#mewrite

I can hardly breath. My stomach hurts. I’m so full. I ate too much. I cannot imagine getting up from the couch. My belly weighs me down. I feel so groggy. 

I have to focus on my breathing. I’m so thoroughly beached all I can do is cradle my fat, blubbery gut spread over my lap. It’s dominating my evenings recently. It demands I feed it until I can’t think straight. 

I am sitting upright, in a sluggish daze. I’m too full to lay down comfortably, but so, so exhausted. It’s taking all my energy to just digest all this food, and breathe correctly. Burps keep escaping my lips. Every time I press out more air, I get a momentary relief. I’m so swollen, so bloated, so distended. I’m completely overladen with delicious food. So totally engorged with my failed restraint. 

I keep fantasizing about eating more cookies. Today I added about 32 soft baked cookies of various kinds to my evening feeding. I ate so many I lost count, but some still remain on the table in front of me. But that table is so, so, so far away. 

Leaning forward feels impossible. I still probably couldn’t reach. I just can’t reach past my belly right now. I keep trying to talk myself into moving. Just standing up and getting my cookies. Just a little effort. But I’m too heavy. Much too heavy now.

I keep sipping my drink. I can barely reach it, and it’s running out. I’m thirsty, but I also need to be sure I fill all remaining space. That’s what my belly requires, after all. 

My belly is so warm, and so squishy. It’s like I have a personal pillow attached at all times. A giant, soft, jiggly beanbag just hanging over my waistband, or between my legs, or into sinks. It feels so good when I lift it up and it completely overfills my arms. It spills over my forearms and flops over my hands as I hold the meaty underside. I love bouncing it up and down, and letting it drop. I love how I have a deep, plunging overhang and a thick upper roll beneath my tits. I love how said roll is one of many that are piled up on my sides and connected around to my back. 

My entire torso is covered in a hefty, thick, sagging layer of fat. I’m a butterball, a tub of lard, a fleshy sack of dough. It encases me, buries me, crushes me. It’s no small part of why I’m pinned to this couch. 

I’ve outgrown tape measures, seat belts, booths, and many shirts. All thanks to this gluttonous, greedy, grotesquely overfed gut. It’s in control. I’m just carrying it to its next meal. I’m just making sure the food gets where it needs to go.

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.

I love when a woman has big blubbery thighs…solid, squishy barrels of lard. I love when those massive slabs of meat balloon out over her knees a bit too, and she has immense, powerful calves. Something to hold up her hefty, hanging, blobby gut. Her overfilled, overinflated, ballooned out sagging sack of a belly. Right in the middle is a gaping, deepening hole that almost beckons like a pouting, open mouth.

Then there is her sides; thickly layered, soft and pillowy rolls sitting on malleable, bouncy, jiggly hips. All this is rounded out by big, fucking fat, wobbly ass cheeks larger than anything else on her little overfed frame. A gigantic backside that squishes, crushes, bounces, and claps as she moves about her day, or as I try to use its immense meaty rounds. Ass cheeks that are so overinflated with fat that they ripple and push her around as I smack them, and crush the weak legs of our furniture. Her back too is totally layered in soft excess, and from the side you can see her deep, plunging cleavages of overhang, hip, and ballooned out roll.

She has a rounded out face with a soft double chin that covers her pretty throat, and flabby, saggy, hanging, flapping arms. Real meaty sacks of lard that droop over her elbows. Then her simply decadently thick forearms end in a fat, chubby wrist that has little soft hands perfect for lifting food to her mouth.

her figure is indulgent. So overladen in heavy, soft blubber. I love these ones.

the good ones. the overfed ones. the blob ones.