ThatFatLovingGirl

Dearly wish I could be helping someone turn their double chin into a triple chin like this right about now 😍🐷

“Cry”

I breathe into your ear, my voice low, twisted.

Blazing, flushed, swollen. Clammy, shivering, pinkish, your hilariously turgid cheeks quiver with every half muffled, discordant squeal of horror you choke out of that abused, slobbering gullet.

God, just the pitiful sight of you makes me fucking laugh, my dying slaughter pig.

They’re intoxicating, your syrupy tears that sear your burning, engorged face. I can almost lick off the saccharine terror that oozes through your dulled down stare, drenching your absurdly chilling yelps in a viscous, sweet veil. A shard of raw emotion and buried conscience desperately claws out through the cries, melting into the suffocating darkness of the room.

I teasingly trace down your cold forehead, pinching your face and you attempt to wince, your sugary tears sinking into my hands as I smile down at you perversely. I feel your bruised, rotting, sludge filled flesh, dragging a finger along your freshly branded title ‘Pig’, caressing the darkened blood stains that linger around those shameful letters. I’m met with discordant sobs diluted by inhumane snorts, soaking in the despair you decay in.

You lie there, pitiful, smothered in tubs of cheap white frosting, thickened grease that hisses on your jolting chest, sticky dollops of chocolate smeared around, all glazed with your hollow pig tears. The casing of the bariatric casket gnaws at your raw, blistering adipose, the gleaming wooden casing silken to the touch.

You really do look ridiculous, pleading and choking on your own gelatinous tears, waiting, crying. Profound agony strangles you, squeezing your slop filled, engorged little heart. Too bad, piggy. It’s time.

So cry for me.

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.

Imagine an environment where food is constantly available and no one ever tells you no. Even when you're out of my sight, I want the people around you to subliminally register your size and offer you whatever they can't finish, sliding their leftovers your way because you just look like a girl who needs to be kept full. I'll slowly encourage them to give you bigger portions without even thinking, bringing things directly to your hands instead of letting you struggle onto your feet and waddle for them yourself. Watching your friends slowly change plan suggestions into ones that require little to no walking and plenty of time for food or snacking during. Going shopping with them as they don’t even attempt to take you anywhere that doesn’t sell plus size or maternity clothing, because they already know you won’t fit. Being the first one everyone looks at when food is mentioned because they know you’ll agree and whine for even the smallest chance of gorging your gut. I’ll rebrand you in their eyes from whatever you used to be into a growing, dependent piggy that won’t turn down food and needs help with the smallest struggles because you’re just so big now… They won’t even notice or care when it’s obvious you have a toy in while you eat, because you’re doing your best to overdose on pleasure. They’ll watch you squirm while you’re in a blissed out stuffed state, and be unable to resist rubbing your belly, massaging more space into you so you can keep choking down calories as the group piggy. I’d ensure that you never have a single second of peace or a moment to settle into the size you've already ballooned to. Every space you enter should be a trap designed to fuel your gluttony, making sure you're always being pushed further into the grease so can’t even process how scarily fast you’re piling on the lard~