Fat girls

after a long day of stuffing, this is what eating dessert is like~

Like finding only the best quality clothes in their size instead because such corpulence deserves only the best, instead of getting whatever because “they’ll only outgrow it”.

It’s hot out and everyone’s expecting the big guy/girl to sweat up a storm and reek but no, they smell like pure lavender (example) because their feeder spent a good 60-90 minutes in making sure they were nice and clean after a bubble bath or shower and then every inch of them has been covered in only the best products. Body butters, foot creams, face masks and hair care, special sprays– “jajoba & cashmere” branded shit.

It’s all very expensive upkeep, especially when they keep getting bigger and their body becomes even more expensive in every aspect. Doesn’t matter if the feeder is the service sub or the dom or whatever the fuck either, this is just a necessity.

people see you and naturally take pity on you.

you're so big, everything must be such hard work.

everyone knows you'll be panting and out of breath if you have to do things for yourself.

how about white collar mommy and her beloved sugar baby who does nothing but laze and stuff herself silly at home? Yes.

I do laps around the track, you do laps around the buffet.

I do pull-ups, you struggle to pull up your jeans.

I do sit-ups, you get so stuffed you can't sit up.

Normalize being fat and wanting to be even fatter even if you can barely waddle anymore.

Normalize still wishing for more fat whatever your conditions are.

Normalize all health conditions, normalize diabetes.

Normalize doing whatever you want to do, no matter how immense your weight. We will tap uncharted waters if necessary, without any fear.

Normalize being immobile and still worthy of everything, all the love and care.

indulging and lazing about for days on end, losing myself in plates and plates of food to the point i didnt even realize a month had gone by.

every other thought slipped away except one singular purpose: eat.

Make me tell you I’m sorry when I break my first chair. Tell me I should be ashamed for how much I let my gluttony affect you. For how much food you “have to” cook for me every meal.

Tell me I need to ask forgiveness for every pair of jeans my belly starts to spill over, for every T-shirt that my growing mass turns into a crop top.