Check it out

Realization

...help you? Ha ha, you want help. Okay... Babe, how have you not figured out what’s going on here by now? You not being able to get out of bed on your own has kind of been the point all along.

No reason to look so shocked. I mean, you had to know something was up at some point. Most people wouldn’t keep shoveling food into their partner’s fat face once they’ve ballooned up a few hundred pounds. You really didn’t think anything unusual was going on when you hit five hundred pounds, and I started to pick up the pace with your meals and portion sizes? I could have sworn you did.

No, most people would have pumped the brakes once they got that big. It’s easy to forget how big a quarter ton is for regular people — most can’t even imagine being that size. But you blew right past it. I guess it’s probably easier when you have someone to take care of getting all your food and finding clothes to fit all the new fat that invariably follows. I was expecting that something — the heavier belly, the thickening thighs, the water-wing arms, something — would get your attention, though. But it never seemed to faze you.

Most partners probably would have sounded the alarm at some point, too. They would be worried by the warning signs of worsening morbid obesity, like when their partner got out of breath waddling from one room to another. When they got hungry again right after a big meal. When they needed help washing everywhere because their fat rolls were too heavy to lift on their own. When they got too big to fit in a standard car or in the clothes I bought, no matter what size they were.

Instead, I made all that stuff sexy. I pampered you and sympathized while you were catching your breath. I treated you with extra snacks and kissed your engorged belly while you ate them. I turned shower time into our time for a little naughty fun while I was diving into your rolls anyway. And I took care of any trips so you didn’t need to go out, and could lay around the house in your skimpy underwear looking ravishing as ever.

Looking back, maybe I did too good a job. I could have scolded you about your health, told you to watch your diet and exercise a little more. I wonder what would have happened if I’d pointed out how much more of the loveseat you were filling up, or how much more you were having to struggle to haul all your flab around. Maybe it would have kept you from becoming a physical wreck quite so soon; maybe you were already out of control and it would have just made it that much more apparent. We’ll never know, will we?

But I do know what I see in bed with me. A huge, wobbling belly hanging from your torso and spilling into your lap like a giant water balloon. Two bloated, distended legs pushed outward by a protruding fat pad between them. Biceps (if you can call them that) wider than your head, bulging out as your body has struggled to find places to store more fat, leading down to that dimpled elbow roll and an almost equally chubby forearm. And that gorgeous face — always so cute, no matter how many chins you get, how much your cheeks puff out, or how much you give me that indignant, horrified look I see right now.

So no, sweetheart, I’m not helping you up. You should have realized this day was coming a long time ago. But doesn’t it seem like a nice morning for breakfast in bed, anyway? And you must be hungry. Fortunately there’s a dozen eggs, a dozen doughnuts, and a couple pounds of bacon in the kitchen with your name on them.

I’ll have everything ready in a jiffy... no need to get up.

I want to be so big, it’s embarrassing.

I want to go to a restaurant and barely fit in a booth because the table squishes my belly, and have to pretend I don’t care how noticeable it is.

I want to have to stiffle a grunt whenever I stand up, so as to not look like I’m struggling.

I want to have to avoid laying down on the ground because my heavy gut might pin me down, and simply trying to get up would make me look helpless.

I want to have to make my friends wait when we go out to eat because I ordered enough to fill myself up, and it’s just that damn much!

I want to sit on a three person couch and make it impossible for more than one other person to sit next to me.

I want to have to make others wait for me before we go out as I struggle to get my shoes on.

I want to have to make everyone go to the mall so I can Maybe find clothing that fits me.

I want to go to the fair and have to sit out every once in awhile because I won’t fit in the rides.

I just want people to notice how big I am, and be as comfortable talking about it as I am, even if it’s teasing 😚.

I really am desperate for someone to take control of my life and weight. I’m tired of responsibilities, tired of work and my social life. All I want in this world is for a woman to come along who wants me to be fatter than I was yesterday every day for the rest of my life. I want to feel my breath getting shorter day after day, see my feet dip beyond the horizon of my belly never to be seen again. I want my cheeks to grow fatter so I can see them in my field of vision. My arms will get more and more useless until I have trouble feeding myself. I want to fill a three person couch by myself, to never stand under my own power again. I want a feeder who sees me as a ball of lard more than a boyfriend and decides what/when/how much I eat. And I want her to be ruthless.

(If you want to do this to me, pleeeeeease message me. I’m waiting to be your pig)

Pamper me until I eat myself to death 💜

think about an unsuspecting friend walking in on you during a really bad binge. the kind of binge where you don't even have the decency to be wearing clothes that fit, the kind where you gave up on sitting at a table cuz it was too far from the kitchen, the kind of binge where you eat with your hands just to get it down quicker.

and there your poor friend is, coming into the kitchen for a glass of water and they find your fat gluttonous ass on the kitchen floor covered in slop and grease. picture them being disgusted before saying, "god. . . is this how you've been putting on all this weight?" walking over to you to bend down in a way you haven't been able to do in months and probably mever will be able to in the coming years. they pinch at the fat spilling out from your too small shirt, amazed that anyone can let themselves get like this.

and you. . . you try to show some decency. blushing and mumbling and stuttering trying to recover for what they're seeing, but you know anything you say just wouldn't sound reasonable. that anything you say just makes you sound like a pig looking for an excuse to stuff your face. and the longer they pinch and jiggle you, staring at you waiting for some kind of response, you're hyper aware of what you've done to yourself.

you can feel how tight your clothes are. how those stretchy cotton shorts are begging to be pulled beneath your fat gut. you can feel how stretched your stomach is, the skin hot and irritated from the material still desperately trying to cover what it can. and god, you're so out of breath. in the silence of their judgement all that can be heard is your huffing and puffing, and the gurgling of your gut trying to digest all the junk you've put in it.

you look like your next words are a complete lie, but for you they're the 100% truth.

"i was hungry."

they don't say anything at first before laughing at you. "you're telling me, all of this," they point to the empty containers and wrappers surrounding you, "was a midnight snack for you? . . . and look at you in these pants, the waist band is folding over your rolls."

your gut is so packed, begging to be let out of those shorts. you wanna slide them down under your gut, give yourself more room. but you can't do that. can't be that depraved in front of your friend. they already think you're a pig.

but then they move forward and do it for you, sliding their bony fingers into the too tight space and sliding them down. your fat gut slides out like melted butter before bouncing in your lap and the relief feels so good you moan.

they marvel at your belly, see how it sits in your lap, round and jello like. "you're not even fat, just large." they play with your belly for some time, jiggling and shaking it, mocking you every time you burp and because they know just how far gone you are, they ask, "well. . . aren't you gonna finish?"

and like the true pig you are, blushing and ashamed, you shove another mouthful down your throat.