For the last few days I’ve been playing around with an idea.

What if I had access to a pumping machine? 

It consists of a long rubber tube, a tank, and a foot pump, not unlike a bicycle pump. 

The tank is full of solid lard, or melted butter, or perhaps even cake batter shake. 

I’m seated beneath the machine, with the pump next to my right food. I can easily operate it with a forceful stomp. I cannot stop imagining snaking the tube down my throat. It chokes me slightly, but I get used to it. My lips struggle to contain saliva that spills out as the tube rests inside me.

There is a rubbery taste and texture, not unlike a mouthguard or a bottle. It’s a bit squishy, but stout. 

I press the pump. It shoots solid lard quite suddenly down the tube and into my belly. The long hose stiffens for a second, I cough and stutter, maybe even a heave. Then it’s over. 

One pump makes me comfortably full, like I am satiated. A bit woozy perhaps and certainly distended, but not so full I cannot function. 

A second pump almost instantaneously fills me to my greatest desires. So full I cannot stand without immense difficulty. So full I cannot manage any breathing beyond short, labored panting. So full my gut is noticeably swollen. So full I am having trouble thinking straight. So full I am starting to feel sluggish, tired, lethargic. 

I taste nothing but plasticky rubber, my own drool, and maybe the occasional lardy burp. There is no mess, no leaking, no waiting, no swallowing. The whole operation is only 1-3 minutes. This gives me plenty of time to lug my prize somewhere where we won’t be disturbed. 

How many times a day would I use the pump? I can easily envision myself pulling out the long tube. Struggling to get up from the chair and stumbling to my bed. Pinned by my extensive filling. Passing out and digesting it all over a few hours. 

Would I walk right back over? A little heavier, a little dumber, a little hungrier? 

Would I use the pump enough to make it take 3 pumps? 4? When would I stop? 

What if someone else was there to manage the pump? What if they kept pumping? What if they too, wanted to sit in the chair with the tube? What if I just kept pumping?

What if I get really fat? 

I’m so terrified by my answers to these questions. Access to this pump would ruin my life. I need this pump. My gut needs this pump. 

I’ve thought about this for days, almost a week. I’m embarrassed.

We buy one of those old scales, ya know…the ones with a weight limit that we both currently surpass. 

We each take a turn being weighed on it, hearing it creak and whine. The mechanical display wailing and grinding as it is overloaded.

The dial spins past the “250lbs MAX” mark, no problem for either of us, and the balance won’t reset to 0. Probably my fault. Oops. 

Then we both try and stand on it together, all squished up on a small little square pad. 

It cracks. The casing begins to shatter. Springs cinch up and gears bend, teeth breaking off. 

One of us loses our balance and has to step off, but not before it breaks entirely. The scale can no longer hold itself together and flings parts across the floor. It’s now a junk heap. 

We were too massive for the scale. We weighed too much. We were too fat. 

My favorite things about being in a mutual gaining relationship would have to be that you also become a mutual fat relationship, a mutual foodie relationship, and a mutual feeding relationship. Suddenly you both have the same problems, the same triumphs, and the same needs. We both need stronger chairs. We both need bigger clothes. We both need larger portions. We need larger spaces. We both know how it physically feels being really heavy. We both understand the gnawing need to be filled to a level that simply is unheard of. We both have the understanding that there will be a LOT of eating. We need to be built up and loved about our bodies because there is so much meanness about being fat.

For me specifically, I’ve been really fat my whole life. To have someone who has been through that too, or is at least there now, is really refreshing. They understand what it’s like to be looked at as ugly and stupid and ignored. They understand what it’s like to have limited fashion choices and limited space accommodations, and limited social allowances. They understand the dilemma of loving gaining weight and your clothes. They understand how tiring being this fat can be. They understand being fat can’t be turned off, it’s constantly there exciting, or frustrating you.

It is deeply refreshing to have a partner who knows how you’ve felt about so much with the physical experience. Sexuality as well, I always need a partner who is into what I’m into, but when they’re fat and love their body as well. When they are in touch with what they love about themselves and me and are at least working on being unapologetically fat and sexy…that is truly special. When it’s not about if we feel sexy, but how, that is truly lovely.

Dates trying lots of new food, or just seeing how much can be eaten. Dates trying out new fashion choices, and confidently going out in our new stylish clothes we put together. Dates spent celebrating our bodies and how we look and how we fit together as two really big people. Dates being unapologetically us. Goofing off, public affection, and playful teasing, without a care about what we are.

I think my favorite thing about being a fat feeder is that it’s been awhile for me with self feeding. I’m huge. I’ve been stuffing myself silly for years now, and I love eating. I love getting so full I can’t get up. I love being so full I can only gasp short breaths. I love being so full I can hardly stay awake as I drain all my energy away trying to digest.

So I know a lot about that. I want nothing more than to completely flood you with pleasure. I know what it’s like to barely be able to see past my own belly. So full I’m aching, and I feel all that food practically up to my throat. That tunnel vision when your stomach is so overfed and completely filled that you can really focus on much else. I know that.

I know what it’s like to love eating food. Truly savoring the chewing, and the swallowing. The almost intoxicating taste as you finally get to engorge on your craving. The feeling as your belly slowly fills up and starts to become heavier and sag lower. The feeling when your stomach starts getting bloated, swelling from the solid contents you insist belongs there. I know those too.

I know how sensitive it feels. A round, bulging, overfilled gut just jutting out ahead of you. Filling your lap, engulfing your waistband, causing you to feel off balance even as you finally stand up. I know how great that sensation is when you sit back down, cradling your pudgy pride, looking down and admiring your own handiwork. Finally leaning back and letting that fat, lard layered belly rest between your legs and just sag to the bed below. I know how it feels to get that massive meat trophy touched. Rubbed. Pressed on. Loved. Worshipped. A solid slapping. Working out all that excess air. Rolling sighs turned to belches. A quick burp. Loud, bassy brahps as you finally get some relief. I can’t forget those deep, gurgly, almost wet growling burps either.

I know how it feels to be so entirely in love with your giant, fat gut. So completely smitten by its wobbly, squishy, hanging demeanor that you simply must stuff it full of delicious treats. You have to. No choice. I want to help. Reward your belly for being so good to you. Listen to it.