You're a feedee, yeah, but you're sensible about it—that's what you tell yourself. You're a hedonist, not restricting yourself, indulging freely and lavishly, gaining weight as a side effect of your decadence. Sure, you'll eat a whole pizza, drink a whole bottle of wine, and then eat ice cream. And maybe you do that a lot. Maybe you can't touch your chin to your chest anymore because of the thick collar of fat on your neck. But your clothes mostly still fit, and your gain has plateaued, and people have gotten used to you being a fat girl after the initial blow-up. You've always had an appetite, your wife openly feeds you and brags about how much she like your new, soft body, and your friends even tease you on it from time to time. You're not like the girls you follow on Tumblr—you're not chugging gainer shake, not doing ten-thousand calorie stuffings. You're being realistic, not gaining five pounds a week. You're taking it slow. You go on walks, you go to the gym. Your wife wants you fatter, but she doesn't want to "cheat" with gainer shakes, she just wants to stuff you full of steak and pasta and cake and watch you soften up at a modest ten pounds a year, rolling slowly towards 300.
But one day she comes home from work with ten cartons of cream and a case of beer. She's dressed up nice today, tight black skirt, pin-striped buttondown. You ask what all the cream is for—does she want you to make irish cream again?—and she laughs.
"I'm tired of you not gaining weight anymore," she says. "My pig needs to be bigger." She makes you your first shake that night, straddles you while she pours it into your mouth after dinner. You feel over-full, nauseous, lethargic, and you're dripping wet about it. She brings home a funnel and tube the next day.
You're no longer a good fatty. Your hourglass figure is gone, your belly dominates your frame, your belly bounces and pushes and oozes out of all your clothes, and you're constantly turned on, which makes you hungry. Soon you're guzzling three-thousand calories after dinner every night. You're losing mobility. Clothes you've worn for years are straining over your arms, your thighs, your ass. An old friend catches you alone, asks if you're okay, and when you say, Of course, yeah, what do you mean?, they won't even say it aloud, just look you up and down and grimace.
When you get home, you're ravenously horny. You beg for your wife to feed you and she gleefully obliges, and you drink eight-thousand calories in a single sitting, blowing past your personal best of five-thousand. It's a tipping point for you. The last shreds of restraint are gone and you start to really blow up, your entire life and being flattening into a never-satisfied hunger.
Your stretchmarks cover huge areas of your body now, shining red lightning belting your belly, striping your fupa (you take her word for it, you can't see them), covering your arms, your tits, even one tucked away inside your chins, a secret little brand of gluttony. Your wife writes your resignation e-mail for your work-from-home job for you while you eat a cake on all fours. You're her pig now, Mommy's sweet little pudding, constantly naked, stuffed, and stoned. She doesn't let you know your weight.
You see your friends post a picture from the summit of a hike you do every year with them, and realize that they didn't even ask you, but it doesn't upset you. You haven't been outside the house in weeks because nothing fits you. Your belly flows to your knees. Your world's shrunk as your body grows. You don't remember the last time your day consisted of anything but eating.
One day, she makes you stand before breakfast. It's an ordeal, and she's strong, but she truly has to strain to lift you up. Your atrophied muscles are little help. Slowly, you waddle to the scale, chins bouncing, belly bouncing against your thighs as you walk, pouting and whining that she put it all the way on the other end of the room. You step on, eager to be laying back down and watching TV, and she gives a soft gasp, kisses you, grabs big soft handfuls of you.
"Want to know what it is?" she says, purring. You say sure. You've been curious for a while now.
She smiles as she speaks. "Four hundred and thirty-three pounds," she says. You're stunned. You try to push your tits and belly out of the way to look yourself, but there's too much. Your legs are already aching. Has she been keeping you that sedentary? You barely noticed.
She leads you back to the bed, praising you being her perfect pig, and once you're settled back in with your morning pre-breakfast shake you ask her: weren't you going to tell me when I hit 400, so I could go to the doctor, get checked up?
She just smiles, and your heart melts. You love her so much. "I think 500 would look better on you," she says. "Don't you want to be a good piggy?"
"I'm your good piggy," you say, starting to drink your shake. "When's breakfast?"
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She started off small, quiet, anxious. It was how she'd been raised, it was what women were to her—ankle-length skirts, small waists, a perpetual diet, downcast eyes—and even after she got out of the church and got away from all that, it was already a habit.
Then she met you.
She stood out at Dyke Night, standing quietly in the corner in a long, red dress that was new and fit badly, baggy, a bold color on a nervous, unflattering cut. You were there watching all the people drinking and mingling in their ironic, niche t-shirts and vintage crops and bizarre combinations of flannel, and there she was, something new, picking at her nails and sipping seltzer water. You walked toward her quietly, saying a soft hello when you were close enough for her to hear you, but she still jumped, and your heart melted. Who was this soft, sweet, scared girl? What was she doing here all alone?
You gave her a soft smile, asked her name, gave her yours in return. She smiled back and you were dazzled, already lost in her warm green eyes, the long folds of her skirt, the brilliant gravity of her grin. You pulled her aside to a quiet corner of the patio, pushed a beer into her hand, asked her where she was from, and that's where it all started.
The blush crept into her cheeks, and her country accent, a lilting around the vowels, came out. You're both grinning now, leaning closer towards each other, every little fidget bringing you closer to her until you can see the constellations of her freckles. Finally, you ask the question you already know the answer to: "So, what brought you here?"
"I'm. . . hungry, I guess. I want something new," I guess," she said, "new experiences. New people. New food."
"Oh, sweetie, I love a girl with an appetite," you say, leaning forward, your belly pushing over your cut-off shorts, your tits almost falling out of your top. "I think I can help you with all of those."
She smiled, blushing, grinning from ear-to-ear but not quite looking at you. "I was hoping you could."
It's been a year now since you met her at the bar, the night you now call your first date, and it's hard to recognize her. She wasn't playing it up; she'd seen and tasted so little of what this life has to offer, and even now there were still so many firsts you wanted to do with her, even after you'd already shared her first beer with her, her first kiss, her first real orgasm. She was hungry, hungrier than you could've ever guessed, and it was all you could do to keep up with her, but you wouldn't trade it for the world. You were there when she first saw the sea at sunset, when she saw her first redwood, when you cooked her the first authentic Mexican food she'd ever had, and the delight in her eyes were what kept you going, amongst other things.
"Baby," she calls from the other room, her voice low and flirty, "can you help me get dressed? I'm stuck." You round the corner and you're dumbstruck by what you see.
Gone is the narrow waist, the slim jawline, the air of quiet reserve, all of it buried under a hundred pounds of soft, new fat and a confidence bordering on arrogance—she calls you over with her eyes. "This doesn't fit anymore," she pouts, "what happened? Did you shrink it?" It takes you a second to realize it, but it's the red dress from the first fateful night. Her tits, swollen and stretch-marked, pour over the pitifully small cups, a stray bit of areola making you bite your lip. Her belly is tight against the fabric, her belly button a soft dimple in the red, the pert roundness of her gut deforming the entire line of the dress, her side rolls flowing out of the zipper she's holding with both hands. She didn't even try to close it herself, that's why you're there, but it's cute she pretends to make an effort.
"You've been greedy, my girl," you say, helping her to her feet without her even asking, examining the hopelessly small dress with amusement. "All those new restaurants, all those nights out, all those late-night food deliveries, they have to go somewhere, honey. Look at you. This big, soft, stretch-marked gut. These tasty udders. That giant, wobbly ass." Your hands punctuate your sentence, her moaning when you grope her, and wandering from her ass to between her legs as you stand behind her. "And this big squishy fupa, baby. What would they think of you back home? Would they even know you? You look like you ate that shy girl who I was eyeing across the bar all that time ago." She was helpless, leaning into you, grinding her hips into yours. "Anyways, let's help you get dressed."
Your forearms straining, you manage to pull each side of the zipper together with one hand and force it closed with the other, watching the fabric stretch thinner and tighter against her in the mirror, every curve and roll and dimple highlighted, all the more sexy for how this used to drape on her. "God, what did you do to yourself?" you ask.
"It's not my fault," she mumbles, nuzzling her head against you. "You feed me too much."
"I'm just letting you try new things, baby," trying to sound sexy as you can while forcing the zipper closed, its teeth clicking begrudgingly together as you slowly push it closed. "I didn't force that food down your throat. I didn't make you order more food after you came home stuffed. I didn't—"
You both gasp as the dress gives up, side seam bursting, her hips bulging out of the seam. She shimmies a little and the seam rips entirely, and the little laugh she gives as it falls to the floor leaves you burning. "It's okay baby," you say, pulling her towards you, slipping her fingers right where she likes it, kissing her neck, feeling how heavy her belly is on your arm and how wet she already is, "I'll get you something new."
Oh, little pig, you never fooled me. That fat belly of yours told me everything I wanted to know, that special soft doughiness that only comes from gaining and losing and gaining, that persistent greediness of yours trying to take seed but never quite taking root, just leaving you with a few stripes of gluttony across your gut here and there.
But things are going to be different now that you've met Mommy, little pig, okay?
You're going to become what you're meant to be. A fat, greedy, gluttonous pig. Everything in your life is telling you it's time—leaving that horrible job where you always had to be on your feet, leaving behind anyone who would shame you for letting the pig inside of you out, and meeting me, of course. Mommy is going to be helping you, baby. I'm going to be the voice of reason in your ear, telling you to let go, to let go of calories counts and restrictions and all the ways you've taught yourself to curb your hunger, to finally choose yourself for a change, to relax, to indulge a little. You've earned it, you've earned it ten times over, and now you're going to eat for me and for yourself.
I hope you've already come to terms that any of the clothes you have now are not going to make it. You're going to outgrow them, just like you outgrew your old life, and that favorite pink dress of yours isn't going to make it much further. You're going to balloon for me. Your stretchmarks, those five or six purple stripes you have around that cute belly button, are going to multiply as you stuff yourself full of everything you can get your piggy little hands on, fried chicken, chicken fried steak, collard greens swimming in lard, mashed potatoes, french fries, cheeseburgers, Coke, donuts, over and over and over, all day every day. You've already been doing such a good job for me. It's only been a few weeks and look at how fat you are already—that soft doughy fat now taut and bouncy, that soft slightly-saggy belly round and tight, your tits ridiculously fat and round and tender. That's one of my favorite things about it, y'know, how thin your skin get stretched out, how sensitive it gets. Imagine my finger running light and gentle over that plush papery skin, coming almost to your nipple but not quite, my smile as I savor that long quiet moan.
But you're eating for a purpose, pig. Your destiny isn't just to get chubby, to be greedy, to embarrass yourself in front of your friends with how hungry you are, but to eat yourself helpless for me. You'd do it for me whether I told you to or not, but I want you to know. I want you to admit to it that that's what you want Mommy to do you. To make you not just embarrassingly fat, but helplessly fat, your arms too big wash yourself, your thighs wrapped around and around with fat until you're too big to walk for more than a few steps without me, your belly so big, so stuffed, so heavy that I just stitch together some bedsheets for your dresses.
And let's not forget my favorite milestone, one that I'm sure you're not far from. Oh, don't be coy. I've watched you touch yourself. It makes me wet just thinking about it, watching you lean back, to try to get just the right angle, forcing your arm against your gut to touch that little cock of yours. It's so cute how it doesn't even bother you, like your belly getting so fat you have to wrestle it to get off is just something that happens and not the results of you eating more in a weekend than what most people eat in a week.
So keep eating for me, baby. Keep stuffing yourself. Keep outgrowing all your clothes. Keep embarrassing yourself. And when the time comes that you try to push your arm past your bloated, stretchmarked, stuffed gut and you can't reach—don't be afraid, baby. Be happy, and call for Mommy, and let her take care of you while you keep stuffing your face. It's what you were mean to be, little pig, to be helpless for me.
Even I was surprised by how much you ballooned after I met you. I've teased and encouraged and pushed so many women into chubbiness, fatness, outright obesity, and—in the best way—I am a little used to it, the familiar ebbs and flows, the common hangs ups, the phrases that come to me like keys to unlock the hunger they're trying to set free, the satisfaction of watching someone set themselves on a path that their body is never going to let them leave. So many pigs in the world just waiting for permission.
But you were different.
I felt something different from you from the first, not just the pleasant and unexpected friendship that sprang up between us, or something deeper than the typical obedience I expect from my pets, but the complete lack of hesitation to make a growing, greedy, burping glutton out of yourself at my slightest touch. That first time I told you to stuff yourself and you did it, not just once, but spent the entire weekend stuffing yourself fulls of burgers and pizza for me until you were stuck on the couch, burping pathetically while I convinced you to get up and ice cream? You had the beautiful doughiness that comes from gaining weight and then losing it, something I'd admired on you for a long time and then, poof, it was gone practically overnight, replaced by that bulging taut fat only real pigs like you get.
Of course, I was obsessed with you. I'd never had a pig where we just outright skipped the stage of acceptance, accepting that there was something insatiable that lived inside them that would eat at them forever unless they fed it and fed it and fed it, that it was okay for effects of that pleasure to show on their body, that it was okay to like the effects of it, and that it was okay to hand the reigns of the hunger to their Mistress. But oh, you're so intoxicating--such a fine, fat, absolutely ravenous hunger inside you, such a sweet soul so ready to eat for me. Is it any wonder that you're eating yourself out of all your clothes?
Come here, piggy. Yes, on all fours, jiggling and oinking. Let Mommy feel how much of a good girl you're being for her. Let her nails dig into that beautiful collar of fat jiggling under your face. Let her trace the beautiful shape of your cheekbones under the slab of fat hiding them from the world, only to be experienced by her touch. Let her grab and pinch and slap and bite that big, beautiful, overworked gut pulling you almost to the floor, let her slap your ass, let her bite and pinch and suck on your tits until you're so close to orgasm you're begging her in your slow, needy sub voice to touch her. You won't touch yourself, of course. Not until you have permission.
Regina & Olivia had met during a Pride parade after-party in a dive bar swarmed with thems and femmes. Regina had organized the event, announcing it on social media, reminding queer group leaders from the parade to tell their members, and calling the bar to let them know to expect a bit of a rush. She had been walking around making sure everything was alright before she started really drinking, her thin frame weaving practicedly through the crowd, when she saw a ring of people chanting around a table. A scruffy t-boy stoner Regina knew, Marc, sat across from a beautiful woman Regina didn't know, small wide-set eyes set like onyx in her round, tan face, black hair falling far down her back, buffalo sauce smeared on her cheeks as she ripped the meat from a flat and threw it into her pile of bones in a single motion, to a cheer. Marc looked at his sizable pile, his opponent's larger one, shook his head, and offered up his last wing in surrender. The woman took it, ate it in one bite, and swung her arm so triumphantly the bone flew out of her hand and flew with a thunk into Regina's head. A chorus of "ARE YOU OKAY?"s, a bright sparkling laugh, and Olivia, fingers still sticky with sauce, was buying Regina a drink as an apology.
Regina wanted her right away. Olivia was fat, shamelessly so, cellulite showing on her bulging thighs, her belly pushing over her shorts, and her tits swelling out of a tank top like she was daring someone to say something about it. Regina knew the right things to say about it, and so it goes. They were in love by the end of the week.
But Olivia wasn't just into being fat.
Though she enjoyed her fatness deeply, she was into being truly stuffed, stomach distended to the point of discomfort, belly taut with heavy fried food and beer. Every weekend without fail, she spent a night stoned, drunk, and stuffed, and she'd always done it alone. Sure, she'd eat a lot in public, but never anything like what she'd do by herself. Half-a-dozen cheeseburgers, two milkshakes, two large fries, and a six-pack of sweet cider gave the dreamy, heavy feeling that truly put her at rest, that uncomfortable fullness that wiped out every worry and let her enjoy the fruits of her appetite, her heavy breasts sitting on her gut, the striations of her stretchmarks on her belly hang, the background blare of the television. Once a week was enough, and it made her fat, but not fat enough to make it really hard to find clothes or find work or get around, just one night of private, shameless gluttony. But once Regina moved in, she had no way to do it privately. She tried less food—Regina was used to her eating a lot, after all, but no one had ever been quite as nice to her after seeing what she could really eat—but three burgers only kept her stomach from growling. The full feeling didn't come and the appetite she'd so long indulged made her hungry and frustrated. She tried going through a drive-thru on the way home, but she couldn't eat all the food fast enough to get home in time to avoid rousing Regina's suspicion, and her car was no place to enjoy the long sleepy high of being stuffed.
Then one night, they start together on the couch, Regina's thin white legs laid over Olivia's brown fat ones, and as Regina went to put in their normal delivery order on Olivia's phone, she noticed something weird in their order history—a meal ordered every Friday for weeks, the exact same price and placed at almost at the exact same time. The last time it'd been ordered was the week before Regina moved in. She looked at Olivia, engrossed in the show they were watching, and thought of the tension that had spread over their love lately, some dissatisfaction of Olivia's she thought important to hide from her girlfriend. She looked at the orders—the exact same meal, every time. Six cheeseburgers just like how Olivia liked them, two milkshakes, two fries. A doubled version of what Olivia ordered now. Regina added the feast to the cart, then her own food, and placed the order without saying a word.
When the food arrived, Regina got up to grab it, saying she wanted them to eat off real plates tonight. She shingled the six burgers invitingly, piled up the fries on their own plate with a big pile of ketchup, and put one milkshake in the fridge, then brought everything out at once. The small, awed, happy gasp Olivia made let Regina knew it had been the right choice.
"Livvy, sweetie, what's that face?" Regina said. "You know I hate for you to go hungry."
"It's just a lot of food," Olivia said, anxiety underpinning her voice now. "You ordered me double?"
Regina sat the food down in front of Olivia, knelt next to her, and pulled her into her arms. She held her silently for a moment, then kissed the top of her head, her fat cheeks, her double chin, and whispered into her ear. "You've been holding back, haven't you? You know you don't need to do that for me, baby. I like you fat. I like your appetite. It's one of the hottest things about you to me. I want to see you full. I want to see you"—she grabbed a burger from the table, holding to Olivia's lips—"eat."
And Olivia ate. She was worried she wouldn't be able to finish it, that her capacity had shrunk in the few weeks she'd denied herself, but with Regina there she was hungrier, greedier. She sat close to her while she ate, her fingers gently pinching a nipple, hefting the tightening swell of Olivia's belly, whispering in her ear. "Why did you hold back for me, baby?" Regina whispered, bringing the milkshake to Olivia's mouth. "Don't you remember how we met? I love you. I love this belly. I love watching you make such a pig out of yourself." Pig, pig, pig. The word echoed around Olivia's head, made her finish the milkshake in one gulp, made her moan through a full mouth. Regina bent over, saw Olivia's little dick straining against her bottoms, a damp circle at the tip. She got the other milkshake and a slice of cheesecake they'd been saving.
Olivia didn't stop eating to question the cheesecake, just looked at it as she put a dent in the pile of fries. Regina smiled. "I know you like to stuff yourself, pretty. We've been together, what, over a year now, and I've watched you binge again and again. I like it. It keeps you nice and fat and soft for me." Olivia moaned again, finishing the fries, milkshake in one hand and one of two remaining burgers in the other.
"But it's not enough for me. I don't just want you stuffed. I want you to feel it all the time. I want you to get heavier, baby. Slower. Greedier. Bursting out of all those cute clothes of yours. I want you hungrier all the time. I want you to push yourself for me. I want you," Regina said, pausing, wonder if she'd gone too far, if she wanted her to talk like this, then heard of the hollow rattle of the straw as Olivia finished the milkshake and tore into the last burger, "to waddle. To ask to sit down every block when we're on a walk with our friends. To sheepishly ask the hostess for a booth and not a high-top."
Regina took the cheesecake, sitting next to Olivia as she finished the final burger, her gut tighter than Regina'd ever seen it. "I want everyone to know how big this greed is inside you." Regina put the cheesecake to Olivia's lips, holding it in place as she took bite after bite of it. "You're bottomless, aren't you, baby? Why not show it off? Here, hold this for me." Olivia fed herself the rest of the cheesecake as Regina swung down between Olivia's legs, pulling her cum-soaked bottoms to the side, taking Olivia into her mouth just as she finished the cheesecake. Olivia came right away, trembling, groaning, rocking from side to side under the enormous weight of her gluttony as Regina pushed the pleasure further and harder and longer until Olivia shook and collapsed into the couch. Cum on her lips, Regina climbed back up and took Olivia into her arms, kissing her mute, overstuffed love on the cheek.
"No more holding back, okay, little pig?" Regina said. Olivia shook her head, weakly, and slipped away into sleep in her lover's arm. Regina stayed awake, dreaming about how big Olivia would be in a month, in six months, in a year, at their wedding.
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working in office and having an idle daydream of a new coworker starting who's a feeder. her eyes linger on me a little longer then normal—a split second that felt like so much longer to me—and she excitedly tells everyone she loves baking and can't wait to share treats with us. later, she comes to my desk to drop off a form and makes small talk, asks about my favorite foods, my hobbies, and I can't stop my hand from brushing my belly when I say I'm a foodie. She smiles.
Next week, she's set up a little grazing table for everyone and just happens to set it up in front of my desk, and just happened to remember my favorites, lemon bars, cherry tarts, blueberry muffins. i can't help but graze on them, she's good at what she does, and when everyone's leaving for the day she packs up the leftovers, eyes my belly pushes tight against my skirt, and asks if I liked it, pushes one more muffin towards. I say I can't, I ate too much of them already, and quietly she says "I think you can." She holds it to my mouth, and embarrased, I eat it one bite before anyone can notice. She smiles.
"I think you're going to be my favorite coworker."
