Jay

i want you bigger. lazier.

i want you hungrier. i want you going to bed each night stuffed, and waking up each morning a little softer and puffier than the day before. shirts fitting tighter, pants becoming harder to button.

i want you desperate. constantly craving, constantly thinking about eating and getting fatter. when you’re not eating, i want you thinking, fantasizing about it.

and when you do eat, i want you giving in to it completely. mindlessly swallowing thousands of calories, moaning as you eat. oinking when you’re finished. i want you losing track of yourself, focused solely on the taste of the food and the feeling of your gut filling up until it aches.

so helpless and pig-brained that it’s all you think about. all you desire. and maybe you’re dimly aware of the fact that you can’t stop. maybe part of you knows that your level of addiction is unhealthy, and that every stuffing just feeds into it more and more. that every time you get turned on by stuffing yourself, or by playing with your fat, or even just by observing the changes to your body as you gain, you push yourself deeper and deeper down the path of no return.

but any concern or self-awareness is far overshadowed by the pure pleasure you’re chasing. the pleasure of being overstuffed to the point of discomfort, of waking up bigger the next day. tighter clothes, and the feeling of soft fat as it clings your body. all of it just feels too good. you can’t help yourself. you can’t stop, and you don’t want to (though you and i both know that wanting to wouldn’t change anything).

i want your gluttony to consume you until it dictates every choice you make. i want you huge. hopelessly addicted. make yourself a symbol of gluttony, a cautionary tale to ordinary members of society.

Has mommy done a good job fucking your brain? That’s not a rhetorical question. Tell me, I’m curious.

Have I fucked it so well that you’re as deprave as me? You need all of this now too. 

Next time you go to the grocery store, mommy has a big favor to ask. Can you do it? Can you listen to mommy really well? You can? Good boy.

Mommy wants you to stroll down the grocery aisles, like usual, and she wants to see how fucked your brain is. Mommy wants to know if looking and smelling all the delicious food gets your mind wondering…

If your mind not only starts thinking about eating certain foods there, but if it also starts getting turned on. 

If your mind starts thinking about me shoving the foods you see down your throat. Starts thinking about how much you can fit inside your belly.

How many bags of chips you need to get full. How many tins of cookies. How many pretzels. How many bars of candy. Muffins. Pints of ice cream. Frozen pizzas. Cartons of milk Jerkies. Nuts. Potato Skins. Fries. Cream Pies. Sodas. Breads. Chocolates. Bagels. Cheeses. Mini donuts. “Fitness” bars. Even that carton of heavy cream mommy has been dying to force you to chug.

I need to know if you start getting excited when you pick up one of these items, turn it over, and scan the nutritional facts on back. Excited because your fucked brain is already calculating the calories of consuming your favorite foods. Because obviously you’re not going to just eat the recommended serving size. Mommy has taught you to be better than that. You need the entire thing to be satisfied and then some…

Mommy wants you to tell her if you start getting hard in the store. If that poor fucked brain of yours sends signals down there and gets you absolutely wet. 

If you do get hard, I think you should pick out an extra item or two just for yourself. A treat. For being so obedient. So so very obedient that you allowed me to fuck your brain and now here you are leaking in the middle of the frozen product aisle! What a good boy.

Every time you go to the store, I need you to think this.

I love knowing eating turns you on just as much as it turns me on to feed you. I love knowing gaining weight makes you as wet as it makes me. I love knowing you want more too. I love knowing that mommy has fucked your brain so good that you can’t even function like a normal person anymore. You love this just as much as me.

Forcing me to pack on the pounds and refusing to let me buy new clothes. Now I constantly have to worry about whether my belly is hanging out under my shirt, or how obvious my love handles are pushing out over my tight jeans.

Taking measurements of my office chair and waiting with glee for the day I come home crying about outgrowing it and having to ask for a new one in front of my coworkers.

Taking me on long walks with our friends and acting confused about why I can’t keep up with anyone. Making sure everyone knows that I’m the reason we have to slow down and stop all the time.

To be force fed until I'm sobbing and whimpering. Bonus points if those cries are muffled by more food.

To be tied up and stuffed until the ropes are merely decorational because there is no way I'm escaping by that point.

To be funnel fed shakes after every feeding to make sure my belly is absolutely stretched to its limit.

To be fucked from behind while I eat cake on my hands and knees. Make this a regular thing until I am too fat to do it.

To get so fat I can't do anything but eat and grow even bigger for you.

To be weighed and measured often to ensure I'm gaining fast enough.

To have photos taken of me at every milestone so I can look back on how much I've gained.

To be collared like a good little pet only to outgrow every collar. Eventually, these will be hidden under my chins, but I still want the reminder that I'm owned.

So can we talk about the descent into being obese, and how amazingly hot it is to consider becoming the stereotypical fat ass? Constantly eating take out and junky snack foods Lazing around in your progressively filthy home as you lose all ambition to do more than eat and masturbate

I let you witness me.

I stand here exactly as I am — thin, relaxed, deliberate —

because I know stillness can command more than movement ever could.

This isn’t vulnerability.

This is permission withheld.

I show you just enough to remind you

that control doesn’t come from effort,

it comes from certainty.

Yes, I’m skinny.

And yes, I’m comfortable.

That combination tends to unsettle people who mistake dominance for force.

I don’t chase attention.

I let it orbit.

You don’t look because I ask you to —

you look because something in you knows

you’re being measured.

This body isn’t here to please.

It’s here to set the tone.

To decide who gets closer and who stays exactly where they are.

Stay still.

Stay aware.

I’m not done being seen.

Not because I have to.

Because I like coming back stronger than I left you.

You stay on the couch. Naked. Quiet.

Waiting like you were told.

No touching. No moving.

Just letting the hunger grow until it becomes need.

When I come back, I don’t look at you right away.

I let my keys drop.

I let the bags hit the table.

I let the smell do the talking.

You’re already exposed.

I’m still dressed, still sweaty, still elevated.

I sit on your lap like it’s nothing —

light, careless, thin —

as if your body exists only to hold mine steady.

Your hands don’t move unless I guide them.

Good.

You learn fast.

I open the food slowly, one container at a time.

You watch.

I enjoy how desperate you look pretending you’re not.

“Eyes on me,” I say softly.

Not loud.

I don’t need to raise my voice.

I feed you the first bite like a test.

You obey immediately.

I smile.

“Así me gusta,” I whisper.

“So easy to control when you’re hungry.”

I don’t let you eat fast.

I make you wait.

I make you swallow.

I make you understand that every bite is mine to give.

You don’t eat because you want to.

You eat because I decided you deserve it.

I lean closer, sweat still warm on my skin, breath brushing your ear.

“You look so pathetic like this,” I murmur sweetly.

“Big body, empty head… waiting for permission.”

I guide your mouth again.

Slower this time.

“Come todo,” I say.

“No te hagas el difícil.”

You try to keep your dignity.

I take it from you gently.

I sit there, relaxed, legs tight just enough, watching you lose control while I stay perfectly calm.

Perfectly aware.

“Mi cerdito,” I whisper, almost affectionate.

“Full and obedient… that’s all you’re good at tonight.”

I stay on your lap, light as air, heavy as authority,

feeding you, correcting you, rewarding you,

until you’re full

and I’m satisfied

and you remember exactly where you belong.

Opposites attract and with each shovel full of food down that greedy throat of yours the attraction becomes stronger.

Me:
5’5” of tight, delicate, untouchable curves.
Small hands, sharp collarbones, legs that could run forever.

You:
Bloated.
Lard-laden.
A heaving, quivering mountain of softness that can barely move without a groan.

I can still slip through doorways without thinking.
You have to turn sideways… and even then, the frame protests.

I fit in your lap like I belong there.
You’d crush me under all that glorious weight if you tried to sit on me.

I’m the temptation you’ll never touch.
You’re the surrender you can’t escape.

And the best part?
The more you grow, the hotter that contrast gets.
The more impossible it becomes.
The more you ache for it.

So keep eating, piggy.
Make that bloated frame even bigger.
Make the difference between us even more unfair.

I love how small I stay while you become everything soft, heavy, and helplessly mine.

Look at this hoodie on me, piggy…


so big, so loose, so oversized it hangs off my 5’5” frame like it’s trying to swallow me whole. Now imagine your fat body doing the same thing to you. Your belly sagging heavy and low like the hem of this hoodie, rolls drooping over your waistband, arms resting uselessly on soft blubber that spills everywhere. All that lard you’ve packed on acting as your own personal insulation—thick, warm, jiggly layers keeping you cozy while the world gets colder.

I love how ridiculous it looks on me…
and I need it to look even more ridiculous on you.

This hoodie’s already too big for me.
I want one even bigger—one that could double as a blanket when I steal it from you.
So you better keep eating, keep swelling, keep growing that bloated, lard-laden frame until you need something massive to cover it.

Make yourself so fat that even the biggest hoodie hangs off you like it’s trying to escape.

I’ll be waiting, hog…
ready to steal your hoodie and admire how perfectly insulated my piggy has become.