BecauseSizeMatters

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?

my boyfriends have all been close to 450-500lbs, but I want you to push yourself to MY husband territory. I want specially tailored clothes for you so you can grow comfortably. I want to watch you with a reinforced cane and walker shuffle slowly around the house, struggling the few feet to carry your weight. I want to sit on the arm of your oversized recliner and curl into you as best as I could fit, kissing and your double chin that used to be a neck and rubbing your growing belly that’s down to your knees, telling you how perfect you are. How massive you are.

i want to sit in front of you kneeling and massage your aching, swollen legs that are cascading layers of fat. I want to barely se your face with your gut in the way.

when you lay down to take a nap I want to perfectly position your legs and belly so I can map out the soft cave of rolls and suck on your fat pad. Expose your hidden cock. I want you to feel me in the depths of you. Exploring you. Savoring you.

People will think our lives have changed, they may think our life has grown harder because of your weight gain. They can’t help but stare and think my god, what are they going to do?

There’s nothing more emasculating than when your cock is buried under fat. Especially when your wife is responsible for it and doesn’t hesitate to remind you.

I thought it would have been the last thing she wanted. I can’t fuck her anymore. Even when she’s on stop. My cock is almost completely submerged. “Burying your dick under your own fat is better than sex” My wife said this to me last night. Then she grabbed my massive tits and said, “Poor guy, I’ve completely emasculated you.”

I think it’s the sadist in her. Turning my own fat into bondage. My fat pad into a cock cage. She loves when I waddle naked in front of her. How out of breath I get. How all my fat slaps together.

I know you already ate yourself to over 320 lbs, but you know I will always want you fatter. If it wasn’t for me wanting to parade you around outside, I wouldn’t care, I‘d greatly enjoy stuffing your unrecognisably swollen face at double your current weight. I‘d get off on your belly hanging to your knees, if you could still stand up then. I would find it hot if you couldn’t.

Just a massive blob, impatiently waiting for me in his reinforced bed for his third feeding of the day - your second breakfast after your wake up funneling and of course, first breakfast. You‘d shift your lard around to show me your jiggles, you know how much I love it. You can’t do much more than make these hypnotic lard roll waves and wiggle your weak doughy arms a bit to show me how excited you are to be fed again. It’s all your favourites in one meal again, it’s greasy, salty and then a lot of sugar and I‘ll dotingly place every bite in your mouth as you struggle to breathe in between bites.

Be a good boy for me. A good fat boy, letting me fatten him into this bed and never out of it again. You’re the prettiest thing when you’re panting and sweating at the end of another feeding session and still ask me if there will be another cake today. Every day honey. You don’t have to ask me to dig out your buried cock from inside your fleshy fupa. You know I‘ll take care of it towards the end of each feeding.

When I‘m at work, I‘ll set you up with an extra snack table right next to you containing four meals worth of calories for a normal person, a litre of shake and a crate of sodas. I‘ll turn on the toy I placed between your legs, gently vibrating and massaging your fat pad for these hours I can’t be there. The camera is always on. I‘ll see you try to rock your hips to feel the toy more but the only way to achieve that is by stuffing your body tighter so it swells up again. I‘ll turn up the sound when I see that on film, hearing you whimper and groan while you keep obediently stuffing your pretty face.

I want to find you bloated and desperate when I come home. When my day was stressful, I‘ll immediately shove some burgers or doughnuts in your mouth that I got on the way home. I know you’re full, but you will wiggle your immobile blob body enthusiastically while I push more food into your packed stomach and moan softly in relief. The bed creaks and I kiss you to taste the sugar in your mouth from your long snacking shift. This is all you know now, you don’t know how else to be or what else to feel. You just want to be my perfectly spoiled obese toy, you want to make both of us happy and get excited every time I let you know how much I want you. I want you when you continuously prove that you will eat for me the rest of your life. It’s so romantic. Nobody has ever done this for me.

You‘ve been in a horny haze since you reached the mythical 200 kg, 440 lbs. That was the last time you knew your weight. I‘ve withheld that information from then on. I keep telling you I need just ten more pounds from you. It’s been two years of ten more pounds always. You can only waddle a few steps very slowly, it’s more like you holding on to something around you and then carefully dropping from one foot onto the other. I adore your fat thighs pinning your widening arse to the sofa or the bed most days.

Here it is again side by side

Pretend you're not into being fat and indulging your appetite.

But you wanted a feeder. So, what did you expect?

I'm like a vampire: once you open your door to me... you're cursed. I'm going to be there, cooking for you, ordering for you, feeding you, stuffing you.

You can pretend all you want. But YOU opened the door, big boy.

You chose the right feeder. You sit on your recliner with your belly filling up your lap. You're huge to begin with... it just means we have more time to turn you into an amorphous blob of obesity.

You say you're hungry and want to order food. This is where I come in. I insist that we have food at home; we're not going to waste money. I prepare everything we have, and you eat. Once there is food in front of you, you can't stop. Even if you don't feel hungry... if it's there, you need to treasure the taste, succumb to all the positive sensations.

It doesn't take long for you to finish. You burp, proving to me that you're full.

Here comes the next step. I haven't eaten. I don't eat much, but I still need something. And, uh oh, you've eaten everything in the house. It looks like we're going to have to get a delivery order anyway.

I start ordering food. I could have done this when you first asked, but if I did, then... how would I get you to clean out the food already in the house?

I add things you love to the cart. We pretend I'm just getting food for me. But you know I can't eat all of it. You also know I'm ordering your favorites.

Once it's delivered. I have a couple bites, then there's the excuse of, "Oh, this won't reheat well. You should finish it so it doesn't go to waste."

And 100% of the time, you do exactly as you're told.

You can pretend all you want. But your actions tell me that you're a desperate feedee... constantly craving calories.

BoBerry takes such HUGE bites, I struggled to keep up with her! 🥵 We ate a whole cake together for our birthdays!

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