Jay

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.

I just think it’s cute how you thought you could ever control me when you can’t even control your gluttony. Now sit back, know your place, and open wide while moaning “yes, temptress” as you choke down more calories for me. You’re a pig. I’m a goddess. You grow and worship and I’ll pleasure and feed.

It’s a perfect winter night.
The kind where the snow is piling so high you can’t even see the mailbox anymore.
The fireplace is crackling, fairy lights are twinkling, and the only sound is your soft, stuffed breathing and the occasional clink of another tray hitting the coffee table.

You’re sprawled across the couch, belly already resting heavy on your thighs, sweater riding up because nothing fits anymore.
Me curled against your side in fuzzy socks and an oversized sweater, feeding you warm cinnamon rolls one slow bite at a time, licking the icing off your lips between kisses.

Outside it’s negative twenty.
Inside it’s eight-thousand-calorie heaven.
Hot cocoa with heavy cream.
Fresh baked cookies every hour.
Mac and cheese so thick the spoon stands up.
Pizzas delivered straight to the door because neither of us is moving until spring.

Every snowstorm is just another excuse to keep you pinned under blankets and calories love.
Every blizzard is another week I add to that glorious gut.

You’ll gain and gain and gain, soft, warm, sleepy, spoiled, until the only thing colder than the air outside is the idea of ever stopping.

And when the snow finally melts…
you’ll still be mine, rounder, heavier, happier, and completely unable to remember a time when winter didn’t taste like butter and my voice telling you “one more bite, baby.”

Hypothetically, of course…
but tell me you’re not already hungry for it.

A Hog’s POV of his dream come true, fictional story/realistic possibility

I remember when I was just 250 pounds. A chubby guy with a secret kink, scrolling Tumblr late at night, heart racing when I stumbled on KodeeFFA. She was this petite goddess—5’5” of tanned skin, snatched waist, and those red lips that could command empires. One DM led to another, and before I knew it, I was hooked. Her charm wasn’t just gorgeous; it was magnetic, intoxicating. “Eat for me,” she’d whisper in voice notes, and I’d obey, feeling that rush of submission as the pounds started packing on.

That was years ago. Now? I’m 800 pounds of pure, immobile gluttony, pinned to this reinforced bed like a monument to her will. I gave in completely—submitted to her beauty, her commands, her endless love of seeing me swell. Back then, I worked a desk job, spoiling her with tributes and gifts, buying her lingerie that hugged her perfect curves while I hid my growing gut under baggy shirts. She’d send pics of herself in what I bought, and I’d stuff myself silly just to earn her praise. “Good piggy,” she’d say, and I’d melt.

But the weight caught up. My lungs started hurting on stairs, my legs grew weak after short walks. I tried switching to work-from-home, thinking I could balance it—tap away at my keyboard while sneaking bites. But no. Food occupied my mind as much as she did. Every ping from her was a distraction, every craving a command. “Why fight it?” she’d text with that devilish emoji. “Let Mommy take care of everything.” And I did. Quit the job, handed over the savings, surrendered it all. Now she handles the bills, the shopping, the world outside. I’m free—free to glut, to grow, to exist only for her pleasure.

Looking down at my body now… god, it’s a sight. My belly is this vast, taut dome, shiny with sweat and stretch marks like tiger stripes across pale skin, rising so high it blocks my view of anything below. It pools out to the sides, merging with thighs thicker than tree trunks, fused together in a sea of soft lard that chafes with every tiny shift. My arms are pillows of fat, resting uselessly on rolls that cascade from my chest—man boobs heavier than her whole body, sagging like overripe fruit. Chins stack on chins, neck swallowed long ago, and even breathing is a labor, a slow wheeze that echoes in the room. My skin dimples everywhere, every inch a testament to years of her feedings: funnels at dawn, cakes at midnight, shakes that left me bloated and begging for more.

And there she is now, standing in the doorway with that full blender jar—her special formula, thick as pudding, packed with calories to push me past 800. Her sexy little body framed in lace, waist I could once wrap my hands around (back when I could move), grinning like the devil who owns my soul. “Ready for more, love?” she purrs, and I know I am. The inevitable? It’s already here—immobility, dependency, a life ending in bliss under her care. But it’s worth it. Every pound was for her. And as she approaches, jar in hand, I open wide, ready to swallow the next chapter.

Strawberries and Surrender

Once upon a velvet midnight, a trembling piglet (soft, trusting, and already far too plump to run) found himself cradled in the arms of the goddess of temptation.

She looked like starlight poured into silk: tiny waist, wicked smile, eyes that promised heaven and delivered it in calories.

For months she kept him in her rose-scented chamber, feeding him by hand, by funnel, by whispered command.
Cream, cake, butter, chocolate, endless rivers of sweetness sliding down his throat while she kissed the stretch marks she painted across his skin.
Every moan earned another bite.
Every new roll earned another slow, worshipful grind of her perfect hips against his swelling body.

He grew vast.
He grew helpless.
He grew deliriously, stupidly happy.

Then came the night she laid him back on silk sheets and climbed atop the mountain of him, her small hands stroking his shining dome of a belly like it was the finest treasure.

“My sweetest, fattest love,” she purred, lips brushing his ear, “it’s time.”

Before he could speak, her mouth opened, impossibly, beautifully wide, soft, warm, velvet, and wet.
He felt the first gentle pull at his toes… a kiss… a swallow… a slow, sensual drag into heat and darkness.

There was no pain.
Only pleasure, thick, syrupy pleasure, as her throat claimed him inch by inch.
His calves, his thighs, his vast belly folding and sliding past her lips like the richest dessert ever served.
She moaned around him, eyes fluttering shut in bliss, dainty hands rubbing the growing bulge that traveled down her slender neck and poured into her once-flat stomach.

When his shoulders slipped past her lips and his stunned, ecstatic face was the last thing left in the moonlight, she gave him one final, loving lick, and swallowed.

Her belly surged forward, round, taut, enormous, a perfect sphere of living piglet stretched beneath her glowing skin.
She looked nine months pregnant with pure gluttony, and she caressed the trembling dome with utter adoration, whispering, “Good boy… stay right there… become me.”

For three perfect days she lounged, radiant and temporarily swollen, feeling him soften and settle inside her, every kick of pleasure another pound melting into her curves.

On the fourth morning the massive belly had vanished.
In its place: fuller, heavier breasts that spilled over her corset…
hips that flared like a promise…
and an ass so round, so plush, so hypnotic that roses turned to watch her pass.

She stood before her mirror, running reverent hands over the new, piglet-soft perfection he had gifted her, and smiled.

“Thank you, my love,” she whispered to the empty air that still tasted faintly of strawberries and surrender.
“You made me even more irresistible.”

Somewhere in the garden, another lost traveler caught the scent of roses and cream…
and felt his feet already carrying him toward the sound of a goddess’s slow, hungry laugh.

Reblog this post if you are interested in morbid / death feedism and are okay getting flirty DMs / asks about it!