My Gaining Attention Whore

Imagine how many games feedists could play with this, especially those that are competitive or love board games.

- 2 mutual stuffers feed the pig (and themselves) whatever they roll. Then whomever pops the pig gets to be one who gets stuffed with the rest.

- a feedee has to match the overall score, and if they pope the pig, they get stuffed. If the feeder does, then they are stuffed double.

You held the blouse out in front of me like it was a challenge.

I recognized it immediately. It used to fit me perfectly, back when my stomach stayed hidden beneath the fabric and the buttons closed without a fight. Now, just looking at it made my cheeks burn.

“Put it on,” you said.

I tried to argue that it wouldn’t fit, but the look on your face made it clear that was exactly why you had chosen it.

I slowly pulled it over my arms. The fabric tightened around my body before I had even reached the buttons. Closing the first few was easy enough, but the lower I went, the harder I had to pull the two sides together.

By the time I reached my stomach, I had to suck myself in.

The final buttons barely slipped through their holes. They sat stretched across my belly, surrounded by little gaps of exposed skin. Every breath pushed them forward, threatening to pull the blouse apart.

You smiled as you ran a finger beneath the tightest one.

“Perfect.”

Then you guided me to the sofa and placed a plate in front of me.

I already knew what you wanted.

You fed me slowly at first, watching every bite disappear between my lips. Each time I swallowed, your eyes dropped toward my stomach, waiting for the blouse to react.

It didn’t take long.

The fabric began pressing harder against me. My belly grew heavier and rounder beneath it, forcing the buttons to strain further apart. The tiny gaps between them widened until you could see the soft curve of my stomach pushing through.

I reached down nervously, but you moved my hands away.

“No hiding it.”

You lifted another bite to my mouth.

I opened obediently.

The pressure became impossible to ignore. The blouse dug into my sides, and the lowest button looked like it was hanging on by a thread. I shifted beneath your stare, feeling my full stomach push forward every time I moved.

“You used to fit into this,” you teased.

I nodded.

“And now?”

Before I could answer, you pressed another bite to my lips.

I swallowed it, and my belly expanded against the blouse again.

The lowest button snapped.

It shot across the room so suddenly that I gasped, leaving a wide opening over the bottom of my stomach. My soft belly spilled through it immediately, finally free from some of the pressure.

You laughed softly, but you weren’t finished.

The next button was still holding.

Barely.

You kept feeding me, one deliberate bite after another, until my stomach felt impossibly full. The blouse was pulled so tightly across me that every seam seemed to tremble.

Then I took one deeper breath.

The second button flew.

The blouse burst open across the roundest part of my belly, exposing the swollen curve you had been watching grow all evening.

You placed your hand over it, feeling its weight while I sat there flushed and defeated, surrounded by the remains of a blouse that had never stood a chance.

“You were right,” you whispered, tracing the marks the buttons had left behind.

Manipulation isn't about forcing you fatter, not really. It's about shifting the blame. It's about absolving you of misplaced guilt.

After all, I ordered the food. I made all those dinners. I brought home sweet treats. Doubled up portions. Suggested you skip the gym for a movie...but you could have said no. You didn't. You ate, you lazed, you let me bring you just a little more. You opened your mouth for one last bite every time I asked. You let me rub your full belly, reward your overeating, keep you sedentary night after night.

You wanted this. Every extra inch. Every labored breath and lost button. You just couldn't commit on your own. Of course you couldn't. We have all been trained to view excess as sinful, fat as failure. Who could fault you for sublimating your real desires? No one would give you permission to let yourself go. No one would coax you into the kind of desperate, helpless gluttony necessary to redraw the contours of your body.

And then I did.

And I made it all about me. You eat for me. You lounge for me. You lean back and drink melted ice cream - something that barely existed in your fantasies - because you know I want you to. And you grow. You balloon. You come almost unrecognizable. You allow me to make you impossibly, deliciously obese. No blame, no fault, because I did this to you. You ate, but I fed you.

So when I stand you in front of a mirror, show you all the ways you've expanded, when I tell you that you've turned yourself into a hopeless pig...you have plausible deniability.