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You're in the other room groaning from fullness and caressing your growing, increasingly heavy belly, while also whining that the next meal is taking too long.

Each time I emerge from the kitchen with a new course, you've sunk deeper into the couch, you're movements are even more lethargic, and the mess of dirty bowls, plates, and utensils surrounding you is bigger. You're bigger. I pause to enjoy the sight of you greedily and lethargically filling yourself with more unnecessary calories before returning to the kitchen. I can't keep you waiting.

Thank you for feeding me late into the night, making sure that my belly was truly at capacity before allowing me to stop.

Thank you for making it so easy to keep eating, ensuring there is always something to snack on in arms reach.

Thank you for keeping up with my ever increasing appetite, and for making certain that my portions are big enough to be filling, even as I become utterly insatiable.

Thank you for helping me find new shirts after I outgrew my old ones.

Thank you for stuffing me so much that I popped a button off of said new shirt.

Thank you for helping me get unstuck from that armchair, and then helping me to my feet when I was far too full to do it myself.

Thank you for making the act of overeating so pleasurable, and for helping me reach myself now I've grown too fat to do so.

Thank you for helping waddle from place to place, and providing support and rests when needed.

Thank you for making every pound gained feel more amazing and affirming than the last, and making sure that I never, ever have to regret becoming so enormous.

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.

Packing you full of greasy fried food leaves you lazy and pliable. Hand feeding you doughnuts and ice-cream makes you cuddly and affectionate. Pouring a weight gain shake down your throat turns you into a desperate, pathetic mess.

Aww, need some help pushing yourself to your limits?

How about this, a gluttonous power-hour to really pile a few more pounds onto that tubby belly.

Get a big pile of treats - 60 of them, in fact. Brownie bites, nuggets, mini chocolate bars, something you find you can always have just one more of.

Then, set a timer to go off every minute for the next hour. Every time you hear it, a treat goes in your mouth.

At first it might feel slow, a greedy pet like you is probably used to stuffing your face much faster. As time goes on though, you'll start anticipating those alarms. Then craving them. Then, maybe, dreading them.

By the end of the hour you'll be pushing each bite between your greasy lips, rubbing your gut to free up a little more space. I'm sure you'll manage all 60 though.

A big appetite makes a real man. Think of the stereotypes: man eat big, woman eat small; man big and strong, woman small and frail.

Women stick to diets. Men pig out. Those tits you haven't reduced or chopped off yet don't matter much when your big, masculine gut gets in the way. Your arms will fill out the more you eat, becoming meaty biceps that women will drool over.

Your whole form will be scenery chewing, as men are. Women stay quiet and barely seen, men are paid attention to. That massive gut, wide shoulders, impressive ass, it's all worthy of being paid attention to.

The T is breaking your voice in: all the better for you to order more food; your new name on deliveries is opening up the world and privilege: bigger portions than you used to get all for the same price; your increased size: higher alcohol tolerance, more room to bloat yourself all fat and stupid on beer like a real man.

That tdick is growing in nicely. Smothered in a handsome, sexy fatpad like a real man. You work a sweat up more just by existing these days. The pit stains and BO make you a real man. The food stains on your clothes and the lack of care for them make you a real man. Fingering that dumb fatpad of yours until your fingers prune and your heart's close to giving out unless you take a break makes you a real man.

Men eat. Men sweat. Men drink. Men belch. Men fart. Men jerk off.

But nothing can compare to being fattened up, to have an audience that desires to see you blow up as much as you desire it, or better yet, to have a sweet feeder that dotes on you and your growing body.

Someone to grab at your extra softness and admire the amazing work you've done at fattening yourself up, only to tell you how much they want to fatten you up some more, to leave new stretchmarks on you and make you carry new pounds on your already plush frame.

The sweetest of pleasures, having a feeder to push you and having a feedee that desires the exact same and even more. Wouldn't you like to have that? For me to mark you with my desire, to see you fatten up by my own hand, for you to grow plumper under my gentle care and loving praise, to shape you as my feeder heart desires, shower you in affection every time you get to milestone and celebrate it with a massive feast.

You’ll be sat in the passenger seat unwrapping and feeding them every little food in the over stuffed bag, the small one is for you since you can’t keep much down on a bumpy road. One hand rubbing their growing belly, shifting a little when they feel the steering wheel start digging into them while trying to drive still.

At the first rest stop you two hit, they’re stuck in the driver seat. Top of their belly is distended and shining red while the rest of their belly sags between their chubby legs. Looking up at you with a begging puppy look in their eyes, they ask that you lower the seat and help them slide out. You wrap an arm as far around their waist as you could and help them to the passenger seat where they can finally recline and digest.

Getting back onto the road, and a grumble sounds off from the passenger while they snore away. You’re pulling into a drive through again before they crack their eyes open. Waking up by the time you grab the first bag from the window and plop it on their lap and they dig in immediately, not even noticing the two others you put in the back seat.

Since I had preferences....I preferred seeing someone I like romantically gain weight. I wanted to show my interest and adoration by seeing you grow.

At first I told myself It was just a little appreciation, not a preference.

Not a desire...not a need...But I noticed something when I started maturing....I wasn't relating to the trends and suggestions of other people coming-of-age....It wasn't promiscuity or penetration that began to inform my libido.....

It was encouraging EXCESSIVE fatness for loving and sadistic reasons all at once. It was seeing a loss of self control, the sensory heaven of being held by somebody so soft, the consequences of removing limitations, the luxury of eating and living informed by pleasures only, facing predicaments of becoming fatter than you ever thought you would get, loving your body without lifestyle restrictions, enabling the helplessness of gluttony and hedonism....

I just couldn't get enough.

I told myself, even if it's a preference, it wouldn't rule me. That it's just something I really enjoy.

Yet...soon it became all I could think about. I tried to resist it. I tried to explore other things....not because I was ashamed....there's NOTHING to be ashamed about in being large or finding fat beautiful. Fat is normal and it is beautiful....so If that's the case, what was the reason I kept fighting myself on it?

Well, because I'm obsessed. I need it.

I couldn't finish and be satisfied if I wasn't taking action on making you fatter, dumber, and lazier, willingly.

I need to make you fatter and I NEED to be responsible. I need to take ACCOUNTABILITY for it. I need your gain to be a representation of excessive indulgence. I need to handcraft a life that left you enveloped in cozy, padded, plump layers of hedonistic consequences.

I need to see beautiful softness obscure your sharp jawline. I need heavy padded pillow arms resting on hips so wide they're shelf flat. I need to see spilling rolls and folds of fluff and the curve of your ever lower-hanging indulgence apron, competing only with the softness of your massive couch bound bum. I need to see your width debate more and more aggressively with your wardrobe EVERY day. I need it.

I didn't just want it. I couldn't pretend I didn't. Every slim person I fell for, they just NEEDED more. I NEEDED more. So they knew I loved them. That I was obsessed.

I need soft features on EVERY inch, collar bones, wrists, fingers....nothing escaping the softness you've claimed. I need your whole body to shake and jiggle with the heavy stomp of a waddling heel, up through couch filling thighs, past your distended gut, a hefty soft chest, and cease at your soft chin and cheeks, with EVERY step.

I need to see it affect your mobility and cardio, not just enough to notice, but damn, as far as you'll let it be taken. I need to re-introduce you to your friends and family every time the time gap makes you unrecognizably fat to them all. I need them to watch the once modest person that they knew eat until their pants unseam from pressure.

You haven't wanted to work since your new lifestyle started to take place, so instead, I let you pig out here under my care! You probably haven't cared that you get more absorbed by your habits and pleasures day after day. You took up gaming, and binging your favorite series. You don't do much anymore......but before you blame me......you haven't tried to stop it once. You claim to have felt guilty at first, I know. But that was for show, you've unlearned that. Because you LOVE it.

Your face has no filter when I grab handfuls of the new curves you've grown for yourself. Your mouth has no mute when I massage the places you haven't been able to reach in a long time. You hum and moan so affectionately when your body is jiggled by your love handles, it's practically purring. You love it.

I love the sensitivity of your stretch marks, the ones I trace as my hands locate the next place to dig into dough and jiggle you more. I love seeing the squirm and then blush in dominoes that comes from your guilty arousal in how quickly you blew up. You got so fat so fucking fast.

You love how hard it is to get around now, bumping tables, brushing door frames, getting stuck delightfully often......I could see your mind blank out in indulgent pleasure through your eyes before you ask for help with simple tasks like shoelaces.

You found out about my secret.

I found out it was yours too.

Baby, quit resisting your urges.

Feeders with praise kinks.

"You're such a good boy. say it back."

to be pampered with gentle forehead kisses and fed rich desserts until moving comfortably isn't an option anymore, your s/o rubbing deep circles into your belly to make space for more. cooking you large breakfasts in bed and taking you out to lunch and encouraging extra helpings at dinner, making sure your growing belly is filled with snacks between meals, hand feeding you rich heavy desserts when you're too full and sleepy to eat anymore.

thinking your tummy is only rounded out from being kept so full all the time but you gradually become softer around the edges, your thighs a little chunkier, your stomach starting to soften and fill out until all your tshirts are a little too tight against the soft curve of your chub and your jeans barely hold together when you sit down