big and greedy

You groan, tired and helpless, pushing yourself upright with both hands while your belly sloshes around unpredictably — a completely separate entity from you. You’re already winded. We haven’t even started the day.

“Good morning fatass” I coo, leaning in to kiss your sweat-damp temple. “Enjoy being able to get out of bed while you still can. It shouldn’t be long now.”

You shoot me a look, half blushing, half flushed from the movement, and try to get to your feet. The swaying of your body with the slightest movement is unavoidable now. You don’t walk at all; you waddle. You don’t step; you haul. All that lard packed tight onto your thighs, slapping and jostling against itself, belly dragging you downward like an anchor of pure fat.

I trail behind you as you lumber toward the bathroom, and I can’t stop smiling. The way every inch of you bounces and sways. The slow, rhythmic harmony of your belly chafing on your thighs and the floorboards creaking is hypnotic. And when you finally pull yourself into the shower and plop down onto the shower chair, you let out a huff that can only be interpreted as a sigh of relief. Because we both know you barely made it. 

When you come out, you use your gut to ground the towel in place around your waist, and you sit on the edge of the toilet. I hand you your socks and wait. Watch. You try to lift your leg to cross your ankle over your knee, but your belly presses up into your chest. You have to lean back to breathe multiple times, and I can’t hide the fact that your immense struggle at the simple task of putting on socks is making me squirm with pleasure. You roll them half on and you’re left red-faced and gasping. I can see the sweat pooling at your collarbone.

“You ever think about how permanent this is?” I say as I pinch a lump of your triple chin between my fingers. “How this isn’t weight you can ever lose? It’s your whole life now. You’re never getting smaller. There’s no ‘bouncing back.’ Your body is ruined, baby. Completely useless except to me. And all because you're such a hopeless, impotent glutton.

To allow yourself to be shaped and molded for other people’s pleasure

You’re so desperate to please that you’re willing to eat thousands of excess calories and riddle your body with hundreds of excess pounds just for a passing moment of approval

You’re such an adorably pathetic pig

All that matters to you is the fleeting approval of others and what you need to do to gain it

And in this case the finely outlined criteria is becoming a mindlessly greedy hog

And you love that

It’s time to submit your mind and body to the masses piggy and allow yourself to be turned into the painfully obese, fat ass you’ve always needed to be

Days when stuffing isn't exactly fun. Days when they are seriously feeling beaten down by maneuvering a body that hates the little movement it has to manage. Days when they gripe about it being too much, but never able to stop their food addict brain from taking over. It's too hot. It's too erotic. A constant dull ringing in between her legs.

It may come in a certain statement of finality.

"If I keep this up, I'm not going to be able to leave the house."

"If being like this doesn't make me try to slow down now, I don't know if anything ever will."

"If I stop getting up, I'm going to end up bedbound soon."

But you get nagged to bring food. She's in a bad mood. Gorging on something sweet will take the edge off. Make her sleepy, make tomorrow come sooner, forget about the stress of this current moment.

There's a fear. There's a groaning about how helpless she is to the demands of her appetite. It's the final touches of leaving behind any chance of normalcy. Why bother sizing up an entire wardrobe again. Who is she trying to impress? Shopping is exhausting, hell, getting dressed is a nightmare. Just throw on a stained shirt that won't cover her belly. Use a blanket to cover her legs.

Give up on leaving the house. It's too uncomfortable to squeeze into a car. It's annoying to sit on a scooter when your ass and legs sag over the sides. Eating out doesn't sound appealing when you have to move so much just to get back into bed. Screw it. You're the fat lady who is too fat to leave home. Embrace it.

You track her calories. She gets restless when she doesn't eat a certain amount, an amount that dooms her to putting on more weight. Even a light day is irritable, cranky. It's too late to change. The burden of living in a giant, heavy body doesn't make sense if she can't even eat what she wants.

I'd rather be with someone who had zero engagement with the world. If you never challenged them, they'd simply choose to do nothing. No concerns. No worries. No concept of long-term thought. Life would be a series of naps in bed. Eating until it hurts wouldn't be a problem, because there's no consequences. Sleep it off. Facing reality with clothes, socializing, that's all removed from the picture. Gained weight again? What does it matter? You stay in bed. You don't have a worldly reason to haul yourself around and curse the added difficulty of moving.

It's liberating to be utterly unbothered by the world around you. A declaration of "you know what, I am done caring."

Nothing has thrilled me more than knowing I could leave a partner in bed all day and they'd never complain. Never seeing them stressed, never seeing them anxious. Giving that lazy, sleepy smile when you ask what she did all day. Nothing, of course.

This all ties nicely to the idea of fattening someone up. The idea of turning someone into a blob. The laziness, the apathy, and increasing weight each doing an equally important role in turning someone into a hedonist.

Watch as they become high maintenance. Meals and snacks and meals and snacks blur together. Where is she? In bed, taking up space, eating. Not hungry? It doesn't matter. Food is entertainment. It passes the time. She'll always finish her plate. She's given up. There's no reason to deny the pleasure of mindlessly eating.

And where will this take someone? There's less time for thoughtful living. It takes a long time to eat 4-5 meals. Snacking is a long, slow burn in between meals. The afterglow of being bloated and full occupies hours of their day. They passively lay there as you clean the area. Clear the trash, bring more food, feel your hands scrubbing between the folds of fat. Lotioning all the hanging fat.

You struggle to get out of bed and your reward? Struggling to waddle down the hallway to the living room.

You have gotten far to big to be going up and down stairs?

so we had to move the bedroom to the ground floor the upstairs basically non existent to you now.

After you mange to waddle through the ever more cramped hallway you enter the living room and sit on the sofa, your body all but filling it completely. It won't be long before the sofa gives way under your butt or you get stuck in the hallway.

And real evil feeders chime in with "don't you think it'd be more psychologically damaging if I abandoned you for a few days and came back to mock you for not showering and being too lazy to take the trash out?"

"Imagine how big I'll be at 400...500..." and then they trail off.

It's somehow taboo. It feels perverted to even suggest the possibility. The visual doesn't compute. The day-to-day experience suddenly becomes unfamiliar.

You can be playfully housebound at 500lbs.

You can't say the same at 600lbs. At that point, you'll be so undignified. Purposefully eating away your life.

Somehow, some way, reaching that size will defeat you. Something has to give. It's one thing to avoid going outside or needing all sorts of help to properly bathe, sleep, and feel comfortable. It's an entirely different story when your body legitimately becomes a prison. There's no more whimsy about staying inside. You WILL need help. Mandatory. No amount of wanting to do things will let you achieve them. Need bathing? Need food? Need an extra blanket or the fan turned on? You'll be forced to wait in bed until your feeder is present to help.

The best thing about all of this is I know this terrifying lifestyle makes you cum. The thoughts flicker in your mind.

By five years into the relationship, you’re a stupid housetrained pig. You cant remember the last time you had to do something yourself - any food you want is made for you and delivered directly to your greasy, expecting mouth. Who cares about whats going on in the outside world? You haven’t been outside in weeks - its much easier to focus on the vibrator between your thighs, on the rush of serotonin you get every time you stuff your face, knowing how happy it makes your partner. Its impossible to remember how to drive, how to hold down a job, how to even stand up without someone else’s help. You’re completely defense less, dependant on someone else for everything in your life. You’re so fat, even moving your toes or hands is too much effort. Who could be expected to perform any task when you’re this close to immobility? You dont need to worry about anything, you’re a pig - pigs don’t think, they only guzzle down more and more, moving as little as possible. Independence is a prison - you’ve been transformed into a play thing controlled on strings by the partner who controls everything about you. Your surroundings, your body, your food, your thoughts (fewer and fewer by the day), your mind.

A ball of lard, stupider every time you swallow, forced to beg for food from the only person you’ll ever see again, freed by your obesity from real life.