Do you wanna milk this thing? Do you wanna make those udders hang heavier? Do you wanna draw new folds and creases along its sides, its back, its front? Do you wanna laugh as it becomes unable to touch myself? Do you wanna hear it whine? Do you wanna grasp that belly as it flows, groaning, over its thighs? Do you wanna watch its arms flap uselessly at its sides as it tries and fails to escape your touch? Do you wanna breed this thing? Do you wanna hook it up to pumps, tubes, keep it helplessly restrained in pleasure? Do you wanna drug it into docile uselessness? Do you wanna condition, train it into your perfect vision of a cow? Do you wanna stuff sweet, fatty foods down its maw? Hear its chewing, ruminating? Do you wanna hear it moo and moan? In terror? resignation? belonging? bliss? Do you wanna own this thing?
Do you?
Looking for a feeder/farmhand for a very devoted cow <3 perverted dykes hit my line
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You can’t get settled. No matter how hard you try, nothing is comfortable. Your coworkers eye you up, asking if everything’s okay, noting the crease in your brow and the frustrated flush in your cheeks. You squirm in your seat, huffing to yourself as you try to stay on task, to stay focused, only to wind up distracted by yourself.
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.
Especially since your alarm clock hadn’t gone off this morning, and in your mad dash to make it to work on time, you’d forgotten to grab breakfast. Now it was nearing ten in the morning, and you’d had yet to even make it over to the office snack stash to sate the roaring hunger of not only your belly, but of your mind.
As you sit here, squirming in your creaking office chair, constantly interrupted by tasks, emails, and messages, you mourn the lost food you could’ve stuffed into your mouth.
You know you “shouldn’t” feel that way, that you should be pleased you’d made it this long without a meal — you know several of your coworkers are probably secretly thinking this is good for you, given how they’ve watched you balloon over the last few years.
The hunger you feel makes it hard to think that way, though. All it makes you is irritable, desperate, and immune to the embarrassment that comes with being this affected by simply being a little late to your usual meal time.
In a brief reprieve, you manage to heave out of your office chair and waddle your way to the snack stash at the back of the office. Your belly leads the way, pressing hard against the front of your shirt, which is only covering anything because it’s tucked into the front of your pants. Even those are holding on for dear life against your burgeoning belly, your belt on its last notch and the zipper teeth pulled tight.
Your thighs chafe against one another, the inner stretch of your pants pilling and near threadbare. Your footfalls are loud through the office, amplified by the way you huff and puff while you haul yourself a mere few yards to your chance to put another chin under your face.
You grab for a baggie of cookies, some chips, a candy bar, and a soda from the fridge. Before you even get back to your desk, the candy bar is gone, and your hand is stuffed into the bag of chips while the other items are wedged between the fat of your arm and chest.
Your chair shudders as you plop back into it, the arms pinching your ass as you shimmy close to your desk once more. The curve of your middle brushes the edge of the table as you reach for your keyboard, and your head spins as it smacks you over the head just how fat you’ve gotten.
You don’t care if anyone sees as you shove your snacks into your mouth so quickly that some people might miss that you even had any. You’re too, suddenly, thrilled by the idea of stuffing yourself so fat and full that reaching the keyboard isn’t even a possibility.
You bite back a whimper as you subtly brush the sides of your belly with the heels of your palms, reveling in the new growth left there even from just last week. Arousal courses through you, throbbing in your groin, as you squirm in your seat again. Your face is flushed, turned on and frustrated that you can’t immediately take care of it.
You try to control yourself, but ten minutes later, you’re back up to grab more snacks. You think you’re being discreet, but the wobble of your ass makes you difficult to miss. You need to invest in bringing some of your own snacks, you think, as you fight the urge to clear out the snacks in one fell swoop.
Twenty minutes after that, you go to your boss to ask if you can go home early, claiming you might be coming down with something, and hoping nobody notices that the front buttons of your shirt are showing just a little skin between them.
~~~~~
Nearing four hundred pounds is a lot, but when you’re this worked up, it’s not nearly enough.
You know you should just go home and have a normal, if not large, meal and call it good. You’ll get full, get off, and get it out of your system.
However, as you sit at a stoplight, your stomach growls at the sight of the fast good drive through. You try to ignore it, but your eyes and your mind keep drifting. You bite your bottom lip, gripping the steering wheel until your knuckles are white. You get a brief flash of what you would look like if you were so fat and so stuffed that you’d wind up wedged by the steering wheel, and that’s all it takes to break your self restraint.
You’ll just get a regular order, you think as you pull into the line, but you wonder what it would be like to order the whole menu. You blush at the thought of being stuffed to the gills, stuck on your back with your domed, red, tight belly in the air above you. You wonder, excited, what your belly would feel like under your hands as you rubbed and fondled it.
You blush, both out of eagerness and out of shame. You know you shouldn’t be excited about such a concept — no normal person gets this excited about eating enough food to last someone nearly a week, let alone knowing just how much damage it’ll do to your waistline.
Before you can stop yourself, you order enough for five people anyway.
“I’m getting together with some friends,” you lie, and the cashier laughs along with you. When you pull up to the window, though, you can see it on their face that they don’t entirely believe you. Your face goes even redder, but then the food is in your hands and the excited thrill of eating it all makes you forget about it entirely.
It’s like you go into a trance. Once you start thinking about it, you can’t stop. And once you actually commit, there’s no going back. In fact, you tend to go even farther than you’d initially planned.
You absentmindedly nibble on some fries and sip at your large soda as you drive, only to find, once you get home, that all the fries are gone, your soda is empty, and you’d eaten half the twenty-count chicken nuggets without even noticing.
You want to chide yourself, and there’s a brief bout of shame that surges from your belly, but a deep, growing part of you is in love with how your gluttony took over without you even trying. Like many times before, you know you’ll be beholden to your urges and unable to control yourself.
Deep down, a slowly-diminishing voice asks if this is a good idea. You might be in deep, but you can always stop — better late than never — and start shedding pounds rather than adding them on.
Your belly growls, and the thought of eating so much that it hurts drowns out your doubts. Every day, you grow closer to not caring what you or other people will think about adding another hundred pounds to your figure.
You get yourself into your apartment as quickly as you can, and you don’t even change out of your work clothes before settling onto your groaning couch to gorge on your fast food meal. The buttons on your shirt are puckering, straining against the increasing fullness of your belly. When you sit, it pushes your belly outward, and with that, one of the buttons pops open.
Your face goes red and hot, and you sit there, frozen, as one hand slowly reaches forward to feel the newly exposed skin, like you can’t believe that just happened. As it stands, you can’t see it all too clearly either. You whine and squirm in your seat, but rather than let any mortification take over, you grab for your drive through bag and pull out your first burger.
It hits your tongue, and you immediately feel yourself slip into a daze. You slump back into the couch, taking huge bites and hardly chewing between swallows, while one hand finds its way to your gut. You whimper, feeling the soft flesh give under your palm as it fights to break out of your shirt. You can’t help but moan at the thought of eating this shirt to tatters, shoving the last bite into your mouth and grabbing for the next burger.
Cheese, double patties, all your favorite toppings in excess, with added fried onions. It’s heaven in your mouth, and you rub circles along your belly as you eat three heaping beef burgers in less than ten minutes. You feel drunk off it, hardly registering at all just how much you’ve already eaten.
You can feel a tightness in your stomach, but that’s part of the thrill, so you allow your hand to move on autopilot, reach for the rest of your chicken nuggets, and shovel them into your mouth one after another.
Your belly presses onto your thighs with every added bite. Over the sound of your biting into your fried chicken sandwich, you’re pretty sure you can hear the buttons of your shirt whining. Your belt is digging hard into your stomach, but, despite the slight mortification, you’re intent on popping at least one more button.
Topping off your soda, four sandwiches, and double-serving of chicken nuggets, you bring the straw of your double chocolate shake to your lips. The cream is thick and heavy, and you sigh through your nose and shut your eyes as you gulp, your free hand rubbing even faster circles into the side of your bloated belly.
You pause only to avoid a brain freeze and take a breath, which makes it painfully obvious how full you are. You can’t even expand your lungs all the way, and you whimper and blush as you press onto the growing firmness of your middle.
Your fingers tease the growing holes between your shirt buttons, and you squirm where you sit as you desperately chug more of your milkshake, whining as you silently plead for one of them to—
Pop!
The straw leaves your mouth with a snap, and you palm eagerly at your newly exposed skin while you rock in your seat. The fat of your thighs and fatpad create a delicious pressure between your legs, and with the added feeling of relief from your massive, domed belly breaking free of its confines, your orgasm snaps through you, too.
You suck down the last of your shake as you ride the wave of your pleasure, that crest peaking higher as you blush bright red while blatantly getting off on stuffing yourself with excess calories upon calories. Your hand clutches at the front of your belly, hooking your fingers into the growing maw that was once your belly button, and gives the stretched flab a languid shake.
Your whole body shudders as the several-meals-worth of food jostles inside you, barely contained by skin soon to be riddled with even more stretch marks.
Several feelings course through your mind as you come down from your high. First is relaxation and relief, finally getting that intense need out of your system. Second is shame and embarrassment, face flushed as the post-nut clarity hits you and you’re left with an aching belly and a lost button; you wonder what an outsider might think if they saw you, a glutton helpless to your own urges, uncaring for the indecency of your fat gut on display and half a dozen fast food wrappers laden around your bloated figure. Third is just a glimmer at first, something fluttering in your belly, and it’s amplified as you rub both your hands across your distended belly and roam them over the growing mounds of fat on your chest, your sides, your thighs, your ass.
Your hands return to the front of your belly, where you finally undo the buckle of your belt, followed by the button of your pants, but your belly makes work of the zipper on its own.
You moan with relief as your belly is granted total freedom, no longer pinched by the waistband of your pants.
Finally, your mind settles on one last feeling: more.
The rest of your shirt buttons follow your pants, undone and open, exposing the entire expanse of your belly and every roll and fold that comes with it. Suddenly, though not without more blood rushing to your cheeks, you find you’ve got more room in that belly of yours.
With a bit of a heave, thrown slightly off-kilter by the swell of your gut, you get to your feet and find your body moving before your brain can catch up to what it’s doing.
Before you know it, you’re standing in your kitchen, in front of the open pantry door, with your hand stuck in the double-sized box of sandwich cookies you just got from the store the other day. Grocery runs are dangerous for you, especially when hungry and unable to discern between what you need and what you want, because now it means you’re stocked up and held hostage by your desire to clear out all your cabinets immediately.
Your pudgy hands rip open the packaging as you stand there, and the cookies find your lips two at a time. You huff and grunt as you stuff them into your mouth, chocolate crumbs and vanilla cream dancing down your throat.
You feel like you’re outside your own body, like a dream, watching your hand work between the box and your face again and again and unable to stop it. You simply allow yourself to get lost in the taste of them, one of your favorite treats, and the would-be concern and horror of eating the entire box in one go falls to the wayside.
The empty packaging gets tossed aside, your body intent on getting more food inside it. You reach for the family sized bag of chips next, the bottom of the bag resting atop the dome of your belly as you shovel them into your mouth by the handful.
Your trunk-like legs quiver slightly below you, but you’re too focused on eating the entire bag of fried chips to care.
Chips gone, you reach for the bag of chocolate covered nuts next, then the box of crispy fried onion toppings, then the entire box of fruit gummy bags, until your easily-attainable snack foods are completely wiped out.
You lean back where you stand, groaning as you arch your back to accommodate the front-heaviness of your stuffed belly. You stare down at it through half-lidded eyes, lust and your stuffing-haze clouding your mind. Your belly is red and angry, jutting out far and wide, looking half like it’s ready to burst.
Your brows twitch together, mouth falling open on a soft gasp. Even your chubby hands look small against the taut skin.
You stare around yourself, taking absentminded inventory of the dozens of now-empty food packages littered over the counter and floor. You think, again, that you should be mortified. Maybe there’s still a part of you that is, but that’s also the very thing that makes it all the more appealing.
People enjoy the taboo. It just so happens that your favorite taboo doesn’t quite align with the broader public.
Below you, your legs begin to ache as they struggle to keep you upright. You’re not done yet, though, as your belly groans and churns through your multitude of meals wrapped in one.
Your body won’t be sated until you can’t move from under all the food you’ve consumed.
The freezer is your next target. A couple pints of ice cream, half a box of ice cream sandwiches, the tube of edible cookie dough you got with the intention of saving it for a special occasion: all of this gets cleaned out while a double helping of frozen mac and cheese cooks in the microwave.
It only needs to cook for a cumulative ten minutes, but all the ice cream is gone and you’re halfway through the thawing cookie dough when the microwave dings.
The gooey noodles are forked into your mouth in a steady stream, and you whimper thinking about how many boxes of this you’d be able to eat in a row.
As it stands, after all the other food, this one is topping you off nicely. You cradle the plastic container on top of your chest and practically slurp the cheese like a drink. Your belly groans from it, and you sway drunkenly as your stomach pangs from how full you are.
It’s a high you can’t get enough of. Your skin swells out in front of you, a testament to your greed and gluttony. You wish you’d taken a picture of yourself before you’d made a total hog out of yourself, just to revel in the addicting feeling of how big you made yourself.
You toss the pasta container into the sink and raise the second half of the cookie dough to your mouth. It’s soft now, and you take a massive bite where you’d once just been gnawing. Your other hand pets your belly, and you shiver feeling just how firm it is. The skin tingles where you touch it, oversensitive and delicate where you know big rippling stretch marks have bloomed.
Your hand roams downward, and you have to strain slightly in order to feel any soft fat able to be pinched. The rest of your belly is round and tight, completely filled to bursting, and you whine softly at the pain you experience when pressing your hand down on it.
In just a few minutes, the cookie dough is gone, and though you won’t have before and after pictures, you’re still wearing your work clothes.
Your chins and cheeks bunch against your face as you look down at yourself. Crumbs and ice cream drops are stuck to the red curve of your belly. The sleeves of your shirt already feel like they’re pinching. You feel uncoordinated as your pudgy hands grasp the buttons of your shirt, impeded by the sheer girth of your belly.
You pull, curious to see how hard it’ll be to close this shirt back up. The two buttons around your chest meet each other, if not with a little difficulty, but the third one needs another inch of give to even stand a chance. You try to suck in your gut, but that proves futile the instant you attempt it.
The button below that is in even worse shape, and not just because that’s the one your hedonism snapped off and sent flying across the room earlier.
You yank and tug, remembering that it had actually been easy to get this shirt on that morning. Now, the fastener looks miles apart, more than half a foot of space leaving the curve of your belly entirely exposed. Your face goes red, and you allow yourself to pretend that this was your predicament this morning, or even at work had you stuck it out the rest of the day and gotten yourself some lunch. You imagine the horror and desperation you’d feel snapping off buttons in the office and left with red, stuffed skin exposed for all your colleagues to see, completely unable to hide what a fatass you are.
You whine and gasp, heat throbbing between your legs, as you try for your pants next. If the shirt was impossible, the pants are completely out of the question. With so much food packed inside you, you can barely even reach for the fly of your pants, totally impeded by the expanse of your stomach. When you do manage to grab the button, you know there’s no question: there’s no stuffing your belly back behind the waistband.
You drop the attempts and return to rubbing your belly, moaning softly as you tremble all over.
You’re completely at the mercy of your impulsive desire right now, unable to stop yourself as you chase your pleasure and crack open the door to the fridge. Deep down, you know you should stop. You don’t want to actually hurt yourself, but the forefront of your mind isn’t concerned with that right now. In fact, you know, as you float through your fatass autopilot, that the only thing you’ll be cognizant of later is just how many pounds you’ve tacked on.
Leftover pizza slices make it into your mouth cold, a quarter-used tub of chocolate frosting disappears as you scoop it into your mouth with your hand, a block of sharp cheddar cheese leaves crumbs down your stomach as you bite straight into it. Each bite gets faster and faster, trying to outpace the hunger pangs, trying to avoid your brain telling you you’re full. If you eat fast enough, by the time it registers, it’ll be too late for you to stop.
You’re cramming a couple slices of leftover blueberry pie into your mouth when your legs finally have enough of holding up your heft. You groan, licking berry syrup off your fingers as you brace one hand on the counter and begin to sink to the floor.
Your belly is well and clearly in the way, and your face goes bright red as you huff and wheeze around trying to ease yourself down onto your ass. You land on your knees first, shifting and turning until you shake the floor when you land on your ass and slide your feet out from under you. Your legs stick out, spread to make room for the growing sphere of your belly, the heft of it pressing hard against the tops of your fattening legs. It’s then you realize that, if you were just a couple dozen pounds heavier, all that stuffing would have your belly cleanly touching your knees.
A gasping whine slips last your lips as you lean against the cabinets and stare at your mess of a belly, so big and round that you can even feel it pushing the flab of your chest up into your chins. You rub your hands over the skin, admiring with trepidatious glee just how far it sticks out from your body. You can hardly believe it’s yours, but it is, indeed, connected to your body, despite it seeming to have a mind of its own.
Food wrappers are littered all around you, the glow of the fridge casting delicate shadows across the floor. Your brow furrows, heat rushing to your face as you wonder, briefly, what you’ll have left to eat for the rest of the week.
Even so, it doesn’t stop your eyes from drifting back to the fridge, where they meet the still-mostly-full gallon of whole milk sitting in the door.
Your hands move of their own free will, hooking your fingers through the handle and knocking the door closed. The cap gets dropped onto the floor to roll away, out of sight, since you won’t be needing it anymore.
The top meets your lips, cool and creamy, as you tip back the jug and let it fall down your throat. You hardly have a chance to breathe, gasping through your nose each time you pause to swallow. It makes you even more woozy than you already are, head spinning as you drift through your haze of gluttony and desire.
As the milk jug lightens, you release one hand from it to instead place it against your belly. You don’t even have to focus in order to feel your belly swell out against your palm with every gulp. Your stomach groans in mild protest as the milk fills in every lasting available gap between the countless foodstuffs taking up residence, but your mind is chasing the thrill of finishing the final swallows of your heavy drink.
When you reach the end, you lap at the rim and over your lips, making sure not to miss a drop, and taking in shallow, gasping breaths. Your lungs, along with the rest of your organs, are pressed for space as your stomach becomes the star of the show.
Feebly, you place the empty jug down and plant both hands against your stomach and rub. The pressure is almost too much, despite hardly applying any at all, and you whimper as you try to shift your body to get more comfortable.
The attempt is futile. You’ve done what you desired: eaten yourself into being stuck where you’re sitting.
Your belly is red and shiny, swelled beyond comprehension. You almost can’t believe it, but you’re too full and woozy to feel any sort of mortification about what you’ve just done. All you can do is stare at yourself, belly sticking out what must be nearly three feet, and pushing out to the sides against your arms in an attempt to put all that excess somewhere.
You’re a beached whale, trapped by your own gluttony. Rather, your inability to control it.
Desire courses through you like a fire. Your groin throbs relentlessly, and all it takes is one gentle press on top of your belly, pushing it down onto your lap, for you to be a moaning mess, coming through your underwear and leaving you sticky and wet.
Your brow furrows, your moans lilting up into pained whining, as the pulsing in your core squeezes your strained stomach, once again highlighting just how stuffed you are.
Your hands rub tender circles over your skin, and you allow your eyes to slip shut and focus on simply breathing, not moving another inch in hope of avoiding upsetting your stomach. You revel in simply feeling how large you are, how round, how unapologetically fat.
You blush as you begin to come back to earth — as much as you can despite your brain’s inability to focus on anything other than how full you are and the twinges of pain emanating from your stomach — and consider what anyone else would think if they saw you. You bite your lip, imagining the looks passersby would give you if they could see you — the way they’d gawk, do double takes, point and whisper behind their hands about how ashamed you should be, how unapologetic, how you’re such a fat pig with no self control and someone needs to take food away from you, for your own good.
Those thoughts flash through your own mind, but there’s nothing you can say in response. You simply can’t help it; there was no stopping your tear until it left you pinned in a stupor, glutted beyond recognition and knowing, deep down, that it’ll be even worse the next time as you attempt a high greater than the one you experienced today.
~~~
It takes hours, but eventually, you digest enough that you can get yourself to your feet without feeling sick. It takes all your effort, and you need to turn over onto your hands and knees in order to get the leverage necessary to hoist yourself up. You whimper pathetically when it makes the front of your belly kiss the floor, and if you’re not careful, it’ll trigger your fattening desire all over again.
With effort, you shed your clothes, and you swear you already have new fat accumulating on the outside of every inch of your body.
The following day, you call out of work. A stomach bug, you say, and you’re not far off.
Unable to control yourself, you’d eaten yourself even further into a food coma the night before, leaving you still feeling stuffed the following morning. None of your shirts would cover all of that skin, and you’d blushed ten different shades of red as you accepted you’d need to stay home to overnight-ship some new, larger clothes to your front door. You wonder if any of your coworkers will notice, and if they’ll comment. Whether they know the reason behind it or not, you’ll blush anyway and say it’s been sitting in your closet for some time, ignoring how obvious the lie is, given all your clothes as of late, the ones you’ve worn for years, have been tearing at the seams around your growing body.
Of course, you’d eaten yourself into an orb that day too, ordering endless streams of takeout, leaving your bedside table piled high with bags and containers, showing off the multitude of meals you’d managed to stuff into your face by the end of the day.
As you sit leaned up against the headboard, you gasp and whine, rubbing your belly that now well and truly does touch your knees as you sit. Your whole body is noticeably bigger, all that food fattening you up an inordinate amount.
There’s nothing on your mind other than getting food and getting fatter, and you’re half tempted to call out of work the following day and do it all over again — three days in a row of pure, unstoppable gluttony and hedonism.
No, five days, you correct, as you realize tomorrow is Friday.
Despite being so stuffed you can’t move again, you decide before really thinking that you’ll be staying home again tomorrow. You whimper after a few moments, realizing it’s purely because you’re already planning what food you’re going to order, and how much of it, and if you’ll be able to keep yourself stuffed to the gills from morning till night with no reprieve.
Embarrassment and excitement fight with each other, before both soon being swallowed by a sort of calm acceptance: this was always how it was going to go, you were always meant to do this, and you should spend the rest of your life dead-set on eating yourself into an immobile, pinned orb of glutted-out fat, devoted and focused only on eating an endless stream of fattening foods, giving in purely to your uncontrollable desires, with nary a chance of breaking out of the cycle you’ve begun to create.
i know it’s embarrassing to gain sometimes. i know you might think you’re ruining yourself, pushing your body to its extremes, gorging yourself until you’re useless.
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.
it’s not your fault. it’s just who you are. don’t fight it.
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.
“Go ahead and rest, baby, sleep it off,” she says through the water. “Make some space for when you wake up.”
It's amazing how the difference between soooo many obese people and those who are mattress sized, wheezing blobs is usually just a little bit of enabling.
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.
One of you is reading this right now. You're hundreds of pounds away from this fate, but you're incapable of stopping it. Rationalize how you must. It's just another big meal. It's just one more day keeping off your feet...
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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.
In the hallway, you stand for a moment, watching me, silhouetted against the kitchen lights.
"DreaMoo? Hucow supplements? Take two by mouth every day with breast milk to maintain effects. Side effects are milk production, weight gain, cow features… Not tested by FDA… Do not exceed two pills in a 24 hour period, changes may become more severe and in extreme cases permanent…"
"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.
Unfortunately, there were a couple other changes but I won't notice them for a couple hours as I desperately milked myself into more orgasms.
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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.
a feeder who secretly adds mass gainer and lactation hormones to all the food they make me, until I’m not only the size of a house cow, but until I have big, milk-filled udders to match
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.
a feeder who completely turns me into livestock before I even know what happened.
looking for a woman who'd like to mock it, encourage it, receive pictures, degrade it (hard), and use its fat body for her pleasure. wants to get bigger for you <3 it's ready to be your virtual livestock plaything, okay?
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Imagining working my hands through the fat encasing a hugely obese feedee laying in bed, hundreds of pounds of rolls immobilizing them completely as they suckle around a feeding tube. Feeling them jolt and jiggle as I finally reach their buried junk, playing with it as they try in vain to squirm as a result of the sensation. Working them up until they cum once, face red and stomach heaving, then twice, then three times, until their fupa is slick and coated in cum, leaking out as all they can manage is a muffled moan of pleasure and agony, stomach still stretching as the feeding tube continues to bloat them larger and larger. Continuing to get them off, not caring about how overstimulated they must be as I force them to cum a dozen times, then two dozen, then more, all without breaks, knowing there’s absolutely nothing they can do to stop me. They’ve made themselves completely and utterly unable to resist, giving no choice but to let their mind recede as I make them cum until they can’t form another drop and then cum some more. Snorting and groaning like a pig as they try and fail to thrash, brain cracking and breaking under the endless onslaught of pleasure and pressure in their abused stomach and groin. Then, when they’ve finally cum 50 times, I’ll turn off the machine and let them fade into a blissful sleep, resolving to double the amount tomorrow.
Force feeding someone is a form of art. Not that cutesy hand feeding until she's full. Actual, truthful force feeding.
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.
People will drive past a modest home, unaware of your bleak life. Trapped in a room. Only functioning to eat. Synapses that are withered away from a lack of decision making, a lack of movement. Re-wired to accept eating as the sole experience in your life.
blooming (slow motion) @soselfishly - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook