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Unless you eat another 500 calories for them. Your head is fuzzy with lust; you're practically dripping with need you're too weak to do anything about. Slowly you nod, resigned to your fate and their desire. They pounce on you, ready to go with a carton of heavy cream. It takes a while but you finally manage to drink 500 calories of it; your feeder watching as you burp and whine, feeling so tight you're sure you'll burst... but they toss the carton aside and sit back on their heals, chin in their hand: you don't look very full to them. 500 wasn't enough, and using heavy cream? Liquid calories are basically cheating. You'll need to find the room for another 500 calories on top of all that if you want them to get you off.

I’m talking feedee overeats or has some super fattening food and feeder calls them fat. Says that’s why they’re so fucking bloated all the time. Here have more.

Feeder never finishes food and always gives it to the “fat friend” while poking their tummy and calling them tubby. Saying they’re big, so they can eat it.

Feeder makes fun of their clothes size. Says they’d were smaller if they just stopped eating. But then offers to order pizza. Stuffs them silly. Makes sure not a single slice goes to waste.

You show me off to your family, and they're all politely shocked at how big I am. They whisper when I can't hear: "Don't you see you're dating a fat whale?" "He's not that big." Not yet. But you keep that to yourself as you pile more and more onto my plate. When I've waddled back out to the car and settled in, you'll gently lift my poor belly and unbutton my pants to take the pressure off it. As you squeeze my chubby hand affectionately, we both already know you're going to stop at the drivethrough before going home.

The bigger I get, the more reasons you seem to find for me to stay home instead of going out. It looks like rain, a new movie came out, you need me to fix your computer, you're too tired... It doesn't matter. The more often you keep me soft and safe at home with you, the easier it is to convince me to stay there. The rare times you finally let me out, I find myself getting stuck where I used to fit: first my jeans, then behind the steering wheel, in restaurant booths, and finally doorways... You ask if I want to see a movie, but only because you know what I'll say: "Not tonight," my hand is draped over my immense belly as I pant. The couch creaks ominously under my weight as I shift my hips, already settling in deeper. "Let's order in. I'll take my usual. But make my drink diet. I think I might be getting a little chubby..."