#evil feeder

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 my absolute favourite has to be secretly slipping extra calories into someone's food, especially if they're trying to diet.

Swapping their protein shakes for indulgent chocolate milkshakes, their diet sodas for regular. Stirring weight gain powder into the batch of 'healthy flapjacks' I'm baking.

Encouraging them to have a few cheat days every week, and to eat way more than they usually would to 'get it out of their system'. Serving huge portions at dinner time, and telling them to eat up so they don't get hungry and snack later (but make sure they're surrounded by tasty snacks at all times, just in case.)

Couple that with always rewarding and praising them for eating well, and fucking them senseless when their belly is tightly packed, until they crave stuffing themselves with a visceral need they don't really understand.

Then one day, dropping the act. Putting them in front of the mirror and grabbing a fat handful of flab to jiggle. Making them confront how far they let things get without putting up the slightest bit of resistance. Helping them realise there's no point trying anymore, that they're always going to be my desperate, greedy piglet. Then prdering them to their knees and hand feeding them until they pant with the heavy weight of their gut.

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.