blooming (slow motion)

You’d like to say you don’t know why you can’t get comfortable. You’d like to tell your coworkers, “It’s just one of those days, I guess,” with a sigh and an eye-roll, and have it be genuine.

You, however, know exactly why you’re in this predicament.

You’re all too aware of the reason behind your inability to sit still for longer than two minutes.

And with each passing moment, you’re more and more tempted to feign ignorance and take the rest of the day off under the guise of, “I guess I’m just not feeling well.”

You haven’t been intentionally trying to gain weight for long, but you’ve been gaining weight regardless for years now. It’s only been the last few months that you’ve begun to toe the line of indulgence; of letting yourself give in to your cravings, no matter how embarrassed it makes you. You’ve tried dieting, tried controlling yourself, you even took up jogging for a brief period of time. However, your impulses always outweighed your efforts, and a jog around the neighborhood was always interrupted by a stop into a bakery, a cafe, a restaurant you passed on your route, and an inability to stop yourself from eating until your belly poked out from under your athletic tee.

Today in particular, you can’t get it off your mind.

but it’s okay. it’s not your fault. 

you’re a pig. pigs are meant to grow. pigs are meant to eat their fill and put on weight. pigs are meant to waddle. pigs are meant to care only about food and the feeling of eating. pigs are meant to be fed well and often, until they’re round and slow. 

Archie wakes up gently, his heavy lids blocking most of his vision, determined to remain shut despite his brain’s instructions to do the opposite. A bit of light forces its way through, though he can’t tell if it’s dim or bright, natural or artificial. Was it morning? Evening? The light presses faintly against his eyes, but is too soft to anchor him to any real sense of time. He tries to force his eyes to open wider, but it seems as though they won’t cooperate, fluttering weakly before settling again. Whatever he sees is blurred, wavy, indistinguishable. But familiar, at least it feels that way, shapes blending together in a way that suggests walls, a ceiling, something enclosing and known. He’s… home? The thought drifts through his mind without urgency.

It’s quiet, and his mind is calm, too calm, like it hasn’t fully caught up with him yet. He just needs to wake up some. He lifts his head, barely an inch from its relaxed position, but it feels like moving through mud, or really soft, impossibly thick air, resistance pressing in from all sides. Boy, is his head heavy. The muscles in his neck tremble faintly under the effort, giving out almost as soon as they engage. He lets it fall back where it was, and lets out a soft moan as the action sends a dull ache through his head, spreading outward in a slow pulse before fading just as quickly as it came. The weight in his body settles deeper the moment he stops trying to fight it.

He sighs and lets his eyes close fully, suddenly reminded of how tired he is. But… didn’t he just wake up? The thought lingers. He must not have gotten enough sleep last night.

His body feels drained, his mind sluggish, but he can’t shake the feeling that he should wake up, get up. The dull urge sits there, half-remembered and pressing at the edge of his thoughts. He has things to do, right? Especially on a Tuesday. No, Wednesday. Was it Saturday? Maybe it’s Saturday. That’s why he’s slept in. Overslept, and fallen into one of those cycles where he’s more tired the more he rests. Yeah.

The sleep hangs heavily on him, too heavily. So much so that he can’t think of much else, every thought slowing and dragging before it can fully form. ‘God, I’m exhausted,’ he thinks, the words barely landing before they slip away, only for the same thought to surface again moments later.

He tries to lift his head again. His heavy, heavy head. The weight of it feels disproportionate, like it doesn’t quite belong to him right now. This time it stays up, wobbling a bit as his eyes try their best to stay open, lids trembling with the effort. The room tilts slightly with the movement, his vision struggling to catch up.

Where is he? Home? Right, right. Where else would he be? The answer comes easily, even if nothing else does.

He turns his head to the left, then the right, the motion slow like it has to push through the same thick resistance as everything else. The right is slightly brighter. There’s a lamp or coatrack or something. In his house? He doesn’t remember buying a coatrack. The tall shape cuts into the blur, its outline bending and wavering at the edges of his vision.

He lifts his hand toward the thing, or tries to. His arm barely moves. He tries again, confused, a faint strain running through his shoulder this time. No dice. ‘What the…’ he thinks. He tilts his head down to look at the uncooperative limb.

His eyes land on it, but he forgets why he’s looking in the first place, the purpose dissolving before it can settle. For a second, it’s just a shape, part of the blur like everything else. Then they take in the rest of him.

“Whoa,” the word is soft and gruff as it tumbles out, his voice dragging behind the thought that formed it. Archie hears it carry in his head, echoing strangely. Like wind, but underwater, muffled and stretched. No wonder his head is so heavy, it’s filled with words and water.

‘I gotta get up,’ Archie thinks, the feeling leveling up into something closer to a decision. He tries to lift his arm. He’ll need it for leverage to get out of this… Ugh, sofa, sofa. Yeah, he means bed. Where the fuck is he? He has to be home. It’s Monday and he has to… why can’t he move his arms?

Archie looks down to investigate.

“Whoa…” He barely notices the word as it comes out, muffled somewhere in the recesses of his head. His mind manages to focus long enough to take in the view of the massive form in front of him.

A large, bare, soft-looking gut stretches out in front of him, rising into his field of view and staying there. It sprawls, spilling over the other… things. Limbs? Pillows? Something soft like that, edges pressing into each other without any clear boundary. And round. The belly is round, and big, and soft-looking like a pillow or mattress or something, the surface faintly shifting with each breath he takes.

Was that his body?

‘When did you get so big?’ he thinks, almost speaking to himself. The question drifts out without direction, like he isn’t fully sure who he’s asking.

He really ought to get up. Really ought to go to the gym.

“Don’t be lazy,” his dad always used to say, even on Sundays. The voice slips in without warning, clearer than anything else in his head for a second. Shit, is it Sunday?

He really ought to get up.

He forces his head down, bracing it against his chest as he leans forward, chin pressing into soft resistance before he can really think about it. A few inches forward and the world spins, the motion catching up to him all at once.

‘Whoa,’ he thinks, this time all in his head, the word circling without sound. He looks down to steady himself.

Was that his gut?

The shape fills his vision, as if seeing it for the first time. He lifts his arm to grab it, feel it. His arm moves inward, and that alone grabs his attention. There it is. Finally he found it, his arm. Why does he need this again?

He lifts it up further, straining against the gloopy air holding it down. The movement feels off, delayed. It’s like there are two of them, then one, then two again, his vision doubling and sliding over itself, the arm not quite matching what he feels. He blinks, but it doesn’t fix it. He must just be tired. Must not have gotten enough sleep last night.

“Hey baby,” someone says, the words echoing slightly, like they take a second to reach him. Archie looks up. A blurry silhouette stands before him, softened at the edges and drifting side to side, like it isn’t fully there. A wave of fragile calm moves through him. Thank goodness she’s here. Maybe she can help him get the water out of his head.

“How was your nap?” she asks, and the silhouette moves closer, filling more of his vision, though it doesn’t get any clearer.

Archie tries to answer, but all that comes out is a groan, low and stuck in his throat. His mouth barely feels like it moves. ‘God, I’m exhausted,’ he thinks, the thought sinking right back into the fog.

“I bet you’re starving after all that rest, huh?”

No. Wait, yes. Fuck, is he?

Archie looks down at himself, as if his body can tell him, like the answer might be written there somewhere he can read it.

“Oh…” he breathes, the sound slipping out thin as he takes in the sight of himself again. When did he get so fucking fat? The word lands heavier than the rest, sticking for a second before it starts to blur like everything else.

An arm comes into view, not his own, entering from the side without warning.

“You’re wasting away,” it says, and the hand runs over his massive, soft-looking gut, pressing in just enough to shift it under the touch.

Archie lets out a soft groan. The gut is sensitive, more than he expects, the contact sending a slow reaction through him that he doesn’t quite understand. He’s so full and exhausted.

“Why don’t I get you something to eat, hmm?”

She leans in close and takes his head in her hands, fingers settling against his skin. She pats his cheek, like she’s trying to wake him up, the motion gentle but firm enough to move his face slightly with each touch.

Archie nods. Yeah, he could go for a meal, he’s starving after all that rest, huh. He’s wasting away, hmm? The words loop back through his head without much resistance.

The figure squishes his cheeks and kisses his lips. The contact is brief, soft, and it lingers in his awareness for a while. “I’ll be right back, hun. Stay right here,” she says, and lets go of his head.

It drops down heavily to his pudgy chest.

‘Fuck,’ he thinks as he tries to lift it again, neck straining before giving out almost immediately. So much for getting up. He has to stay right here. Now how is he going to… to… yeah. The rest slips away before it can form.

Is he really wasting away?

He looks down at himself. Whoa. She’s right. When did he get so fat? The question hits again like it’s new. Was he always like this? Always this wasted away?

Archie tries to form a thought, answer the question for himself, but it’s stuck. Somewhere out of reach, like it’s behind something thick he can’t push through. He really ought to get up.

He tries shifting to the side, but someone’s heavy gut stops him. Ugh. The resistance is immediate, pressing back into him. He tries again, and once more. No dice. No dice. The effort fades faster each time, like his body forgets what it’s doing halfway through.

He leans back, his breath coming out fast and heavy, dragging through his chest. Each inhale feels like it takes more than it should. God, he’s so full and exhausted.

He must not have gotten much sleep last night. He must have eaten a lot earlier. Probably because he’s wasting away, huh, hey baby?

He can’t remember why he needs to get up anyway. He’s starving after all that rest. Now he feels it. As his breath calms and his gut settles, a hollow pit in his middle makes itself known. God, he is so hungry and exhausted. When was the last time he ate? It had to have been a couple days, or a couple hours? His belly could tell him.

He lifts his arm and reaches for it. It is very soft. Very big, very round. His fingers sink into the flesh, pressing in deeper than expected before it pushes back. He really ought to go to the gym.

But… “stay right there” she said.

Damn it. Maybe after she gets him something to eat. He can’t miss meals. He is starving after all that wasting away.

“Okay baby,” she says, swimming back into view. “Drink this first.”

Something touches Archie’s lip before he can say anything. Try to say anything. Something cool. A glass.

He drinks. His eyes flutter as he swallows without thinking about it. The drink is thick and sweet, and tastes like… something thick and sweet. It’s easy to take in. He gulps it down.

“Good boy,” she whispers. Or mumbles. It lands in his head as both a whisper and a mumble.

“Mmm,” he responds against the glass, still drinking, not really stopping to think about it.

And then there is no more drink.

He’s panting as Silhouette pulls the glass away, his stomach feeling a little heavy. Everything feels a little heavier now.

He must just be exhausted, and full. Must just have eaten a lot earlier. Good boy.

“Made you something yummy,” she says, and the words come through even more muffled than before, like they are moving through water.

Archie blinks slowly, licking something from his lips. God, he is so full and exhausted. He feels it even more now. The gloopy air feels thicker, pressing in closer, making his whole body harder to move in. ‘Whoa,’ he thinks as it rolls over him like a wave, quickly spreading.

“Here, baby. Eat this.”

The low, distant words curl around his brain, and a delicious scent curls into his nose at the same time. It pulls at him more than thought does.

Archie tries to reach out, but his arms won’t move again. ‘What the…’ he tries to look down and investigate, but before he can finish the thought, something warm touches his lips.

They part on instinct and take a bite. Savory, greasy, yummy.

Made you something yummy.

He chews, and it feels like it is happening in slow motion. His eyelids sink lower again, thoughts turning thicker, harder to hold in place. Much fuzzier. All he can think about is how tired he is. How tired, and how hungry. Starving after all that…

“Mmf,” he mutters as he takes another bite, feeding himself without really remembering deciding to do it. When did he get some food?

It is soft in his hands, crisp in some places too. Texture registers before meaning does. He takes another bite. It is very good.

Gooood boy.

Another bite, and something drops onto his chest. ‘Oops.’

He looks down.

‘Holy…’

When did he get so fat and huge? So big and round and soft-looking? The thought arrives slowly, like it has to push through layers of fog before it lands. Are those his moobs?

The scent of something yummy catches his attention again. There is food in his hands. He takes a bite on instinct.

“Unnf,” a small noise slips out through Archie’s full mouth.

It is very good boy, very yummy made you for something hmm?

He blinks slowly, drowsily, as he takes another slow-motion bite of his… savory, salty.

He must have been starving. Fuck, it’s so good. But he’s so full.

He must have eaten a lot earlier. Yesterday or… an hour ago. He can’t remember. Can’t remember anything.

Must just be tired.

“You’ve gotten so… look at… big and round and soft.” Her words are muffled and distant.

Archie can only focus on the food in his hands. He is so full and hungry, a little dazed, a little confused. How long has he been eating? Why does his gut feel so heavy?

He looks down at himself. He moans.

“Uhhggh,” he breathes.

His hand feeds him another bite of food as the other runs over his sprawling, massive belly. The surface gives under his touch. God, he is so fat.

He really ought to stay right there.

He tries leaning forward, but his body doesn’t budge. The air feels too heavy, it weighs him down. He takes another bite of his food, the only thing his body still knows how to do. He couldn’t let himself wasting good baby away, hmm? No.

He chews, and chews, and takes a bite, and chews again, swallowing in slow rhythm until there are only his hands. And her hands.

“Gosh baby,” she says, her hands running over his big, round, packed gut. “See, I knew you were starving. You’re always starving after a nap, huh.”

“Mmmnh,” is the only sound Archie can muster.

‘I’m always starving, huh,’ he thinks, his head bobbing slightly in fatigue and loose agreement he does not fully understand.

Her rubbing hands coax out a burp, then another. Archie feels them rumble out of his fat body, a deep shift that seems to travel through him and jostle the water in his head.

Think about that. You don't have the will power to stop yourself from becoming too fat to care for yourself. You are closer to those horror stories you see on TV, or read online, than you realize. "They were too big to leave their home. Stuck in bed all day long."

It doesn't feel so sinister at the start. Being 200, 300, even 400lbs. Sure, you have food brought to you. Chores are being handled. Bills are paid. The occasional day happens where you feel like a bottomless pit. Eating close to 10,000 calories during an all day binge, on a whim.

Those are not the habits of someone who envisions being able to walk in a few years. In fact, that's a type of day that might even exceed what many folks who are bedbound typically do.

But it's innocent, because you aren't bedbound, right? It's a fun game. How far do you let this go before you come to grip with reality.

Too food motivated to turn down anything brought to you. A meal that starts feeling laborious doesn't matter. You are hooked on the sensation of eating. Conditioned to finish everything in front of you.

You don't bother thinking about how much activity was taken from you by being enabled. Steps dropping from the thousands into the hundreds. You can't remember the last time you consciously stood for any period of time. You're only upright when taking those precious few steps.

Changes, accommodations, they are in the name of comfort. There's no worry. You have food. Your partner kisses you. You feel safe.

You go from bathing standing up, to sitting in a shower chair, to needing extra hands to keep yourself from tiring. It feels like a relief when the offer comes to wash you down in bed. Instead of getting out of bed, shuffling to the shower, shuffling back to bed, and being repositioned again (each action bringing you to exhaustion), you can basically lay still. Bond with your partner.

Sleeping evolves in its own way. You need to be elevated. A CPAP is prescribed. Food comas during the day make you restless at night. You lazily tap your partner in those odd hours. You're awake. You need food to doze off again. Never mind that your bed was upgraded to a automatic, reclining bed. A warning sign of being so weak is brushed over.

Your final moments of independence slip away just as easily. At some point, you're pushed into a routine to keep yourself from developing bed sores. Every few hours, you need to be told to turn. You need help. Your legs are too heavy to move on their own. Your waist is too wide for you to build momentum to turn. Your chest keeps you pinned against your pillows. You need help turning, rolling in bed.

900 words · 5 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · May 2026

The fourth meal of the day ended ten minutes ago, and the heat hasn't faded. It's the most I've ever eaten in one session, or close to it. My breathing is fast, my thoughts are slow. The fullness of my stomach radiates outwards, pressing against every part of me.

You're nestled into me, resting your head on my padded shoulder, squished between my arm and the soft slope where my side meets the mattress. I'm not really someone you cuddle anymore, but more like somewhere you settle, soft and comfortable. Your wrist rests on my belly, rising and falling with my shallow breath, as you gently trace lines of glittering fire over my stretchmarks with your fingers.

"You did so well," you murmur. (I grunt in agreement.) "All of it, every bite. I'm so proud of you. You make me so happy."

"You make me happy," I answer, drowsily, unthinking, but it's true. This is all I want - this moment, this warmth. Our closeness. Your voice and your hands and the heavy, satisfied ache that holds me.

"I know I push you a little far sometimes. But you always rise to it. Look how far you've come," you say, moving your hand a little further down my belly. "Six hundred and thirty pounds. My perfect little larder."

I smile.

And then the number lands.

Six hundred and thirty. I knew, of course I knew, I'm on the scale practically every week and again earlier today - but hearing it here, in your voice, in this moment, it's different. Six hundred and thirty. The numbers used to be hot but now they're scary. Those are TV show numbers. Hospital numbers. Numbers that make me think the honeymoon could end at any moment.

I'm still smiling, but it's just the muscles holding position. The rest of me is somewhere else.

Your fingers still trace me but the sensation is gone and I feel what you're outlining: contours of land, like earth poured into this reinforced bed. You're curled up against the expanse of me like you'd curl against a hillside.

You shift, look up at me. Your whole body weighs less than one of my legs. If I rolled I'd smother you in a landslide.

"What's wrong?" you ask.

"It's nothing," I say, trying to find the warmth again. It was right here. "I'm okay."

But the cold is in me now. It's not the first time I've heard that doubting voice. It speaks up at every milestone, at every new struggle, each time I need help with something I could do before. But it's always been silenced by that heavy fullness. It's never interrupted a moment like this before - it's never smothered the warmth. It's never stolen you from right by my side.

I need it gone.

"Sometimes I get doubts," I say. "About... this. Of losing it."

You wait.

"There's part of me that hears a number like that and panics. It tries to tell me that this can't be my life. I try to ignore it, but... one day, when I'm empty, when the warmth is gone, I'm scared it'll win me over."

You open your mouth to speak, but I continue. "So don't let me. Okay? I need to stay in this feeling. Promise me you'll keep me in it. Promise me you won't let me go."

You're silent for a moment. Perfectly still.

Then you sit up. You lean over me and take my face in your hands. Your eyes are full of love.

"Yes," you say. "I promise."

Relief floods through me. The warmth burns hot. You understand. You'll keep me here, you'll keep me safe.

"You've made a big decision," you say, gently. "I'm proud of you."

I smile, and relax, but something snags. Decision? The word feels out of place. I was only asking for reassurance.

The endorphins are fading now. The warmth is tapering off, and I find myself lying here in our bed, in this body, this growing six hundred and thirty pound body that becomes less independent day by day, and you're still holding my face in your hands, and your eyes are still full of love, but something within has changed. Something that was waiting and isn't anymore.

What have I done?

I go to speak, but you shush me with a gentle finger. You stroke my cheek.

"You're tired, honey." You reach for the tube, connect it, check the seal, place the end in my mouth. Never mind that I'm already as full as I've ever been. "Let me take care of everything."

No chance to argue. The lights dim. You leave.

There was no hesitation, I realise. No "let's talk about this when you're less full", no "this is a big step", no "are you sure?"

The warmth is gone, fully gone, and in the cold I see clearly: a body I can hardly move, a door I soon won't be able to reach, a life that revolves around you. And I... don't...

...but... those are cold thoughts. Tomorrow, when I'm full, with you beside me, I'll mean every word I said tonight. So whatever I just gave you - if it helps me get back to that warmth, you can have it. That's what I want. That's all I want. I have to believe that.

The feed runs, and I swell.

"Well, I've always wanted big milky breasts so I might as well try it." Popping two pills in my mouth, I follow them up with a glass of milk. I didn't have any breast milk on hand so I went with the whole milk in the fridge. Close enough right?

"Ugghh Fuck… I think that was a mistake…" My hands go to my lower belly as it feels like my gut is just twisting and churning trying to digest those pills. My belly starts to distend and press into my hands. I'm starting to feel extremely bloated. My hands start to rub my bloating belly and I won't deny, the rubbing was feeling nice.

After a couple more minutes, the feeling of my gut expanding and stretching out the waist of my sweatpants and making my t-shirt feel tight was now very present in my mind. The discomfort subsided as my hands continued to rub. Eventually one hand went over a raised bump which sent a jolt of excitement through my body. I couldn't help but exclaim "Woah! That was new!"

My hand would go back to the bump to find it more raised like a little nipple poking through my shirt. It was very sensitive as it sent more jolts of excitement down to my crotch. "Mmmmm fuck! I guess I'm growing another pair of tits?"

I'd shift in my seat and then immediately let out a moan. It was more intense than I thought as the fabric of my shirt brushed over the two nipples covering by it. What I wasn't expecting was the jolts from what felt like two nipples being rubbed by the fabric of my sweatpants.

After recovering from those jolts of excitement, I'd look down to see my belly was pinker than usual. I then was also able to count four nipples poking through my clothes. My sweatpants were at the end of their elasticity by now. "Not more tits… that's an udder… I should move my clothes before this gets worse."

Starting with my shirt, I went to atleast try to pull it up over my udder and belly. This proved to be difficult as my nipples lengthened with each passing second. The sensitivity of what I'd say were more like teats was more intense than I was expecting. "ooooooooohhhh fuuuuuuck," I'd moan out as my shirt rubbed against my teats. Milk started to drip out of each of my teats, wetting both my shirt and sweatpants.

I was moving so slowly to lift my shirt. Partly because the sensations were intense but the main reason I was moving slowly was I didn't want to get lost in an orgasm and not be able to get my sweatpants off. Well, I should have moved faster. Once my two top teats were free from my shirt I let out a loud moan. The cold air stiffened my teats, teasing them even more. Milk now dripping down onto my udder. My body shuddered as I was brought to the edge of an orgasm.

After calming down a bit I'd reach for my sweatpants. It seems my udder had swollen large enough that I couldn't get my pants over the bottom of my udder, which also meant I couldn't free my two lower teats. I went to stand up to try and get some scissors to cut away my pants. However, the process of standing up rubbed my teats against my sweatpants some more. The sensation was overwhelming. My knees buckled and forced me to plop back into my chair. I could feel as milk squirted out of all my teats. My sweatpants became more drenched as i could feel the milk traveling down my thighs.

"MMMMOOOOOOOOOOOOO" I'd moan out from the recent events. The excitement had overcome me and I couldn't resist anymore. "Need. Milked. MOOO" was all I could get out as my hands started to tug at my exposed teats. I was reduced to just cumming as I tried my best to milk myself. Every so often letting out a loud moo.

My helpless, greedy piglet. Just look at you. Suffocating in your own revolting white lard. Squealing and wheezing like the slobby pig you are. Useless. Disgusting. Trapped.

My god, just the grotesque sight of what I’ve made you into makes me so hot. My dumb, bloated glutton.

And yet to think - a few years ago you were so small, so bright, but so, so eager. Eager for me to turn you into this revolting shell of a being that sits and drools in front of me. Bet you didn’t really expect this to happen, huh? I smirk, roughly pinching your greasy cheek and watching you squirm in discomfort. Spoiled growing piglet.

You begged me to break you, to strip you of everything you had in a lustful frenzy. You didn’t really think I’d taken it literally, pig?

You were positively dying for it. Literally.

“Oink oink, piggy.” I breathe into your ear, slowly stroking your reddened, plump face.

I remember it well. After that night where I’d decided you were my perfect piglet. I doubt you would though.

You burp and oink, a stupid grin on your disgusting bloated face.

Of course not. Good larders don’t need to think. They need to eat.

I’d drugged your shake that night, and taken your fresh, plump body down to your new home. I’d bound your arms and legs to your brand new bariatric bed, and put a blindfold around your eyes. God, you were so.. small back then. Not ruined. Not yet.

A good growing piglet has nowhere to go, anyways, right piggy? I remember the horror on your face when you woke up, tied, ready to be fattened for the rest of your pathetic little life. You’d begged and cried as I held you down and shoved all that butter down your greedy gullet. Your fear was music to my ears. Your pleas fell on deaf ears. You were now mine. To break.

Slowly you gave up, conditioned by the hours of abuse and relentless feedings, the suffocating darkness of your blindfold and your swelling pig rolls. Your once identifiable arms now melted into your new, lard filled figure, your new prison. Your legs fused into useless globs of sweet, soft fat. Your face puffed up, your cheeks ruddy and inflated with that delicious pig lard. Unrecognisable.

I didn’t stop at just ruining you physically. I wrecked you emotionally, mentally, psychologically. Until you were the oinking fat fuck in front of me. Incapable. Thoughtless. Slovenly. Greedy. Perfect.

Once your blindfold had served its purpose, your eyes now became a vessel for me to melt your helpless little pig brain. Dozens of blaring TV screens, the neon colours searing into your empty eyes, your useless brain. Endless porn, endless sound, a dozen hours a day. You had no time to form a thought. No wish to do so either. Just like a good, growing pig, made to chew, swallow, grow. Oink oink, piggy.

I’d relish in watching you squeal and cry as I shoved grease and syrupy frosting down your throat till you threw up, slapping your growing rolls and mocking you as you suffered and screamed. You resisted my tornment less and less over time - why waste those precious calories on that anyways? You became my perfect, broken piglet. A hollow shell of a human being, pumped full of revolting soft lard.

Give in.

Then the day I’d been waiting for came. I untied the ropes from around your plump, porcelain wrists and your swollen pig legs while you slept, and waited. You woke up sluggish, needy, disgusting as ever. I pinched your ridiculous piggy cheek and slowly explained you were free to go now, watching you scrunch up your eyebrows, scrambling desperately to form a thought.

The real show began as I watched you muster every tiny ounce of lingering strength in your atrophied muscles to get your distended body to move. But you couldn’t lift a finger. Pathetic little piggy. I laughed at you as you sobbed in fragmented piggish squeals. A good pig is a broken pig. A helpless, trapped, ruined larder. Made only to grow for me.

You watched your last chance slip away. Humiliated. Ashamed. But so eager. And so, so hungry. Every last bite of disgusting slop is a nail in your huge coffin. My sweet, obedient glutton. You won’t escape now, ever.

And here you lie, your monstrous rolls swollen and pinkish in the pale light, choking out the last droplets of humanity, of dignity, of thought in you, as you snort like a true pig and eat yourself to an early grave for me.

“Good pig” I whisper, tracing down your blubbery chest to feel your pathetic piggy heart, squeezing and ripping out of your shuddering, sweat-glazed flesh.

“Not long left now” my voice lowers, eyes dark as I watch your darting, beady eyes in sick, perverted pleasure.

Oh how I loved 𝗆̶𝖺̶𝗄̶𝗂̶𝗇̶𝗀̶ breaking you, pig.

a feeder who sees how confused I am at how big I am and why I’m leaking milk, and so sweetly offers to hook me up to a milking pump after meals til we figure out what’s going on

a feeder who teases me all day and stuffs me silly before milkings, only letting me finish when I’m hooked up to the pump— just to keep me entertained while the machine does its job, they say. a feeder who completely reconditions my mind to associate pleasure with being stuffed to capacity and milked.

It should reach a depth of meaning. This person is capable of bending you to their will. They can flat out decide to defy your instinct to quit eating. Overruled. You'll be left in a heap. Aching and dazed. That was too easy for them. They'll know they can pull you into this any time they feel like it. It doesn't matter how close you are to a life-altering stage of obesity...they will always be able to push enough food past your lips to put you deeper into this hole.

A good feeder will know how to weaponize your attraction to them. A commanding voice that puts you into a trance. That feeling of being pursued. You feel lucky to have them. You like looking at their features. You like how they draw the eyes of others. Getting fat for them is effortless. I like you! I carry this weight for you! Isn't that worth a kiss? Aren't I great?

But the force feeding itself. It is terrifying. They want the most out of you. Eyes turning black with rabid desire. Protests, pleading, begging all met with an insultingly casual tsk tsk tsk. Who knows what's best?

Imagine that tension over time. Each force feeding taking on a more grim understanding of your dynamic. It isn't a one-off, kinky dominance in the bedroom. It's a continual overreach of power. Forcing you to grow your body goes far beyond sex. They have a chokehold on how your life goes from here.

It doesn't help when the sessions lose any sense of humanity. Being tied down is redundant, but it makes the point: you're an object to be controlled. Being mocked when they lock the door, flashing you a glimpse of a key you'll never be allowed to touch. Rules and treatment that cross the line of decency. They get off to making you fatter, and they are mainlining the process to satisfy their needs.

There will come a point where the only way to make you fatter is to force feed you. The amount of calories you need to keep growing can no longer be met by free will. What will go on in your head, knowing you are too fat to change this? Moving isn't a matter of having the strength, it's a simple issue of being unable to find the mechanics to walk when your limbs and torso are unable to bend and shift due to the overwhelming thickness of the fat on your frame.