Little Whale Grows

You know like running. Tying your shoes. Getting off the couch with ease.

Just wait until you can’t buy clothes from your favorite store. Or fit into booths at restaurants.

Outgrow your entire wardrobe.

Be too big for theme park rides.

For one plane seat.

For your small car.

Just wait until you break your first scale piggy.

What’s crazy is no one will suspect my fit self for doing it to you.

They’ll think you’re just a pig with no self control.

But that’s what you are now.

I wanna hear you complain breathlessly about flights of stairs, how frustrating it is to simply move around in comparison to before. You never had to think about the seating in a restaurant or the belts on a plane. You didn't realise you were gaining until your usual jeans stopped at your thighs and now you're worried your 'fat clothes' are edging retirement.

There's something specifically thrilling about the excited concerns. You're worried how you've kept it up for so long. You complain that you're hungry when you're eating and when there's food put in front of you, there's no chance of you holding back. You're concerned how much you've changed.

Tell me about how you never thought you'd get this bad, how you couldn't even imagine having the thoughts you do now. You were so careful before and you're not exactly careless now but all you can be is aware that this is going to get worse. You'll reach another goal. You've told yourself that you're taking it easy but all of a sudden, it's like you've blinked and you're heavier.

So you’ll justify it to your weakened conscious, after all why should you care about being too big of a stuffed blob to move at all? The food tastes good and it's never ending, so is it really so wrong to drown in your own fat considering you lost your willpower long ago? You'll give up trying to justify it to yourself because it's too hard and you know it doesn’t matter anyway; you've started to feel like thinking is an exercise itself, so it's better to just keep eating and focus on how good the food tastes. You do know there was a point in time when you could still move, when being too big scared you, and when your stuffings were grounded in reason. Part of you wishes you could go back, if only to experience your spiraling corruption again~ You squeeze your thighs together, feeling a building heat, it felt like it happened too fast even though it was a slow trickle to change you. You let me lace each moment with a little more lust, a little more encouragement, and a little less concern for your limits. By the time you realized how bad it was getting, you were already a slave to your own appetite, a tangible craving for more in the shape of a blob who couldn't help but get off to her own ruin while she got enabled even fatter.

Yes, just put it on. No, it doesn't mean you're allowed to walk more, I just want to make sure you aren't sneaking any extra steps behind my back. You know I said to just ask and I’ll bring you more food… we want you off your feet as much as possible piggy. And yes, I know the wristband is biting into your soft, spoiled wrist, but we'll only buy a bigger one when you've officially outgrown this one and earn it. You wanted to act like an overfed farm pet after all, so now I'm going to monitor you like one. You're going to learn to get off on the data proving your only future is buried under lard with an open mouth and an overfilled gut. For now, let's keep those steps nice and low, okay? I'd hate to see your numbers getting any higher on that Fitbit or I'll have no choice but to make sure you're incapable of walking at all~

And with that new calorie tracking app, you're logging every single bite, right? That number lets me know if you've been behaving, if you've been grazing exactly the way a good piggy should. I know the app was built for dieting, but you're already such a depraved, rewired thing… what's stopping you from warping its purpose to make yourself even worse? Remember, the more warnings and tips for "getting back on track" the app throws at you, the better you're doing and the more heavy, calorie soaked treats you'll get in return. We both know you've lost the ability to stop anyway, so you might as well shoot for a new record every week. Soon I’m going to train you to scroll through your charts while you eat and get off if you haven’t already conditioned yourself. You’re going to go dumb imagining higher numbers, unhealthier metrics, more tips for losing weight popping up in your notifications while you get out of breath just from raising each bite to your lips. All while you realize just how much of your fitness you've already traded for a chemical sugar high and a body that can’t do anything but grow and inhale more pleasure~

(clothes replaced before you realize you’re outgrowing them, an assisted but natural decline to laziness, praise and constant food, maybe some denial, your weight gain was meant to happen and your mind is empty. docile)

vs

devolution into morbid obesity milked for all it’s worth—being told exactly how fat you are, how fat you will become, struggle is pleasure.

Even better if I tape a vibe to the underside of your doughy, hanging gut so that the moment your belly drops, the weight of your own spiraling gluttony presses the vibration exactly where you want it. It’s only fair that you’ve been denied any kind of release and kept on the edge of a desperate, leaking ruin until you cleared every ounce of the batter, and now you’re forced to feel your own fat being the very thing that finally pushes you over the edge. You’d be desperate to eat so much more, to make your belly so much heavier… shortening the time it takes me to let it go and plop it down on your widening lap, making the vibe press down harder where you need it most. We want you shaking and whining, trapped between the physical agony of being overstuffed and the intense, dirty pleasure of your own body being the cause of your frustration and used as a tool for your release~

Imagine how much fatter and needier you’re going to be once you’re fully trained to finish whatever’s in front of you or being shoveled into your mouth before you’re ever allowed to think about cumming. You’d be nothing but a mindless, overfed breeding cow, living in a constant state of high calorie haze and edged sexual desperation. I’d make sure your brain is so rewired that you start to associate the feeling of your belly stretching and your stomach groaning with the only pleasure you’re allowed to have.

Tying you up for a stuffing facing a TV playing one of those documentaries on the death of self control and the obesity ‘crisis’ while I funnel more grease into your waiting mouth. Watching your eyes glaze over, but forcing you to focus on the TV so you can realize you've become the very thing the world's supposed to be ashamed of. Making sure you understand that you're the splitting image of the gluttony movement now, a girl who's traded her autonomy for a triple digit BMI and a life of total, sedentary bliss. Reminding you that whether you like it or not, you’re just another statistic for a wave of submission to grease, oil, and processed junk food. Laughing while you struggle to move, to even attempt to protest what you are before going back to getting off on the fact that you really are just a statistic, a greedy little cow who's being fed to see exactly how much lard her body can pile on before she's finally too big to ever leave this room.

Taking over for you when you’re too over-exerted just from feeding yourself, and continuing to help you swallow while footage of massive, blob-sized cows flashes on the screen. Forcing you past capacity (because trust me I know your real max-capacity) while dieticians and experts explain exactly how I've trapped you, how I've rewired your brain to crave your own expansion from the constant salt, sugar, and grease I’ve drowned your appetite with. The irony of using their warnings for the ways obesity claims people as proven methods to fatten you until your own lust drags you further down into it. If only they knew the land whale watching their PSA was squirming in her chair, pressing her big, pillowy thighs together at the idea of being a helpless, swollen, gluttonous anomaly.

You never could've guessed that agreeing to our little deal would lead to anything, that it would change everything’s. I mean who knew letting me take absolute control over your appetite and your waistline for a single week would spiral so deliciously out of control. Something so harmless, starting as a sort of game, a temporary surrender to my greed… but now look at you. I've watched it spill over into your every day life until it's completely overwhelmed everything you used to be. Now I watch any independence you could possibly still have be converted into lard on your body, and mindless whimpering for more food. Now I call you a good pathetic piggy while I enable you, savoring the way the ‘experiment’ never truly ended for you, the way the rest of your life is being turned into a permanent vacation from any sort of restraint or fitness. The gluttony followed you home like a fever, infecting your routine until every waking thought's been replaced by the desperate, wet need to be filled. You thought you were just playing at being my pet for a week, but now you're realizing that you've let me boil your entire existence down to craving the weight of your own ruin. Now there’s no point to leashing you, if you can even still move under all that blubber, then your addiction to food will keep you leashed and docile at the table~

And leashed you are, even when you muster up the energy and willpower to move, I can feel the damage I’ve done to you from the next room just by feeling the floor shift and creek. And all I see when I peak my head into the hallway as you rarely waddle through our house now, a soft and heavy blob who's completely replaced the girl I left with. Besides, once I started upping your stuffings and reducing the times between them, the sheer mass of your gut started keeping you pinned down where you sat anyway. Sometimes I’m tempted to help you up and make you waddle to the fridge on your own just to taste the dark, corruptive high in seeing you struggle with the most basic movements, your breath hitching and your thighs shivering with every labored step you take toward the kitchen. That scared you at first too, especially when you finished the first week out of breath from everything… it wasn’t long before I found out you had less time to focus on your heavy breathing if you were kept busy chewing. And it’s done wonders for you, you’re so much more than just out of shape now~ you're a masterpiece of sedentary failure, a girl whose only function's to process the thousands of calories I'm constantly funneling into her while she gets off on seeing the empty takeout bags piling up around here. You used to be embarrassed, but now you get wet from seeing me laugh as I watch you try to make sense of it all. The absurdity of you comparing your old life with the massive, doughy, docile reality of your new body, knowing that the girl who cared about anything but her next feeding is officially a ghost and buried under layers of lard.

Now, you’ve become a complete monster for the calories, and you’re the one dragging me down into the grease with you. I know you get weak every time when we’re out to dinner with your friends or family, and the second we walk out the door, you’re looking up at me with those wide, glazed, completely shameless eyes, begging to hit a drive-thru on the way home because a normal meal doesn't even register to your stomach anymore. Each time making sure you say it loud enough that the group we’re with, hears you. You love waddling away to the car with me as they make their snide remarks and comments, almost in disbelief at how you’re so shamelessly fat and still desperate to get even fatter. And now you’ve gotten so heavy, lazy, and slow that you don’t even bother getting up to feed your own cravings. Instead, you just lie there, whining and begging me around to fetch your snacks, or whimpering that your bloated, stretched out belly hurts until I come over to undo your straining pants for you and give you heavy, deep belly rubs. I can tell the way you bite your lip when we’re in public that you’re just counting down the seconds until you whine and whimper at me to touch your overstuffed, tight belly so I can massage it while you eat, moaning through the mouthfuls from how stuffed you are as if you didn’t do it to yourself. And god I love that smug look you give me knowing that you’ll get your way each time because I know it’s always easier to give into your desperate pleas than to see whatever depraved piggy public commotion you’ll make otherwise.

i was trying on a bathing suit bottom with these cute strings to tie on the side, and i just. couldn’t for the life of me remember how to tie them? and it got me thinking—i haven’t worn shoes i had to tie in well over a year.

i could barely reach with both hands to make the knot—my tits were in the way, my belly filled the space i had to reach over… i got exhausted just trying to reach

i wear things that’re easy to get on and easy to get off. i can’t bend over too well because my belly is in the way. it’s starting to hang so, so low.. and i can’t even reach my feet anymore—if i tried to paint my nails it would be exhausting, i’d be out of breath in seconds

it makes me wonder what’s next. will i forget the little trick i use to get bras on? will i forget how to hoist myself up off the floor sometime in the next 100 pounds?

and then, when i finally get to those “too big to live alone without a caretaker” sizes, what will be next?

clumsy, fat fingers unable to button up shirts. the same overly softened hands struggling to hold a fork, eating without utensils is just so much easier.. can’t reach around my belly enough to button any pants, either, it’ll have been years (and hundreds of pounds of lard) since i could even see what i’m doing, anyways

You’re surprised, but decide to go with it, enjoying the luscious meals they cook for you, the delicious treats they bring you. Before you know it, your belly is stretching out your shirts and you’ve switched to sweatpants because you’ve outgrown your jeans. Your partner can’t keep their hands off you, constantly playing with your belly and telling you how great you look. You graduate from a belly to a potbelly to what looks like a beer gut.

That’s your cue to disregard my feelings. No more praise, no more encouragement, make it known that you are in charge of me.

I don’t control what happens with my body, you do. You decide how big I get, and you decide when I stop.

Humiliate me. Embarrass me. Flaunt your sleek, toned body to make me understand that I could never turn things around. Get it through my thick skull that there’s no going back to thin for me anymore.

Make me feel like such a useless tub of jiggling lard that any attempt at exercise would only be met with mockery. “Look at that fatty on the treadmill, even their double chin is bouncing”.

And if none of that works, if I keep insisting, then you just take me by force.

Tie me to the bed and lock me in my room, take away my mobility until you can feed me and feed me and feed me into a big ball of shame and blubber. Make me so fat and embarrassed of myself that I’ll never want to show my face outside again.