👁️them🫦fatale👁️

i insisted you were gonna make it, and you cautiously accepted to come to the beach with me.

we had to take two trains for arriving there, because a couple friends invited us in their city, and three more for returning home.

you were a mess of sweaty fat rolls and anxiety even before leaving home.

i saw you waddle to the taxi to the station and i observed you while you realized this was your last vacation outside of the city we live in.

you tried your best to stay calm, to comply, to not get anxious and nervous... you tried your best to huff and puff and drag your 180 kilos of tender heavy meat from a train to another.

in a station there weren't lifts.

you had to take the stairs for the first time in six years.

you barely made it out alive, and i know because i had to fan you for a while while you tried your best to not puke for the fatigue and the pain in your joints, and i tried my best to keep you awake, not fainting, talking to you and giving you an icecream and a coke because my little piggy needed a treat soooo bad...

when we went to the beach, the bottom piece of your bikini was visible only from the back; you were so busy eating treat after treat – a granita, an icecream, crisps, cokes, and so on – that you barely noticed how people looked at you...

their eyes wide, the whispers, the giggles, the disbelief on their faces...

yeah, this was your last vacation outside of our home city, and i really enjoyed taking you around like my prize pig, waddling with your loppy belly outside of clothes too little for you, panting after few steps and always asking me when we're eating again.

it's been you telling me, once we returned, "it was nice being in the water... but i'd rather not leaving the city anymore. i'm so tired, amore mio... please, let's not do this ever again".

i'll do as you ask, my lovely piggy.

you used to love the sea, going new places, visiting cultural spots...

yes, she reads my blog sometimes.

i don't tell her whenever i post something, i prefer she discovers it naturally, like a repost or something like that.

tomorrow you'll be in the hands of another feeder for two days and one night, dear, and you're all giddy about it.

didn't you notice that in the last 24 hours you barely made 10 steps, dear?

you have rolls and creases on your ankles, dear... you're so soft, so squishy, so heavy, so tired...

didn't you realize this is the last year you'll be barely mobile, dear?

you still think you're going to be able to waddle next year... dear, oh dear... i may have some news for you...

do you see those puffy feet of yours? ah, my bad... you can't look at them since a while, can you, dear?

well, my dear, let me tell you: the reason they ache so bad is that they are almost about to give up on supporting your lovely weight; and the only cure is to never use them again, dear.

i will share your gains with whoever i want, then... my dear caged piggy, precious and tender and fattened and fattened and fattened and fucked up...

oh, dear, look at you!

helpless, and defenseless, your eyes devoid from anything that isn't hunger and terror and arousal, powerless against my total control, and so, my dear...

...tell me more about what you're gonna eat tomorrow with this colleague of mine, dear. tell me more about what this feeder wants to stuff you with. tell me more about your gluttony and your greed.

the sole change from "hard limit" to "soft limit" should tell you something about yourself.

death is not a thing that happens tomorrow if you start today, especially with feedism... try it.

for me, it's the absolutes. death feedism relies in absolutes.

it's hard to stay "moderate" when the end result will be something so definitive as the death of the pig.

as a death feeder, i can have complete control on another life... and this situation only increases in intensity over time, especially when my feedee starts spiraling out of control and loses mobility and so on.

i am not in a rush, like many other death feederists, of making my feedee die.

au contraire, this is not a speedrun.

no responsibilities.

no routine.

no fixed times.

no duties.

just filled to the brim with good food, endorphins beaming from your little piggy brain and dopamine rewarding you for engorging and gobbling on anything edible within a radius of 2 meters from you... wondering what's for dinner.

you wake up at improbable hours, and then you eat, you hit up the pc and devote your hours to videogames, streamings, and food until you go to bed.

i don't even have to encourage you by now...

you're digging your own grave a bite after another.

you know, i see the posts you publish on your kinky socials.

you almost always say that it's me filling that ball of lard you have as a gut...

...but in reality, if I make you stuff once a week it's a lot. After all, I work full time and I'm often too tired to do much but cook for you a filling meal and then going to bed listening to some ASMR to fall asleep...

but you... you love to appoint the entire guilt on me.

you love to tell everyone that it's me rendering you so obese that you can't even walk anymore.

you love to make everyone think "boo hoo poor feedee, her wife is fattening her up!"...

...while in reality you panic if you don't eat for even an hour.

the other day you literally had a meltdown because we didn't have anymore cookies.

and two days before that, you begged me to find another job just so that you could order mcdonalds more often.

(i'm searching for it, of course...)

i'm watching your puffy body sink in the mattress and i can hardly recognize each body part as a human one...

you're deforming your meat vessel by adding so much lard it's becoming unrecognizable.

you're digging your own grave a bite after another...

i'll sleep all night, like always...

...and instead you, like every night, will wake up around 5 am and eat whatever you can fit in your mouth without having to cook it.

oh, my dear hog...

you are so lost in the folds of your own obesity...

yeah, when i was younger i pretty much closed myself off because i couldn’t get over the fact that the more i loved someone, the more i had “intrusive thoughts” (or so i called them at the time) about making them so fat they’d beg mercy, the more i thought i was wrong and broken and sadistic and a psychopath.

discovering feederism existed at all was the start to healing. then of course i discovered death feedism and some pieces of what i tried to suppress until then went to their just place in me.

i understood that if the other person feels that food is love accepted and fatness is love demonstrated, feedism wasn’t even to be nominated for the nurturing to be successful.

when she’s too full to handle whole foods (like cookies, burgers, or else) i give her teaspoons of butter (softened so it’s not hard on the tongue) mixed with sugar.

since her little brain works differently than most, i also usually alternate tastes and switch every now and then to soft butter and nutella, so that she doesn’t get nausea for repeating the same taste.

i actually have some.

first of all, the feedism community is kinda shit for dating and stuff like that. from what my pig told me, she always did meet-ups with feeders and usually there wasn’t a second date because of ghosting.

the truth is that most feeders and fat admirers love watching a thin person gain until a certain point (and above that point they become uncomfortable and doubtful).

so, my first advice is: be the pig you’re meant to be even when you’re single/alone. this will actually attract good death feedism karma 😁

the second advice i can give you is to look around you, because even the most normal person you know can be a death feedist… without even knowing what feederism is. there’s people everywhere who see a fatass eating a lot of fastfood and, instead of expressing disgust, they go on something like “god, now i have to marry them”.

i myself met my pig online because we both wanted to play Dungeons&Dragons with a group, and in the moment i saw her in real life i was willing to do about anything to be able to grab that flab ridden body and make it even more obese than that until her expiration date.

discovering she already was in the feederism kink and community was a pleasant surprise… but it was not at all a necessary step. i was already prepared to encourage her to grow terminally obese for me even without mentioning feederism at all.

so, tl;dr : eat whatever you want in public, explore your normal hobbies, and a death feeder will come to you easily.

of course.

if the duty of a pig is being destroyed by overindulgence, the duty of its farmer is to destroy by overindulgence.

i am also thinking about sharing ideas with other feeders, while i’m at it.

thinking that some pigs could be annihilated into terminal obesity faster and/or better just because i gave their feeder some advice or ideas is… food for thought.

i’m also monitoring how much time she actually stays in bed. sometimes she falls asleep in the middle of the day from eating a lot and her hours in bed reach like 19 hours out of 24.

can’t wait for the day she’ll try to get up like she usually does and she’ll realize she can’t stand anymore for whatever reason: ankles or feet too swollen up from insulin and blood sugar, or maybe her articulations simply stopped supporting that much of a terminally obese hog.

i want to see the fear in her eyes. i want to hear her heart skip some beats because she thought she’d have more time before failing to stand from that point to the exact minute of her fattening and agonizing end. i want to hear her rasping breath trying to utter some worried words and i want to press the funnel to her lips and simply reassuring her that I’m gonna take care of all her needs without her having ever again to touch the floor with her soles.

i want to dry her tears while i stretch that big balloon stomach out with extremely caloric slop and to listen to her organs struggling to keep up with me and my plans for her.

i want her eyes to go cloudy from diabetic retinopathy, i want to blind her with so much sugar that she’ll not even understand what i’m feeding her. i want her little sausagy fingers to go numb with sugar, i want to put a nasogastric feeding tube into her intestines so that she’ll gain weight 24/7 without even me needing to move a finger for it. well, i’ll do it anyways… i mean, i’ll keep feeding her high calories fried junk while she is fed slop by the tube.

i don’t care if she suffers, she’s mine to do whatever i want with her. she’s my fattening pig, and i cherish her in the same way a farmer cherishes their prize-winning fattest hog.

she’s my pet, hell, even less than a pet sometimes, since i’d never do anything like this to my cat. she’s my first project and i love her so much that she has to expire exactly the way i programmed her to.

until then, i’ll simply keep reanimating her to fatten her up to my wishes.

she cannot die if i don’t allow her to.

you don’t… you don’t want to finish eating this?

i have to… stop?

oh.

oh…

oh well…

i believed… sorry, those were my expectations.

of course you can do anything you want, darling, it’s just…

yeah, yeah, i’m fine. i swear, i’m perfectly fine.

so… i’ll have to… just trash the rest?

are you… are you completely sure you don’t want to finish it?

i mean, what a waste. the food? aah, yeah, i was totally talking about the food, ahah

oh, don’t worry about me, piggy.

no, i’m not making “that face”.

i just thought we were waaay past all of this ordeal.

you know how it works, don’t you?

i go to work, i make money, i buy the food, you eat the food.

it’s so simple that even an animal would happily comply.

but not you, uh? because “you’re too full” now.

listen to me… i’m gonna trash this.

and since this specific food is too filling for your poor piggy body, you’ll never have it anymore.

yeah, you heard correctly: i’m never buying it anymore.

are you ready to give it up forever?

…what a good girl.

eat it up.

fill this lard sack you have as a stomach… you know you need it.

see?