#sara2444

I don't really care for imagining real people especially, or even established characters. It usually leans into the weird fetishization of non-kink fat people. I really hate that part of the community lol.

I prefer character archetypes. However, I did write this story, which could probably be read as Keanu Reeves if you wanted it to be.

Wake and bake makes you starving again despite your bulging middle. It's normal for this to happen, and normal to want more. You're supposed to enjoy the holidays, aren't you? Ignore the full feeling and overindulge.

Glut and gorge all day right before Thanksgiving, so when you wake up the next morning your overstretched stomach growls angrily. Don't stop eating like that! Everyone loves stuffing themselves silly on Turkey Day so why not continue the fun? You can prepare a feast and eat the leftovers for days on end.

Eat greedily all the way through Christmas and New Years. The clothes you were gifted dig into you--some don't fit at all. Do you think it's all the cookies and pies you've been chowing down? All those holiday cocktails you've been drinking up?

The thought slips your mind on New Years Eve when you get sloppy and stuffed, then again on New Years Day when you do the same. This is the way you should be. It's normal and it's hot. If it feels good it must be good, right?

Thank you so much!! I started writing because few people wrote the content I wanted to see. I've always had a passion for writing and although none of my real work ever got published I have enjoyed sharing my skill with you all.

You're meant to lose control over food and feederism. Never lose weight. Only lose control.

You love eating extra at meals. It feels so good to push yourself more and more. Chug after every meal to expand your capacity. Stop worrying about repurcussions and lose control.

Yes! I'm sara2444 on deviantart for anyone that doesn't know.

The creaking highlighted his waddling steps into the kitchen. The same path he took every hour or so, hands cradling the warm bulge of his gut, hungry for more. All those years ago, he'd had no soft dough to hold. But that was years ago. He fished two beers out of the fridge and emptied them into his belly, feeling it expand under his pudgy fingertips. He returned with an armful of snacks, but by the time he managed to start his stream, they were gone.

He flexed for his fans, but his arms grew tired from holding up the thick ring of fat sagging where his bicep hid. He smacked his gut and let loose a rolling belch for the camera. He could barely move under the weight of his food, and the more he moved, the gassier he got. Not that he cared. 

"It all started in that gym!" Chet slurred, head spinning from the combo of weed, pounds of food, and alcohol. He laughed at the photo.

The Chet in the photo flexed in front of the squat rack. It had been shot on a polaroid in a gym that no longer stood, not far from the CUNY campus where he'd studied Personal Training.

His life had been going perfectly. Right out of college he made a name for himself. Although the gym he worked for was fresh, it showed potential -- and so didn't Chet. He too was fresh, his mind was sharp and he was damn good at his job. By design his only hobby was training hard. Obsessively tracking macros and calories. He ate right, never cheated, and cranked away day and night, exercising his body. Lifting heavy, then heavier. He’d won his fair share of "natural" competitions, his name had value in the right circles. He loved that his body put him in the spotlight: Exactly why he needed the self-gratuitous photo taken.

"Chet's happy place!" His gym rat buddies had joked.

He ended up with his pictures in magazines and on websites. He racked up a social media following. He trained a dozen and one Hollywood stars, and catapulted into fitness fame. Chet found his new happy place -- alongside a well-paying spot as the face of the best new fitness brand.

Now, he looked like a slob, half naked body surrounded by a pile of plates and filth. Lifting weights had become lifting the remote. He tweaked his swollen nipples and flexed again, the effort making him fart. He breathed it in, getting worked up and squeezing another out for good measure.

Embiggn had come to him with an offer he couldn't refuse. He had been getting bored of the rat race. He won often, and made money, but it was dull. For a long time he toyed with the idea of starting his own guru brand, and for no good intentions. The company knew he was perfect for their brand: he was a vain, egocentric meathead that needed to get bigger by any means necessary. He took their sponsorship and ran with it, shilling out Embiggn programs and equipment and gym memberships and sponsored nutritionists. He was the biggest face in fitness, and Embiggn grew to become the best selling fitness brand in the US. Sex sells, but sex appeal sells better. Chet and his brand had millions of fans worldwide, and he was plastered all over their merch.

"And now the new life-changing product from... from my one and only sponsor... Embiggn!" he said, like he didn't know what the words meant.

It was the ultimate fitness device, according to Embiggn. It looked like a large crate-like box, marked with the trendy logo and fitted with a touch screen. All you had to do was open the lid and punch in the serial code. After many brain dead tries, Chet managed to enter the short code, and the device sprang to life. It wasn't terribly loud, but very flashy and overdesigned. It moved mechanically at first, then seamlessly slid under him for his "workout", then dispensed several electrodes and simple instructions.

With a clearer head he would have felt ridiculous, but not then. He'd been the perfect beta tester, watching hours and hours of videos training him to be a mindless pig without even knowing. Hours spent gorging, lounging, and growing while he was convinced nothing had changed.

He leaned back into the couch, feeling the prods of the self-assembling parts. Two cold cups suctioned onto his swollen nipples, six electrodes adhered to his stomach, and two to his temple.

"Ready?" A soft voice asked him.

"Hell yea-mmmmph!” The machine had hardly waited for his confirmation. A tube snaked down his throat and pumped his gut full of lard. He moaned around the tube, feeling his already swollen body swell more with every pump. Chet didn't feel bloated; he just felt hungrier and hungrier. Eagerly he sucked the mix down, and as he sucked, his mind withered more and more. 

It had specifically been programmed for his brain — decades of user profiles in their database. They knew more about him than he did. It knew his need to get bigger, and it would help him acquire the level of fitness he wanted. Embiggn hadn't lied. They had formulated each machine to reach into the depths and create perfection. The seat cradled him no matter how much his ballooning body shifted. The machine tugged at his sensitive chest, and milked his cock, all the while pouring pure fat down his throat. Chet realized, dimly, that he'd never felt better in his whole life. And like that, his life was reduced to the machine.

After years of eating up the material on the Embiggn apps, in his mind, he was just as buff as he'd always been. He didn't need an Embiggn brand VR headset to see his body getting stronger instead of fatter, but it had certainly helped. That paired with the spent years eating up the fattening "health supplements" and food around him. 

Desperately he sucked at the tube. He needed more. His wide ass blew right through his tarp like shorts. His tight skin glistened with sweat, his breathing quick and shallow. Between his elephantine thighs, the machine quickened its pace. He thought that his overfilling might end at orgasm, but when he finished three containers to no mercy, he truly gave up. Helplessly he sucked down the fattening cocktail--not that he had much choice--and the last shred of humanity he'd had was lost. A bubbling fart slipped from his ass, and he shot his load. The machine deemed this to be enough pleasure, and relinquished him. The machinery repackaged itself to charge, leaving Chet propped on a couch too fragile to support his weight. It splintered beneath him in pieces, but he was too dazed to notice. 

It was quite a feat of engineering they had managed. As long as he streamed on an Embiggn platform, his image would be one of yesteryear. The Embiggn AI generated a perfect likeness of him, only with his beefy tanned body, and not his hoggish form. When he flexed his cellulite, his digital muscles bulged. Instead of his gut hanging out of his custom Embiggn Personal Trainer tee, his shredded muscles filled it out. Any dopamine spike detected by the program would beef up his digital self even bigger, and bigger they had grown.

It was a new age. The program had changed his life for sure. If he hadn't glossed over his contracts, he'd have known what he signed up for. But no one ever read the contract, the suits at Embiggn knew that. They marketed their ultra fattening, brain melting products as uber-healthy supplements decorated with fitness gods, while the fitness gods that took it became uncontrollably obese, and Chet was no different. Then they provided them with the ultimate distraction, a fantasy world of fame that kept the pigs docile, distracted, and addicted. 

And like sheep, the masses would follow. More people would pick up Embiggn -- through word of mouth, through flashy advertisement, through the millions of bots pumping out positive info. Then it wouldn't just be gym bros made to be massive hogs. In fact, according to the spreadsheets, nearly 45% of all traditional gym goers had given up a physical location for an Embiggn package. That number climbed exponentially every single quarter, and with the release of their New Year's Resolution package, the future looked even fatter.

Chet ended his stream in which his viewers had watched a massively strong man reach his new personal best. In some way, he really had. Three tubs of Embiggn Gainer pumped into his ruined body, three pounds of pure fat gained in one session. He sighed, content with his crippling obesity. After all, he could see he was still the shredded muscle God of his dreams. He smiled for the camera, sluggishly flexing and farting.

His cock ached from overstimulation, but he teased his nipples anyway, drool spilling out of his mouth. He liked being dumb and fat, even if he had no idea that he was. It made his tiny cock hard, and made him cum. And he liked that a lot. Too bad he was too wide to reach the little chub hidden under his massive fat pad. And even if he were to try, all that lard wobbling would tire him right out. Chet needed the Embiggn machine. 

Dependency. That was the future too.

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