeder perspective.

I'm a dominant feeder, which means the biggest reward in any situation is when I ask and she does. Shifting her dependency onto me. Where it starts turning dark is when she keeps listening, over and over. It's a thrill. It feels like I'm getting away with something bad (to be truthful...a lot of what I want might be bad). And that is where things can go dark. I want to push it. How much can I get away with. What if she spends a week mostly entirely in bed? Every time she hints at maybe getting up, I suffocate that idea by bringing her food. There would be a point where I start getting off to how EASY it is to reduce someone's life to confinement in bed.

As far as tangible, recognizable milestones go...the first time I help bathe someone in the shower. Then the first time I help bathe someone in bed. It's a slippery slope.

I adore the idea of introducing a walker or wheelchair in the house. I like the idea of a feedee clinging onto those last moments of strength by using mobility aids to get to the bathroom or couch.

Obviously reaching 600lbs is a moment. At that point, there's no chance someone is going to reduce their eating or increase their activity without my help. Knowing I won't let that happen? Ha. Ha...haha....

I'm a BIG fan of certain time-duration milestones. Not leaving the house for a year is a big one. She's mine. I'm keeping her. This is our life to cherish together.

Document my gains, my habits, my diet, my personality. A journal to each category, photo collages and scrap books of every little milestone we find important. Measure me and take note of my stretch marks.

Draw on me and outline where you think the next few pounds of fat are going to end up at. Pinch and prod my body at your expense and even mention how it feels, the texture of it. Talk my ears off while you make me stand there on full display for your discerning eye. Not once caring how tired I get or how out of breath I am from having to stand on my own for so long

Make notes of when I manage to eat a bite or two more. How over the course of months and years that instead of bites, it’s evolved into plates and full dishes extra just to feed me. Explain my diet to me while you keep me down on all fours with my face in my dog bowl, sitting on my back and forcing me to hold you up. Patting my side when I’ve done good.

Keeping track of what foods turn me on more and coming up with meal courses serving to show my arousal rise with each bite, climaxing to me panting and grinding into my chair at the end of the dinner. Force desserts into me for the sake of consistent experiments, each meal has to end the same way no matter how full I am.

- 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

i’m also monitoring how much time she actually stays in bed. sometimes she falls asleep in the middle of the day from eating a lot and her hours in bed reach like 19 hours out of 24.

can’t wait for the day she’ll try to get up like she usually does and she’ll realize she can’t stand anymore for whatever reason: ankles or feet too swollen up from insulin and blood sugar, or maybe her articulations simply stopped supporting that much of a terminally obese hog.

i want to see the fear in her eyes. i want to hear her heart skip some beats because she thought she’d have more time before failing to stand from that point to the exact minute of her fattening and agonizing end. i want to hear her rasping breath trying to utter some worried words and i want to press the funnel to her lips and simply reassuring her that I’m gonna take care of all her needs without her having ever again to touch the floor with her soles.

i want to dry her tears while i stretch that big balloon stomach out with extremely caloric slop and to listen to her organs struggling to keep up with me and my plans for her.

i want her eyes to go cloudy from diabetic retinopathy, i want to blind her with so much sugar that she’ll not even understand what i’m feeding her. i want her little sausagy fingers to go numb with sugar, i want to put a nasogastric feeding tube into her intestines so that she’ll gain weight 24/7 without even me needing to move a finger for it. well, i’ll do it anyways… i mean, i’ll keep feeding her high calories fried junk while she is fed slop by the tube.

i don’t care if she suffers, she’s mine to do whatever i want with her. she’s my fattening pig, and i cherish her in the same way a farmer cherishes their prize-winning fattest hog.

she’s my pet, hell, even less than a pet sometimes, since i’d never do anything like this to my cat. she’s my first project and i love her so much that she has to expire exactly the way i programmed her to.

until then, i’ll simply keep reanimating her to fatten her up to my wishes.

she cannot die if i don’t allow her to.

I want them to measure me daily and track how big and how fast I’m growing but never letting me see the numbers until it’s too late.

Track my calories and limit my movement and make sure I’m hitting whatever minimum you set without telling me how much I’m actually putting away in a day.

Keep me high as a kite and remove all the mirrors so that I don’t recognize how fat I’ve gotten or how out of shape I am.

Replace my clothes in secret as I outgrow them so I don’t notice as they get snugger and my fat spills out of them.

Take candid photos and videos of me getting fatter and weaker as time goes on.

Limit how much I move by doing everything for me until I can’t stand up on my own and I feel my heart beat painfully against my ribs.

Good pig.

You're sweating already. Just from standing. I can see your thighs trembling, your breath whining out like a busted bellows. But this is important. Today’s your check-in. I want to see the numbers. I want to document just how far you’ve fallen.

Let’s start with the tape.

Arms up. No, higher — or as high as they go now, which is barely past nipple-height with all that lard weighing you down. I wrap the tape around your gut, burying it beneath the folds, pressing into the warm, stretched-out blubber until I hit resistance. There. I pull it tight. You flinch. The flesh squirms around it.

“Eighty-nine inches,” I read out loud, slow, amused. “That’s over seven feet of belly, pig.”

You blush. I see you blush — somewhere under the puffed cheeks and the fat-padded neck, a bit of shame still flickers. Good. You’re supposed to feel it. You're supposed to feel exactly how unnatural you are.

“You know the average waist size for a healthy adult?” I murmur in your ear. “Thirty-four inches. That means you’re almost triple. You’ve got more belly in one side roll than most people have on their entire body.” I pad your blubbery gut that's hanging in front of me.

Then I slide the tape lower. Around the hips now. More numbers. I take my time.

“Your thighs — forty-three inches. Each. That’s a full waistline just in your leg. And your upper arms? Bigger than most gym guys’ chests. And not an ounce of muscle to show for it.”

You shift, awkward, half-aroused and half-horrified. Your eyes lower. But your body betrays you — the way you tremble, the way your breath comes faster. You want this. You need this. The shame only makes it sweeter.

Now the scale.

I tug the leash. You grunt, stumbling forward. It takes effort to hoist all that mass. Your belly slaps against your knees with each tiny step. But eventually, you make it. I guide you onto the platform — steel, reinforced. You pant, drool threading from your lip.

And then the number appears.

“936 pounds.”

I smile.

“That’s nearly five of them. A whole family’s worth of meat stacked into one greedy, wheezing carcass. And you’re still gaining. Still swelling. Still pretending this is just some kink and not full-blown biological ruin.”

I lean down. Grip a love handle. Knead it. Soft. Hot. Leaking sweat. “They’d be in shock if they saw you, pig. Just a regular person, walking past the grocery store scale, and there you are — almost a thousand pounds of bloat and feeder’s pride, barely mobile, breathing like you’re being strangled by your own body.”

You shiver.

You’re turned on.

I can tell.

Because this is what you really want, isn’t it? To be broken down into numbers. Into stats. To have someone take stock of the damage and call it beautiful. Or disgusting. Or both.

I pull the tape measure off you with a snap. You flinch.

I tug the collar, lead you back to the mattress, let you collapse into your own overfed ruin.

“Next month, we’ll pass a thousand. And then we start comparing you to livestock weights.”

You don't answer.

You just moan.

If you're into death/dark feedism

I stg this is the roundest I’ve ever looked. My belly keeps growing I can’t believe it 😵‍💫🐽 I have to practically bend down to reach the bottom of my gut now

Can't show the rest of the video for NSFW purposes 🫣

From fit to fat

My best friend cannot find a bra.

She’s fat. We won’t get into the ~why~ here because it honestly wouldn’t matter whether it was “all her fault” or whether it was a result of outside forces like genes and such, she still deserves a goddamn fucking bra that fits.

And she cannot find a bra.

She’s short and fat, and Fat Bras are usually full cup, but because she’s short the full cups are usually too tall, or the armbands around them are too tall, to the point where what’ll fit around her chest and over her boobs will also dig up into her arms or have such high coverage that she literally cannot wear a shirt with a neckline high enough. Any bra that goes out enough goes too high.

This affects her ability to find clothing, impacting her ability to go outside sometimes, because she has this tiny selection of bras and she constantly has to wash them and when they’re gone she has no idea when she’ll next be able to find another unicorn bra. They appear in a flash usually in startups that die soon after, and COVID has killed most the small businesses remaining where she had even a hint of a chance of finding a fitting bra.

So she wears bras that don’t fit. Or she doesn’t leave the house. One gives her back pain. The other is, obviously, not very active. She likes to be active.

If she brings it up, people suggest breast reduction surgery.

But the thing is, with a good bra, she does not get back pain.

But if it’s that hard to find a good bra, they say, wouldn’t a reduction just be easier?

Wouldn’t it be easier for you to chop off part of your flesh, they say, then for us to cut fabric and underwire to more sizes? As if that is normal. As if that isn’t horrifying.

It’s not just bras. It’s chairs. It’s benches. It’s goddamn shoes. It’s seatbelts. It’s exercise equipment - I just got an exercise bike for Christmas. I had to shop around to find an affordable one that was also rated to take my level of fat. If I were 100 pounds heavier, which some people are? I don’t think any equipment would have existed in a price range that any working person could expect to afford. I don’t think most people even look at the weight ratings on chairs and couches and furniture. Once you start? They are lower than you think. There are absolutely 100% people you love in your life - whether really tall men or just average kinda overweight fat people - who should not be using the things they are using. Who are not getting support from their mattress, their footwear, their office chair. It might be you! You might be thinking “but I am average size!”, but the amount of furniture out there that’s only weighted to about 200lbs? Or 175??? It’s SO MUCH MORE THAN YOU REALIZE. Get into the Proper Fat? The 350lb, 400lb, 500lb fat? There’s virtually nothing.

Seatbelts are not tested for fat bodies and seatbelt extenders aren’t regulated.

We know about the problems with too small a blood pressure cuff. With too low a medicine dose. With no MRI a really fat body can fit in for a thousand miles.

We know, from multiple studies on multiple oppressed communities, that social bias by itself, with zero other compounding factors, can give people worse health outcomes.

Now add up

+ one of the social biases with the least pushback even from the educated liberal set with

+ having a world that is literally not made for you. Where you cannot get clothes, furniture, or transportation in a way that will actually accommodate you,

+ where society is constantly blaming you for this. And even if you somehow (and if you know how, please tell me) manage to retain some sense of self worth and optimism and determination despite all that

+ that’s not gonna magically give you access to the daily supplies a person needs in their home and out in public that’ll make living safe and healthy life literally physically possible.

If you’re really so concerned about fat people’s health start a bra company. If you’re really so concerned about fat people’s health mandate changes to seatbelt requirements. If you’re really so concerned about fat people’s health have a variety of chairs in your waiting room with at least some being properly Fat Rated. If you’re really so concerned about fat people’s health, make it easier for fat people to be active by making exercise equipment that fits them, swimwear that’ll actually stay on them, athletic shoes that can bear them. If you’re really so concerned about fat people’s health ask they be included in more medical trials. If you’re really so concerned about fat people’s health, promote fat visibility and fat people loving their bodies - because hating yourself has literally never been good for anyone’s health.

If you’re using “concern for health” as a shield to allow you to judge and criticize strangers, you don’t give a fuck about anyone’s health. You’re just an asshole who prefers a veneer of respectability when you bully people. You’re hateful and we can see right through you.