#stoned feedee

Bella Gets the Munchies!!

Bella has an appetite stimulating smoke, and of course orders greasy fast food to feast on! She just can’t resist and devours her meal, and sucks down a giant soda. Lots of burps follow as she can’t stop playing with her bloated, stuffed belly. She can’t resist the sensation of shaking and jiggling her whole fattened form, it just feels and looks so AMAZING!!

My date offered to take me out to a buffet dinner earlier in the week.

A buffet dinner, to me, felt like a next step in their interest and connection through feedism. A night of excess, conversation, and a plate full of potstickers, yes, but bubbling under the surface, a devious excitement.

I couldn't wait.

Throughout the night, we coyly avoided the carefully laid plans and roles for the evening. As I filled my first plate, I noticed the edible kicking in, increasing my hunger cues and desire to try every morsel.

As I was eating, their perception and desire for me increased.

With each downward glance, I'd notice a different aspect of their perception of my gluttony.

A quick glance to my shirt, and they'd notice the crumbs forming on my chest, which recently began to catch more food on my growing breasts. Another, and they'd catch the quick flick of my tongue licking my lips as I hungrily inspect the plates around me, scheming out how I'll design my inevitable trip to the dozens of meats, fish, noodles, and desserts.

The focus and determination on the gluttony>capacity ratio being so studied and focused on throughout the night was inspiring. I teetered so close to the deep end, of diving into my carnal desire to use both hands, stuff my mouth, and make a mess as I increased the speed of my consumption.

After my fourth plate I was absolutely dripping wet with anticipation. Heading to the car was a struggle, realizing how tight my stomach was, and how my waistband was pinching into my sides.

They noticed too, sneakily grabbing my spilling love handles as we paid.

Before getting in the car, they finally said it.

Christmas Day

The crust on your eyes makes it hard to crack them open, taunted awake by the sunlight through the curtains. Your mouth is dry as shit, it feels like your tongue is made of sand paper. The world is just an assault of light, but you manage to grab the water bottle and haphazardly drain it. It's not enough, so you somehow get your hands on another drink and crack it open. The malty taste of ale almost makes you gag, but your desire for liquid and an instant inebriation kick in and you drink deeply. A few burps hiccup their way up.

You slowly come awake and try to take stock of your body. You thought you'd be hungover, but you're still drunk. Pins and needles shoot down your back, and your back aches from passing out semi-sitting up on the couch. Gurgles burble up from your belly, working away at yesterday's onslaught of food and freshly drained beer. Working at turning all of that into fat on your rapidly growing frame. The skin over your gut still itches, and you can feel the indents of new stretchmarks forming as you grope and rub your belly.

Christmas day means most places won't be open, which means you'll have to prepare your own breakfast (it's really closer to lunch time). That means you'll have to get up. You rock to get momentum, but still fall back on your ass the first few times you try. Too fat? Too stuffed? Too drunk? You decide.

You finally make it to your feet and manage to not topple forward, but the room is spinning. Every step is a monumental task. You're trying to go forward, but sometimes you go sideways, or backward. A few times, you almost go down.

It takes you half an hour to stumble to the bathroom, freshen up just a bit, and stumble to the kitchen. By now you're exhausted and just want to sit, but you know it will be even harder to get up after. This is why you need a feeder. Or at least a wheelie stool for the kitchen.

You always struggle opening the tubes of cinnamon bun dough when sober, but now you look like a spectacle trying to get into it. Eventually you get it open and onto a pan. The buns are not even sizes, but really it's impressive you've made it this far. You set your oven to turn off when the timer goes off, you absolutely do not trust yourself to turn it off manually now.

You waddle over to the fridge to grab bacon and a drink, when suddenly a realisation sends all the blood to your crotch. You're so stuffed and bloated that your belly hang isn't slapping against your thighs as you stumble around, more like bouncing off of them. And you can feel everything jostle and gurgle with every step. A moan escapes, but you can't get distracted yet, there's still more work to do.

You get the bacon frying, but regret your decision to cook shirtless. You take a step back to stop the bacon grease from splattering all over your bare belly.

Your drink of choice is cider; it's basically fruit juice, right? You drink steadily as you cook and pretend to tidy up. You got the lasagne pan in the sink to soak, and threw out the wrappers you could reach without bending over; you were worried you would either topple over or your stomach would explode with the extra pressure. By the time the bacon is done, a bottle is gone and hiccups are making your boozy belly bounce. You have to lean heavily against the counter, there's no way you could stand freely now. You're swaying as it is, you would be going down without support.

When the cinnamon rolls come out, your mouth waters at the scent, but you have to wait for them to set and cool at least a little, so you occupy yourself with lighting up a preroll. By now you're exhausted after all your activity and need to sit, so you plunk down in a kitchen chair. You hear a crack come from somewhere underneath you, but you don't crash to the ground so you can just ignore that for now.

You mindlessly huff back the joint, the distinct scent of marijuana mingling with the sweet spices of the cinnamon rolls. Your body starts to feel light and floaty, and waves of euphoria are starting to wash up. Everything is so tingly. You hope you're not too fucked up to get up again, you will need to get your food and another drink or five before waddling back to the couch.

Incredibly, you manage to get up first try, but you do stumble a few steps one way, then a few steps the other way, then a few steps back again. You think it'll only take one more drink before you have to crawl.

Icing the cinnamon rolls goes well, but it takes an immense amount of concentration to transfer all of them to a serving tray. The spatula just won't cooperate! It doesn't help that everything is swaying, and your bloated gut is completely in the way, but you eventually succeed.

It takes you three trips to get everything back to the living room; one for the cinnamon rolls, one for the bacon, and one for the rest of the bottles of cider. Partially because you don't want to risk dropping anything and you can only focus on keeping one thing upright, partially because you need a free arm to help you navigate the shifting halls, and partially because it's hot as fuck. You let yourself stumble a little bit more on your empty-handed trips back to the kitchen, and you almost go down a few times. A few steps forward, a few steps back. Too many steps to the side and your fat body bounces into the wall, sending ripples over your skin and dislodging several burps. It's amazing you haven't put a dent in the wall yet. If you keep acting like a fat drunk fuck like this though, it's only a matter of time.

Your excursion is finally finished after you grab a bottle of water and plunk down on the abused sofa. Another structural piece inside snaps, but you don't go tumbling. You'll have to be very careful lowering your body onto the seat next time.

You put on a playlist of Christmas movies; you plan on being too fucked up to operate the remote within the hour, and carrying that on well into the night. It's already a pretty big struggle.

Finally situated, you look down. Make no mistake, you're still engorged from the past two days of debauchery; your bloated belly resting heavily on your thighs, new intensely red stretch marks shoot across your skin. If it weren't for that last joint, you would maybe feel just how gravid and achy your belly is. But you're so high, and all you want is more, so you dig in.

Cinnamon buns are one of your biggest weaknesses. Gorging on the rolls is how you started packing on weight. You could usually put away half a pan without thinking nowadays, but not after gorging like you have been. Hopefully the weed and booze keep you dumb and hungry enough to push through. Speaking of which, you open another cider and gulp it down, a little bit dribbling down your cheek.

Everything is so mindless. Your sticky fingers bringing bite after bite to your mouth, chugging down ciders that force belches out of your round gut and forces all thoughts out of your head. All thoughts except 'consume.'

It gets to a point where you can't sit forward to get another drink. You finish yet another can of cider but need more to quench your thirst. Through your blurred vision you can see where you need to grab to get another, but it seems your bigger challenge is getting there. To start, your gut is bulbous, rounding out in front of you and hanging between your thighs. You don't have room to lean forward or backward to build up momentum to get your burdened body there. And of course you're drunk as a skunk and can only hold your arm out like that for more than a few seconds. You can barely keep your head up to look where you need to reach. Your chin and hand keep flopping down. But you're thirsty! You can't give up. So you keep trying, sluggishly shifting your mass forward, falling back when the booze takes over your balance and when your belly sends a warning ache from too much movement, and then trying all over again. You don't go a minute without burping, not that you notice.

You finally get your hand on the plastic rings around the ciders and pull the two left of that pack back to you. You want to crack one open and chug victoriously, but first you need to catch your breath. That was a lot of exercise for someone in your situation. You can feel the contents in your gut still sloshing around, and you burp between panting and moaning. You're such a fat fuck. All you did was reach forward to get a drink, and you're winded as if you'd just run 5k.

Any blood left in your brain rushes to your crotch, a new hunger setting in. You tilt your head back and down half a can, keeping your other hand on top of your gut to feel it swell with every gulp. It's starting to feel pretty solid under all the flab, and you'll need a nap to digest soon, but all you need right now is more.

You keep forcing cinnamon buns, bacon, and booze into your slackjaw mouth, moans ramping up as your body goes into overload, trying to process everything you've forced inside. If you weren't blind drunk and completely zooted, you would be able to see your stretch marks go from purple to angry red during this meal, and notice new zigzags shooting across your skin with every forced bite. All of your organs feel inflamed and abused, squishing against each other, a situation you just continue to make worse as you start another cider.

Your head gets too heavy to hold up with just half a cinnamon bun left to go. It's still in your hand, but your chin keeps dropping before you can bring it to your mouth. Your eyelids droop, keeping them open makes everything spin violently. Your diaphragm quivers, threatening hiccups, which would almost certainly end in disaster. All you can do is sit there, completely incapacitated, and wait for your body to buffer and catch up. You're packed so tight that you can feel every desperate gurgle your belly makes radiate through your body and sending heat to your crotch.

can you tell i’ve been obsessed with my belly recently?