A playful puppy

We both know you're so much more than just the hundreds and hundreds of pound you've gained. But seeing you there, in your element, it's so easy to want you, and objectify you. Encircled by a group of feeders, hands grabbing every inch of you. Tugging at fat rolls, hands disappearing between your folds, tracing the stretchmarked skin.

Hearing you huff and wheeze as they have their way with you. Fat chubby cheeks pulled to each of their lips, getting off with you, getting off with the hulk of fat before them. Sensory overload happening, as the food comes out, donuts being stuffed into your hungry mouth. Barely giving you a moment's reprieve before the next one. Protests muffled by the conveyor belt of calories. The groups eyes widen just seeing how quickly you can put it back. They express shock, they laugh, all while you continue to be their personal fat factory. I can see your mind swimming, I see it in your eyes.

The hands increase their exploration of your massive form. Fat tits squeezed, gasping as your nipples are pinched and tugged. Fingers fucking your belly button. And as it gets to a crescendo and you cry out, you are silenced by the funnel gag shoved in your mouth. The custard is poured and more comments are made, they look at their creation, hungry, desperate, at their mercy. They whisper in your ear. Ask you if you're happy what you've done to yourself, how far gone you are. And you whimper in pleasure as you struggle to finish the custard. Hands continuing to prod and shake, and squeeze.

Until attention moves south. And one of the feeders reaches your fatpad. He looks at his glistening hand, and sees how much you've been leaking. Your eyes widen as his flash a wicked smile. A vibrator appears and is matter-of-factly inserted into your fat pad, eliciting a grunt.

The taste of custard changes to someone all more familiar. Your gainer shake. Melted ice cream, weight gain powder, full fat milk. Dumped down the funnel without much care. Your body begging you to slow down. Gut distending into your lap. Hands now forming an all out assault. Feeders groping and shaking every part of you. Getting off on your fat. Fucking folds of your fat. The muffled whimpers as the vibrator continues to pulse. Fuck. It's all too much. You're getting close. I know you're getting close.

As each of the feeders blows their load over your fattened form, a final strong tug on your tits send you over the edge as the last of the gainer shake slips down, the vibrators pulse at maximum, and you cum. Oh fuck do you cum.

To the ones who came before me who fought, marched, loved out loud, and refused to disappear: thank you for making space where I can finally take mine.

I grew up in a conservative home, so this kind of love and freedom felt out of reach—until I found my people. And my autism? It’s not a downgrade. It’s me: quirky, unique, real.

I want it so fucking bad. I need a feeder who doesn’t give a shit about limits, who sees how pathetic and greedy I already am and just… keeps pushing.

I want to be trapped under hundreds and hundreds of pounds of my own soft, useless blubber. I want my belly to sag so heavy it pins me to the bed, rolls cascading over rolls, sweat pooling in every deep crease while I wheeze just from existing. I want stretch marks like lightning bolts splitting across my skin, red and angry at first, then turning silver as proof of how much I’ve surrendered.

I want to feel the tube shoved down my throat when my jaw gets too tired, thick calorie sludge pumping straight into me 24/7—shakes so dense they feel like cement, heavy cream, melted ice cream, oil slicking everything. I want my body to forget what hunger even feels like because I’m never empty. Ever. Just constantly bloated, aching, leaking, my heart hammering against layers of fat like it’s trying to escape before it gives out.

I want my legs to fuse into useless pillows of cellulite, my arms too swollen to lift, my chins multiplying until I can barely turn my head. I want to be so immobile that the only movement is the jiggle when someone slaps my gut or forces another funnel session. I want my feeder’s hands sinking wrist-deep into my sides while they whisper how much prettier I’ll be when I’m closer to the edge, when every breath is a struggle, when my body is finally giving up exactly like I begged it to.

I’m already ruined for anything else. Normal life? Gone. Thin? Laughable. I don’t want escape. I want to sink deeper. I want to be their perfect, disgusting, dying pig—swollen, sweaty, horny and helpless, cumming from the pressure alone while my arteries clog and my organs drown in lard.

Please.

Make me so fat I can’t come back.

Make me so fat I stop breathing under my own weight.

I’m begging for it. I’m dripping just typing this.

I’m not leaving this path. I’m already too far gone. 🐷💦🍰

Have a great weekend everyone ❤️