Sin título

—Órale, Richie, cabrón. No te me rajes ahora. Te vas a empacar este galón de leche Lala, y te lo vas a empacar completito, ¿me entiendes? Ni una gota se me desperdicia, ¡eh! Y no me pongas esa cara de fuchi, que es por tu propio bien, para que crezcas fuerte y sano, no como el enclenque que eras antes. ¿Y qué me ves con esos ojos de borrego a medio morir? ¡Ábreme esa bocota, que ya te lo voy a vaciar! —le espetaba don Ramiro a su hijo, mientras le metía un embudo en la boca y le vertía el líquido blanco con una determinación implacable.

Richie, con los ojos desorbitados y la boca llena, apenas podía articular palabra. Sus intentos de protesta eran acallados por el torrente de leche que bajaba por su garganta, dejándolo sin aliento y con el estómago a punto de estallar.

—Eso, mijo. No me falles ahora. Tú puedes con esto y más. —le animaba su padre, mientras le acariciaba la panza con una ternura siniestra. —Mira nada más, qué suavecita y redondita se te está poniendo. Se nota que estás aprovechando bien la comida, que no se diga que no te alimentamos como Dios manda. —añadía, con un brillo maléfico en los ojos.

Richie, entre jadeos y sollozos, apenas podía creer lo que estaba sucediendo. Su padre, el mismo hombre que solía regañarlo por su mal comportamiento y sus bajas calificaciones, ahora lo estaba llenando de comida hasta el punto de la asfixia, con una sonrisa enigmática que no presagiaba nada bueno.

—¿Papá, por qué me haces esto? —logró preguntar Richie, con la voz entrecortada.

Don Ramiro lo miró con una mirada fría y penetrante.

—Es por tu propio bien, hijo. Ya te lo dije. Para que seas un hombre grande y fuerte, y no un debilucho como tus tíos. —respondió, con un tono de voz que no admitía réplica.

Marco had imagined Tuscany would smell like rosemary, olive oil, and possibility. And it did — at first. When he arrived at the prestigious Scuola di Cucina del Sole, he expected to spend his days chopping herbs, kneading dough, and mastering the art of rustic Italian cuisine.

Instead, on the very first morning, Chef Lamberti handed him a fork.

“Eat,” the chef said, smiling broadly. “To cook, one must first understand pleasure.”

Marco didn’t argue. The food was extraordinary — pillowy gnocchi, braised boar, panna cotta that trembled like a guilty secret. But by day three, he noticed something strange: no one ever asked him to cook. Not even to stir a pot. The instructors simply prepared lavish meals and watched him eat them, taking notes as he chewed.

By week two, Marco’s clothes fit differently. By week three, he was bursting out of them wearing only rags that barely covered delicious middle. And by week four, the chefs began measuring him — waist, hips, arms — murmuring approvingly as the numbers climbed.

Chef Lamberti would lick his lips in a way Marco hoped was just… enthusiasm for culinary education.

“You are progressing beautifully,” the chef said one afternoon, patting Marco’s softened belly. “Truly, you are becoming… perfect.”

Marco laughed nervously. “Perfect for what?”

The chefs exchanged glances — the kind that lasted a second too long. One began to drool out of the corner of his mouth.

That night, lying in his room above the vineyard, Marco replayed the past month: the overeager smiles, the constant feeding, the way the instructors whispered excitedly whenever he finished a plate. He had signed up to learn cooking, but he hadn’t touched a single pan.

And the way they looked at him now — appraising, hungry — made him wonder if he had misunderstood the curriculum entirely.

Marco swallowed hard.

He was beginning to think he wasn’t there to learn how to cook.

(Photos of @feedingfat)

There's a slight difference between being a gourmet and a gourmand.

A gourmet is someone who cares about ingredients and qualities. The pleasure of eating is in high quality ingredients and exotic recipes. A gourmand is all about quantity over quality.

Of course, it's possible to be both - like me - and fat longpigs give me the chance to indulge in both at once.

Most fat longpigs sit happily on the gourmand end of the scale. It's all about gaining weight through eating plenty, without much thought into what they're eating. Delicious, but sometimes you're craving something different. After all, there's a difference between regular beef and kobe.

This pig approached me because he knew I could give him the gourmet experience he was craving - and one I love to give.

I treated Iberico here like kobe beef. Minimal exercise, plenty of cage time, massages, and only the finest foods - as long as he cleared his plate and gained weight on schedule. The cost of keeping my housepigs tripled, both because the more expensive ingredients and the increased volume. We're talking truffles, oysters, lobster, caviar, kobe beef, Iberico pork, expensive booze, cheeses, and plenty of longpork. Even when I took his balls I fried them in truffle oil and served them with edible gold, caviar. Still, I can afford it, and seeing him stuff his face knowing that one meal cost more than a week of keeping a caged pig fed definitely got my stomach growling.

Well, you can tell from the stretchmarks that he was focused on weight gain, and he was more than happy when I told him it was time for me to get a return on my investment. I took over one of my restaurants for an exclusive, $20,000 a plate event where I gave this pig the experience he deserved.

For this pig I chose a peach, truffle, saffron rice, and longpork (all sourced from Grade A and above pigs) stuffing, forcefed him a bottle of cognac, then covered him in a peach, saffron, and cardamon glaze. He couldn't have been more eager to get trussed, gagged, and slid into the oven, content that his gourmet diet had led to a once-in-a-lifetime meal for so many diners.

Arthur had recruited a group of stout, hard-working men from the local area, offering them good wages and plenty of home-cooked meals in exchange for their labor. The men, unsuspecting and grateful for the steady work, quickly settled into farm life.

What they didn't know, however, was that Arthur's generosity had a ulterior motive. He was aiming to fatten up the men, meticulously tracking their weight gain and belly circumference in a worn notebook he kept hidden in his vest pocket.

Every day, the farm kitchen bustled with activity as Arthur's wife, a woman of few words but formidable culinary skills, whipped up hearty breakfasts of pancakes, bacon, and eggs, followed by lunches of stew, biscuits, and pies, and topped off with dinners of roasts, potatoes, and cobblers. Arthur would playfully nudge the men to take seconds, even thirds, praising their appetites and encouraging them to eat "like growing boys."

The men, initially surprised by the abundance of food, soon grew accustomed to the rich meals. They laughed about their expanding waistlines, attributing it to the physical demands of farm work and the undeniable deliciousness of Mrs. Arthur's cooking. They were oblivious to the fact that their daily indulgences were part of a calculated plan.

Arthur, on the other hand, was delighted by their progress. He watched with a glint in his eye as their bellies grew rounder and their movements became a little slower. He would sometimes pull aside the fattest of the bunch, a man named Bob, and give him a playful pat on the back, commenting on how "well-fed" he was looking. Bob would just chuckle, unaware of the sinister meaning behind Arthur's words.

Arthur's ultimate plan was to sell off the fattest of the men to a local restaurant that specialized in "farm-to-table" cuisine. He imagined the premium price he could command for such prime, well-marbled specimens. He even had a restaurant in mind, a place known for its decadent pork belly and hearty stews.

As the months passed, the men on Arthur's farm grew larger and lazier. Their physical prowess, once a source of pride, was slowly eroding under the weight of excessive eating. They still worked, but with less enthusiasm and agility. Arthur, however, was not concerned. Their growing girth was, to him, a measure of success.

One day, the restaurant owner, a man named Franco, paid a visit to the farm. He was a shrewd businessman with a sharp eye for quality ingredients. Franco walked around, inspecting the men with a critical gaze. He seemed particularly interested in Bob, whose belly had reached impressive proportions.

Arthur, sensing an opportunity, pulled Franco aside and whispered, "I have some prime specimens for you, Franco. Look at Bob over there. He's been well-tended to."

Franco smirked, understanding the implication. "Indeed," he replied, his voice low and smooth. "He looks like he'd make a magnificent roast."

Arthur's heart leaped. The deal was almost sealed. He just had to keep the men eating, keep them unsuspecting, until the day he would deliver them to their fate.

Tom had been looking forward to this vacation for months... When he looked into taking a trip to a tropical resort with his local travel agency, he was surprised to receive a call the very next day from a place offering him a week's stay at an incredible price... They even offered pay for his plane ticket there! It was an offer too good to turn down.

Travis and Dylan, who seemed to be the only employees at the resort, were extremely attentive and friendly with Tom as his stay went on... After his massage, they took him poolside, and without even verbally offering, started hand feeding the big man different pastries. He didn't need to say it... he was obviously loving this treatment right away.

There were also no other guests, which Tom at first found odd, but as the two men became more casual... as they started to touch him, and pet his fat arms, and playfully pinch his side rolls and making him blush, he thought less about these things. On the third night, they slept together, tending to the huge, porky boy intimately...

When the farmer decided they had reached peak weight, he contacted a local butcher who specialized in "specialty cuts". The men were taken to the sterile back room of the butcher shop, a stark contrast to the rustic barn.

The Final Appraisal: The butcher, donning a white apron, joined the farmer in a professional inspection, measuring the circumference of their bellies with a tape measure.

Mapping the Meat: The men were instructed to lie on their backs atop cold, stainless steel processing counters.

Marking the Cuts: With the precision of a surgeon, the butcher and his assistants used black markers to draw dotted lines across the men’s bare, oiled skin, labeling different sections of their bellies as "Sirloin," "Flank," and "T-Bone".

The farmer stood by with his clipboard, checking off the final "Fat-to-Rupture Index" as the butcher prepared his tools, surrounded by the heavy, hanging carcasses of the day's more conventional stock.

The farmer had always taken pride in his "special projects," but the two men he found were his most ambitious yet. He moved them into the quietest part of the farm, away from prying eyes, and began a strict regimen of indulgence.

The Feeding Phase

Every morning, the air in the barn was thick with the scent of sugar and lard. The farmer didn't just feed them; he curated their growth with a meticulousness usually reserved for prize-winning livestock.

Constant Monitoring: The farmer used a large industrial scale to track every pound gained, documenting the progress on a chalkboard hanging from the barn's timber beams.

Gourmet Fattening: Fresh blueberry pies were a staple of their diet, delivered warm by the farmer who watched with a satisfied grin as they ate.

Physical Checks: To ensure the quality of the "marbling," the farmer would often poke and prod their expanding midsections, even applying oils to keep the skin supple as it stretched to accommodate their growing bellies.

The Growth Profile

As their bellies began to protrude further, the farmer became obsessed with their side profiles. He developed a custom "profile growth chart," using it to trace the curve of their stomachs against a clipboard to visualize exactly how far they had progressed toward his ideal. Soon, they were so large they could stand belly-to-belly, their massive, oiled midsections pressing firmly against each other.

The Butcher's Inspection

Proud to present

​Then there was James. James was a fixture in Dale's life, but not as a customer. James was a regular at the doughnut shop next door, a large, slow-moving man whose only joy, it seemed, was consuming as many glazed rings as he could fit into his mouth at once. He was a glutton, a walking mountain of excess, and to Dale, he was an abomination. Dale saw the waste of space, the lack of self-control, the general... unappealing softness of James. He saw the potential for ruin. He also saw James lack of true satisfaction. He wasn't happy; he was just full.

​A thought began to curl and grow in Dale's mind. It was a dark, dangerous thing, a transgression against the order of life. But it was also, in its own twisted way, a form of perfection. He didn't see a person in James. He saw quality. He saw tenderness. He saw a special meat.

​The game was slow and meticulous, built on a foundation of false friendliness. Dale started bringing James small cuts of meat—the best bits, the prime cuts—telling him they were too rich for ordinary customers, that only a true connoisseur like James could appreciate them. James, used to being ignored or mocked, was overwhelmed by the attention. For the first time, he felt special. Not just a fat guy eating doughnuts, but someone chosen.

​"Try this, James," Dale would whisper, presenting a small, perfect piece of ribeye. "A true artist’s cut." James, his eyes bulging, would chew and swallow, his face a picture of ecstasy, completely unaware that he was the intended final course in Dale's twisted masterpiece.

​The "special treatment" escalated. Dale invited James into the back, the inner sanctum of the shop. He let him stand near the cooler, letting the cool, damp air seep into his massive bulk. He let him touch the heavy oak cutting board. He even, in a bizarre and disturbing turn, allowed James to lay down on the large wooden prep table, under the pretense that he needed to understand the "anatomy of flavour." James, in a state of naive bliss, complied, letting Dale trace lines across his massive, pasty torso, completely oblivious to the fact that these were butcher's lines, cut charts for his own body.

​Dale's voice would drop, full of mock reverence. "Look at this rib section, James. Look at the belly flank. This is potential, true potential." James would nod, a small grin on his face, believing he was being praised for his appreciation of fine meat, not for being the meat itself.

​The trap was closing, and Dale was in a fever of anticipation. He prepared the back room, ensuring it was spotless. He sharpened his cleaver and knives to an impossibly fine edge. The tape measure, once used for measuring carcasses, now lay on the cold iron scale, waiting for the final weight.

​The night he finally did it, the town was quiet. Dale invited James for a "special tasting," a dish he said he'd been perfecting just for him. James, his heart pounding with excitement and a general lack of oxygen from his bulk, practically waddled into the back.

​The story ends right as Dale reaches for his main tool. He has successfully groomed James, transforming him from a simple glutton into a willing, and entirely naive, participant in his own demise. He has tricked him into believing he is a prized guest, when in reality, he is the prized product.