Feedee pig 🐖 ♥️

Obviously I’m interested

The results of a weekend getting my limits pushed by @overstuffd 🖤

In 24 hours, they fed me home cooked meals, greasy take out and sososo many treats in between, including my first proper gainer shake

The numbers: 9500 calories stuffed into this big belly Waist 38 > 40 inches Weight 176 > 182lbs

'Exercise' after a snack

Just my little snack break before lunch

Eat. Goon. Edge. Repeat.

It really is that simple for a useless, pathetic pig like you, isn’t it? Eat. Goon. Edge. Repeat. That’s your entire fucking existence now, you brainless slob. There’s no need for that worthless, empty head of yours to think anymore—only real people get to do that. You gave up that right the moment you surrendered your boring, pathetic old life to become my property. My fat, greedy pet. My drooling fuck toy. Or maybe “human garbage disposal” is more accurate at this point, because that’s all you’re good for, piggy.

You just lie there like the disgusting blob you’ve become, mouth open, triple chins quivering, waiting for whatever nasty slop I decide to shove down your throat. The greasiest, fattiest trash I can find—piles of sugary, sticky slop dripping in syrup and cream, cold fast-food leftovers that have been sitting out for days, half-rotten and congealed. You don’t even taste it anymore, do you, you pathetic hog? No. You just unhinge that sloppy, greedy mouth and swallow it all down like the mindless vacuum you are. Every bite pushes you deeper into your own ruin, and you fucking love it.

While you stuff your face, you keep that VR headset strapped on tight, eyes glued to the filthiest, most depraved porn I pick just for you—nothing but endless hours of extreme degradation, goon fuel that melts whatever’s left of your brain. You don’t do anything else, do you, piggy? When was the last time you could even move without huffing and puffing like a broken animal? When was the last time you formed a single coherent thought? That dumb, vacant, drooling face says everything. You can’t even speak properly anymore—you just grunt and moan like a stupid, overfed animal in heat, leaking and throbbing uselessly.

Eat. Goon. Edge. Repeat.

Your body is falling apart exactly how I want it. Type 2 diabetes turning you into a bloated, sluggish mess. Cholesterol so high your veins are practically clogging with the filth I feed you. Blood pressure so dangerously elevated it feels like your heart is one greasy meal away from exploding. Your organs are starting to fail, one by one—liver, kidneys, everything straining under the weight of your endless gluttony. How fucking pathetic. Look at you, ruining yourself for my amusement.

But don’t worry, my disgusting little pig. Even with the clock ticking on that worthless life of yours, I’m still going to use you for my pleasure. I’ll keep pumping you full of calories, keep you gooning and edging for hours until your broken mind leaks out your pathetic cock, keep you grunting and begging with those desperate, piggy sounds. You exist for my entertainment now. No escape. No thoughts. No purpose except to eat, swell, throb, and obey.

Eat. Goon. Edge. Repeat.

My dear pig, for years without even realizing it, your appetite grew little by little. You went from barely being able to finish a small meal from a fast-food chain to having to order two triple meals with extra sides just to feel relatively satisfied; from not being able to finish a canned soda to drinking a two-liter bottle with every meal; from eating a bowl of cereal and a small portion of fruit for breakfast to eating half a dozen eggs, bacon, and six donuts as your first breakfast—giving me the excuse that breakfast is the first meal of the day and that you need that energy to face your day.

Without realizing it, your mobility decreased and your food intake increased. You might believe this was your decision, that it was mere coincidence, but deep down you know that's not true. You know very well deep down that you wouldn't have reached this pitiful state on your own: going from being a valuable member of society to nothing more than a greasy, sweaty, fat mass that can barely move its fingers.

Your angry glare hides something else, I know it. I know that look disappears when the scent of the fried food and greasy meals I prepare floods the room with its delicious aroma—that intoxicating scent that makes you drool like the dumb, gluttonous pig you are. The only difference between a real pig and you is that the other one would end up on a plate and serve a purpose, whereas you will end up spending your life for my enjoyment. I would love to taste your greasy meat, to see how much bacon would come out of that massive belly, but I know that society—and more importantly, my guilt—wouldn't allow me to.

Calm down, pig. This bed, which at some point was ours, is now your personal feedlot. Don't worry, I won't stop fattening you up with the most delicious meals. It excites me to know how far your body will go, just how big you can get, my precious pig, my favorite pet, my personal pig to fatten up. Anyway, it's no time to fantasize; it's getting late and it's time to bring you your morning food, before it's time to order your lunch.

It started off so harmless, didn’t it? I’m sure you can still grasp onto the memory of that gushing, warm excitement of dropping the act of normality with me, falling for every sweet word I carefully selected to keep you hooked. There really was an intoxicating thrill in watching your naïve submission to all those dormant desires you kept hidden for years, lovingly enabling and encouraging you to indulge in them for me. I mean, I truly seemed so harmless.

You were far too entranced with desperately earning my attention to realise how slowly I’d been guiding you to your demise, anyways. The extremities of it seemed like such a distant sexual fantasy for you, of course I’d never actually do all of those things you’d begged for in a lustful haze, right? It was all sweet talk at the start, utterly harmless. Plus, you’d do absolutely anything to keep me interested in you, I’d been so addictively obsessive and adoring, how couldn’t you? You were so easy to gain access to, so vulnerable and intensely drawn to the attractive future I’d sincerely promised you as I’d pressed another spoonful past your lips and stroked your increasingly swollen cheek.

I’d gained so much control over your pathetic little mind I had you blissfully ignorant to my sinister, true intentions far beyond playful indulgence and temporary fantasies. You didn’t question me when I’d revoked your contact with your friends, dismissing it as my jealousy, drowning in my superficial admiration and slowly growing control. You’d desperately humiliate yourself to please me, to earn my touch, you foolishly let your future and body slowly slip into my hands all for the irresistible approval I’d give you every time. Swallowing your doubts, you’d looked straight past the occasional freudian slip where I’d get a little too excited, a little too rough with you. I was still harmless in your eyes, what’s the worst I could do? You didn’t really think I’d feed you to death, after all. I seemed too loving, almost too genuine, especially as you grew softer and more docile for me.

It’s a shame I couldn’t hold onto the act for longer, pig. I simply couldn’t bear the nauseating romance I’d fabricated to gain your trust, and your life, for any longer. You’d so willingly let me pour the sedatives down your gullet, so clouded with unconditional adoration towards me.

Harmless, right?

That bewildered, transfixed look on your face was precious as you felt yourself grow heavy, your senses dulled and excruciatingly numb as I gently caressed your clammy forehead and whispered all the sick things I’d do to you, now that you were completely mine to take. God, I loved your inhumane squeals and horrified, hysterical crying that carried on until your voice broke, your throat torn up and raw after all that screaming, all in vain, of course. I understand, it must’ve been so incredibly distressing to not feel anything from the neck down, to discover nothing but bloodied, tightly bandaged stumps instead of your useless little hands. It’s so sweet how unsuspecting you were, and now there you lay, spinal cord snapped, half mutilated, absolutely mine. A limp, useless pig to be force fed and slaughtered, choking on the laced slop crammed down your gullet, and on your pitiful tears. I never liked empty promises in moments of desperation; I took them far too literally, and here you are now, facing the laughable consequences of your own weakness, so easily taken advantage of.

I’ve had a lot of fun with your disgusting body since, my little project pig. Don’t you just adore the sickening snout I’ve carved into that pretty face of yours, now truly piggish and permanently swollen to obscure your features? I’m sure you love all the adorable insults I’ve carved deep into your ripe lard as a persistent reminder of your pathetic status, though sometimes you seem a little ungrateful for all the hard work I’ve put into building you into my engorged, feeble fuck toy. Though I’ve taken care of your persistent squealing, you still occasionally seem desperate to use human words, unsuccessfully however, with those unfortunately severed vocal cords of yours. Your ankles are all gruesomely crushed up, left to heal far too wrong to ever allow you to drag your obscene pig carcass away from my care, an extra measure aside from your orchestrated paralysis that’s left your muscles agonisingly atrophied and plainly useless. I no longer have to pretend I ever saw you as anything but a fresh piece of bloated flesh to play with, a shameful animal to lay my perverted touch on and release my frustrations upon. I’ll have so much fun with you, my experiment. It’s not like you could ever say no to me, can you, pig? You can’t stop me from playing with your oxygen for fun as you feebly try to gulp down air. You can’t object to me slipping down a stream of sugar down your throat until your blood almost crystallises, you’ll never have the power to stop me from injecting your veins with my new formulations, or from wearing out your strained pig heart I’ll have to jolt alive with a defibrillator. But I’m so harmless, aren’t I? I’m only doing this because you wanted it, after all, piggy.

"It's not smart to get bigger than this right? Just walking down the stairs and out onto our drive leaves me winded and wheezing...I can barely reach my fatpad anymore, let alone my clit...gorging this much is starting to hurt my chest...I can't let myself grow any more, surely?"

No matter how hard or how long I try to resist, those silly little "rational" thoughts start to turn into fantasies of becoming so soft and plush that I can't fit through the door to get my takeout orders, becoming immobilised in a single day, dreaming of the power to shapeshift and grow as fat as physically possible, beyond human recognition.

Growing at a moments notice, how about that? How fun would that be, being able to see a blue ribbon hog turn into a behemoth, bloated, beached whale in real time, all within a matter hours. Personally, I don't think I could ever resist the opportunity - I highly doubt you'd complain, right?

Unfortunately, this is merely a fantasy...doesn't mean I can't be blown up to 800lbs in the meantime though 😉