Trial Run

Content Warning for death feedism straying closer to abuse rather than a mutual relationship.

How was that? Nice?

No ... ? Oh. I spent a long time making that slop for you to enjoy. The least you could do is pretend to be appreciative of everything I do for you.

I know it makes you sick and eating so much is painful, I'm tired of hearing you compain. Your ailments don't have to be my problem. It's hardly my fault I had to fatten you into immobility. You were constantly trying to fucking escape!

Enough with the waterworks. Don't you think I know you well enough by now to tell when you're faking? Yeah that's right, dry your eyes.

Oh, what's that? Something's the matter? Let me guess: Tight chest? Probably a heart attack, then. But you aren't worried about a silly little mid-week heart attack. You've survived heart attacks before.

Unless ... Maybe there was a little extra sugar in today's slop. Maybe some extra lard, too. Or maybe, just maybe, there was a little dose of levalbuterol.

Ooooh ... That got your attention, didn't it? That's right. A beta agonist. The perfect thing to give to someone who suffers from reccurent heart attacks. I'm a little disappointed you knew what that was, to be honest. If you remember your time as a pharmasist it means I've failed to strip you of your personality and memories. No matter. I've learned from my mistakes.

Haha, now you don't fancy your odds! Now you don't think you'll make it through. Now you're scared.

I bet you wished you hadn't left me everything you own in your will. It was such a turn on for you to do so, too. At least, it was until I made you too big for the front door. All that money ... such an incentive for me to ... How should I put it ... Cash in? And move on to the next unsuspecting sow.

Hello? Still with us? Vision fading? Vignette growing around the edges of your vision?

Let me just lie you back down on the bed. There you are. If you're experiencing loss of vision you're sure to soon become too lightheaded to stay upright.

Woah ... I can actually hear your heart beating from your bedside. You're little heart is actually beating out of your chest and you're still lucid. How about that.

Don't give me that look. I won't leave you. I won't risk you pulling ofd yet another miraculous revival only for me to be halfway across the country, thinking the job is finished, and not being by your side to feed you some more slop.

I know you know you were only a trial run. But I did love our time together. Why don't you sleep now? There there. You won't have to deal with me much longer ...

Girl who's eaten herself to the point where technology is the only thing keeping her alive, stuck in a hospital bed, having more and more of herself taken and replaced with machine just go cope with the morbid obesity she's eaten herself into

I adore this idea and the more I wrote the more ideas I came up with and tbe morbid it became so I'm just going to put a TW on the entire response incase anyone wants to avoid reading something so extreme

Thank you anon for such a stimulating ask <3

She wants nothing more than to keep eating and eating. Her medical team can do nothing but oblige. They come to her offering newer and even more experimental replacements, hoping to oversell the dangers enough that she'll consider slowing down instead of risking further automutilation. She always accepts the modifications. She thinks of the machines in terms of how much time they can buy her. And she thinks of time in terms of how much fatter she can get.

She's outgrowing her hospital room but there isn't a machine strong enough to actually move her. They had to get rid of her limbs to grant the rest of her a little more space to fill. A tube runs from her lung, out of her chest, into the ceiling, and through a hundred feet of filters and purifiers before it ends. The end, the part of the tube through which she breathes out of, is guarded by armed security workers.

She's a theseus girl. This is her eighth heart; Her chest opens and closes with a zip. She has one lung working doubletime, to make room for the cabling her liver needs. Her throat and vocal chords have been completely remodelled so she can eat while sleeping. She's been legally dead for a cumulative hour over the course of her life.

She doesn't have bones any more. They were too fragile to support her. They were all meticulously removed over the course of a year. Her skull, her teeth, even the tiny bones in your ear you need to hear anything. It made her very soft.

She keeps eating and growing and replacing parts of herself until her flab wedges the door shut and they have to cut a hole in the ceiling to physically reach her organs to tend to her. She, of course, keeps growing until she plugs that hole too, and her personal medical team can no longer physically access her organs

After a week of listening in on her moaning in ecstacy as she revels in all that she's done to herself, the EKG mounted on the wall outside her room falls flat. An ever diligent medical team is now replaced with an ever diligent excavation team, trying to see if they can't pour her into a grave. The plan is to build a garden over wherever she ends up: Inspite of how much of her original body was lost to iron replicas she's still the only example of the human equivalent of whalefall.

She spawned an extremely altruistic form of eco-protest which has seen a complete revival of many thought-to-be-doomed ecosystems

@ssbbwcumcatcher and @ms.medusa_ on Instagram

You expect to wake up to your alarm; maybe your partners arm slinking over your waist, the cat pressing itself into your space. Any of your normal indicators that it's time to wake up.

What you don't expect, however, is to feel the thick underside of a gut brushing against the bottoms of your knees, an unfamiliar dip in your sofa, normally vacant space on the couch filled in by a wide, soft expansion of...you.

The second thing you feel is something cold and wire-like being squeezed by the unfamiliar folds of your throat, coupled with cold air shooting into your nose. You reach with with a newly bloated hand, fingers tight and tingling with a numbness you recognize via hours of horny scrolling through diabetes symptoms pages. You shudder as you pull a sweat greased cord to a nasal cannula from your third or fourth chin, huffing slightly. Most likely from holding your arm up past your chest for longer than a few seconds for the first time in God knows how long.

You move onto to the main issue; hands travel down, sausage fingers wrap themselves around your third to last love handle, right under your saggy f-cups, breathing unconsciously growing harder as you wobble one of your many new slabs of meat. You smooth your hands over your belly, a pale white apron taking up your entire lap, now the size of a park bench and about as soft as a bowl of cool whip, stiff peaks melted down to a flabby mess and dripping off your thighs, burying your crotch and a swollen fupa.

You hold your arms out in front of you, cellulite and blubber dripping off of them as you think about all the times you prayed for this. Fantasizing with weighted suits, peeping at larders in public, eyes closed, hands down your pants as you wondered what it would be like to carry all of *this*. Now you're here, taking up your entire sofa, barely able to turn your blubber packed neck, wheezing from just hardly shifting your arms up and down. Amble pockets of stretch marked flab ripple across your arduous form. There's only one question that wracks your mind after you've half-processed your new reality-

"Good morning, larder."

He strolls in, grease stained plain white box wider than his shoulders gripped in both hands. You inhale through your nose, instinctively starting to scoot over to make room for him on the couch before your fluid-logged hip crashes against the arm. The act leaves your already corroded joints sore and your mouth sucking for air like a fish. He makes eye contact with you like a predator does a wounded boar. "Babe," You wheeze, the ensuing *What's going on, etc etc* cut off by a cream filled doughnut shoved past your lips. Your chins press against your throat and jiggle against your collar bone as you chew it in two big bites, taking it down your throat and sucking the white cream filling off his finger. Gulping it down leaves you panting for breath and he cuts off your struggle with a kiss, groping your right blubberous tit. You close your eyes and reach for another doughnut. Maybe you'll be fatter when you wake up...

New Bed

I watch as our reinforced bariatric lift slowly lowers your massive sagging bulk into our new bed. The frame has been specially built to accommodate your enormous weight and massive size-- as well as room for you to grow even more, of course. The lift settles you comfortably into place, and the bed groans ever so slightly as your mass settles into the luxurious, custom-made new mattress. It's expensive, of course, but worth every penny to me. I want only the best for my beloved pampered pig.

"Comfy?" I ask, as I watch you relax into your new bed.

"Mhm," you murmur, rubbing your mountainous belly. The bed even has special hydraulics built in to help move you in a comfortable reclining position.

"Good girl," I say, as I rub one massive, fleshy leg. The soft rolls and flabby folds are like an absolute wonderland to touch and explore and knead. My fingers sink into the flab, lovingly caressing its creases and folds.

You sit naked on the bed, huge and immobile. It creaks ominously beneath you as its structure settles beneath your incredible weight and the room is filled with the sounds of your panting and wheezing. The massive amount of excess fat puts constant strain on your body, making simple tasks like breathing a laborious effort which has been labored and heavy for a while now as your lungs are compressed by hundreds of pounds of blubber. I love hearing the sound of it, the sheer heaviness of each breath reminds me of how you much fatter you have become than any person has a right to be.

You're so, so fat. So heavy. So soft. Every little part of your body is swollen and bloated with lard. Your massive breasts, your bloated belly, your thick thighs, and your flabby arms. It's an amazing sight. You're an absolute mountain of lard, completely covered in soft, jiggling flab and so wonderfully soft and warm and fleshy. Your whole body sags and hangs with fat, jiggling and quaking with the slightest movement.

Every inch of your body shows the extent of your gluttony and hedonism, the lengths to which you've gone to indulge yourself. It's a sight that turns me on like crazy. Your huge, jiggling belly dominates the bed, its soft, sagging mass rising up in front of you, covered in stretchmarks and folds. Your arms and legs have grown incredibly flabby and totally useless, thick and heavy and sagging with fat. Your enormous hips have grown thick rolls of lard leading down into your gargantuan ass and thighs which have exploded in size into huge jiggling sacks of lard and cellulite. Even your back has not been spared from your body’s uncontrollable growth, having grown massively soft and flabby with huge rolls of fat and soft flesh sagging off it. Beneath all this lard your waist is completely non-existent, long since buried under hundreds of pounds of fat. And your face, too, has been transformed by your gain, becoming round and flabby, with heavy jowls and a thick double chin.

You rub your belly and sigh contentedly. Prior to moving you into this new bed, I made sure you were stuffed full with absolutely massive amounts of food to keep you satisfied during its assembly. Your belly gurgles and groans as it processes the massive meal, but it's used to that kind of pressure by now, and I know you'll be hungry again in a few minutes. Your appetite is absolutely voracious now, and you can't get enough food. I spoil you absolutely rotten, making sure you're always completely stuffed with rich, fattening foods, always glutting yourself as much as possible. And when you think you’re too full to continue, I force you to eat more, until your belly is swollen and aching.

"Look at yourself," I say, as I sit down on the bed next to you. "You're such a fucking pig. An overgrown, immobile pile of lard."

"Thank you," you say happily, your voice weak and strained.

I rub my hand over your huge belly, and you moan and shudder. You can barely handle my touch, so oversensitive and overfull. I run my hands up over your huge breasts, and then to the side, squeezing the soft rolls of fat along the way. You look incredible.

"Would piggy like some more food?" I ask, knowing full well the answer.

"Please," you moan seductively, desperately, rubbing your enormous belly. You look at me hungrily, begging me with your eyes.

I laugh and lean in to give you a quick kiss. "Anything for my pampered pig," I say, turning to return to the kitchen.

Immobility: Day 1

Elisa, a 23 year old 750lb feedee, has succumbed to immobility. Today is her first day being bed bound, and we follow her getting adjusted to her new permanent lifestyle. (This is a follow up to ‘One Last Trip To The Kitchen’, hope you all enjoy!)

Elisa sat gasping her air, her fat pouring in all directions over the seat of the toilet. This would be her final trip to the bathroom, so between her panting she took in the sights around her, remembering all the trips she’d made here, each one slower and harder than the last as her body grew fatter and fatter with every passing day. Jason stood watching his lard creation as Elisa finished up and began the process of walking to her hedonistic tomb. She decided she wanted to walk this final time on her own, just to remind herself how unashamedly obese she had become, so much so that every step was a gargantuan struggle filled with sweat and laboured breathing. After a good few minutes exhausting herself just by standing, she took a quick moment to stop herself jiggling and to regain what little strength she had to walk the few metres to her new bed. For each step she swung her globular legs as far as she could, amounting to inches of movement. Her complete lack of fitness was such a turn on to the two of them, the notion that even jiggling was a form of exercise for Elisa was a fantasy like little else. Her sweat covered, pile of lard body came close to collapsing on the journey to her bed several times. When this happened Jason would come over and pour a litre of soda into her mouth alongside a handful of Oreos for good measure, just to give her the huge amount of energy needed to lift one of her legs half an inch off the ground. She arrived at her desk that sat right next to her new home. She leaned on her bariatric desk chair for a second of respite, listening to it groan in pain beneath her. The thought of straining a chair made of industrial equipment with a nearly 800lb weight limit was enough to make her climax at just the thought, though she quickly replaced that feeling with a mouthful of food as Jason leaned around her rolls to feed her a few brownies and a couple litres of soda. “Nearly there now,” he whispered, gently rubbing her quadruple chin as he leant in to make out with her. The two kissed for a short while before Jason could sense her knees beginning to struggle. He grabbed her gut and jiggled it softly, sending her entire body into an entrancing dance of fat and flesh. Elisa gave him a smile before turning her attention to the bed and making the last few steps towards her ultimate goal. Jason helped spin her around and sit her down. For a change, the bed made no sound of struggle, clearly made for a girl like Elisa. She took a deep, laboured breath, then slowly began moving herself into a laying position, her head propped up slightly to see above her huge gut and flab filled boobs. Her chins melted into her, towering one above the other and jiggling with every breath. As she finally settled, she took a sigh of relief. It was done, her last time ever expending energy for anything other than eating was behind her. There was only one thing in front of her now... Gorging. Above her, attached to the ceiling, was a large crane they’d use this to lift her whilst her bed was cleaned. It was hard to believe something so strong existed, Elisa thought. Her bed rested on a wide metal platform, an industrial truck scale they’d use to weigh her and keep track of her gluttony. To either side of her sat large tables that would hold the ever growing amount of food she consumed on a daily basis. Jason strolled in carrying several large containers filled with all of her favourite delights; cakes, brownies, pizza, burgers, and enough soda to satiate a small city. Food was a massive turn on for Elisa, her arms slowly heaving themselves up to grab something to pile into her mouth. Jason begun to stack the food up around her, all within reach so that no time was spent on anything other than feasting all day, everyday. Jason stared at the giant pile of fat he’d helped create. He loved the way her body jiggled constantly with every mouthful she took, almost as if her body was desperately trying to exercise in some way. Not that that would do anything against the thousands of calories she gorged on with every passing

mouthful. Her huge gut spread all over her body, pouring over the sides of her hips and down to her legs. Her giant thighs and lard-filled legs lay still on the bed, still drenched in sweat from her final excursion. Jason looked Elisa in the eyes, nodding at her legs with a devilish smile, both knowing she’d have no use for them ever again. After another hour of gorging, Elisa seemed somewhat full (at least for a short while). Jason lay on top of her, dwarfed by her frame that outsized him five times over. They kissed for a time, Jason taking it upon himself to pleasure his hog of a lover the way she was incapable of. Later, alone in her new permanent setup, Elisa lay there thinking as she shovelled several helpings of fries into her gut. She was now totally at the mercy of her feeder, practically everything in her life needing to be done for her. And even more arousing was the notion that she would only descend from here. No way she would ever change her lifestyle now having finally achieved the fantasy of a lifetime of gorging. The more she would eat the heavier she would become. Her arms would grow fatter and fatter until not even she could lift them to pile food into her mouth, and even eating would have to be done for her. The thought of Jason alternating between stuffing her silly for hours on end before sticking a tube in her mouth and letting her meals flow into her via a machine made her wet. And as she would grow and grow, even wiggling her fingers would become a heavy duty task, buried under layers of lard that turned her hands into plumped up sausages. Her legs would become completely defective, years of not moving making them glorified meat sacks that only added to her ungodly weight. One of her legs alone weighed almost as much as two small adults, so a future where she would ever leave her bed again was simply not going to happen. Her neck fat and chins spread wide from her face, jiggling and sweating with every breath. She knew as she ate more and more that turning her head would be impossible, her movement restricted by pounds upon pounds of flab. Luckily for her she only ever needed to look at two things: food, and the TV mounted in front of her. As she gorged, her mindless eyes gazed lazily at the TV before her. It truly was a parody of the 21st century lifestyle for a woman to live her life so fat she couldn’t move, spending her life staring thoughtlessly at a TV as she expended a days worth of energy reaching for another bottle of soda. As she lay there in awe of herself, she felt something. An itch, begging to be scratched on her ass under hundreds of pounds of fat and sweat. She remembered the last time she scratched her behind whilst sat in her chair, exhausted from having to lift herself an inch or two off upwards to reach. To think that was only hours ago was hard to believe, she’d become accustomed to being bed bound quicker than she’d anticipated. Now however, laying there in all her lard laden glory, she was barely capable of lifting her arms for another snack. Reaching underneath herself was another realisation of how utterly dependent she was on her boyfriend. She called him in, neck jiggling from using her voice. She told him her ass needed scratching, and Jason got to work. His hand swam through piles and roles, lathered in sweat and fat. It took all of his strength, plus a little help from the crane above, to heave her body up on one side. Jason scratched the itch, and treated her to some pleasuring whilst he was there. In a dream like state, Elisa was lowered and given her feeding tube for the first time. She lay there in heaven, wet at the euphoria. She guzzled down meal after meal, her belly jiggling as she swallowed. And this was only the beginning...

https://x.com/wenisberry/status/1477495958325899271?s=20

You

Yes, you.✨

You want your body ruined and your folds played with. You want me to make your resistance slowly disappear. You want your mind fucked, so that you can’t escape… your fitness to deteriorate, so that you can’t keep running away.✨

You want to be molded into my docile piggy with no sign of resistance on its face.✨

You want to sit on my reinforced bed with an empty but blissful look on your face, a funnel in your mouth and an overfed belly in your lap.✨

Don’t you? I know you do, so let me take care of it🦋

you’re class III, morbidly obese, because that’s as high as the bmi goes. there’s no bigger obesity class to label you as. you can’t say how obese you truly are.

your scale says ‘error’ because it can’t withstand the pressure of all your weight. it’s been the same number for months. you can’t say how much you truly weigh.

the biggest size at the stores are too tight against your swollen body. your clothes can’t fit on you the way they used to. you don’t know what size you need to wear.

your tape measure can’t loop around your belly. there aren’t enough inches to reach around anymore. you don’t know how wide your fat actually spans.

you’ve outgrown all the labels. you can’t be measured anymore. your obesity is unfathomable.

“Ecstasy”

I have been punished for my sins and sent to tumblr jail. My full length ~spicy~ videos are still available on my twitter:

https://twitter.com/es_draws

i want you so fucking fat i don’t even know where to start with you…

your massive and overflowing belly, looking so heavy and squeezable

your huge cellulite filled thighs and ass, your enormously wide and fat filled hips

your sagging & dropping double chin from what a pig you’ve turned yourself into

your hanging rolls just oozing off your soft thick back

your calves slowly turning into cankle triangles from how how utterly obese you’ve become

your massive flabby wings flapping with every motion you make

your chunky sausage fingers barely being able to grip anything from how greasy you are

your deep and massive lardy side rolls always begging to be fucked and grabbed

just your pure lard on your body is so attractive to me, i want more of you, i want you to be a pile of absolute gluttony and obesity for me, never knowing when you’ll be able to get up next. Never knowing just how many thousands of calories your next feeding will be…. Never knowing your limit, being controlled and told what to do at every bite

You’re turning into such a good piggy for me, I know you’ll get so much bigger all for me, my fat growing hog 🥰🥰🐷🐷

there's just something so cute and perfect about totally oblivious fatties >///<

i don't just mean oblivious to their extreme size, either!! ^-^

i mean completely unaware of the actual dangers of eating the way they do, blissfully shoveling another dozen cookies and an eighth triple stack cheeseburger for the hour down their throat, milkshakes and everything deepfried,

completely clueless to that it's their very favourite thing to do all day- eat, and eat, and eat - THAT'S the reason for the searing pain, failing mobility, the ever increasing pounding in their chest. the way their breath seems to be escaping them increasingly urgently.

even as theyre placed in the bariatric ward, put on oxygen that only barely helps them breathe, never questioning the nearing constant insulin injections, too busy eating 💓

maybe theyre just so addicted to food, they're just really that in denial... or maybe a feeder did too good a job manipulating training them. or maybe they just lost a few too many braincells from all that oxygen deprivation back when it was only just starting to get "bad". they planned on losing weight...! that was back when they could even remember what a diet was long enough to cope with it and not just panic and stuff their face for hours to calm down until they forget all about it, ofc.

As someone into immobility, what are your attitudes towards the caretaking aspect? Like, it’s a reality that a lot of feeders blatantly ignore bc it isn’t a turn on, but is one that is a reality for bariatric people.

That’s a large part of the charm. That intimate interdependence, the necessity OF caretaking for someone due to their size. Replacing all of those pesky tasks of self-maintenance and self-preservation for eating and hedonism, while I handle them for you. I’m certainly not shy to it, and know what, reasonably, to expect, even the less flattering elements to the lifestyle.

I simply wasn’t born to labor.

A Piggy Princess like me is made to sit and primp myself for hours, doing my hair and makeup to perfection, stretching my lace lingerie past it’s longevity, polishing each pound and layering luxurious oils inside my folds of fat, smelling up the house with my intoxicating fragrance…

One day I’ll trap a man between my thighs, while he’s facing belly and I’m eating fries. And everyday with Daddy is just the same, “What are you craving today Princess?” He’d say.

For dessert he’ll always leave me full of creampie, to bred his prized piggy pleased.

At the end of the day, I’ll lay my head down peacefully plumb, and drift slowly to sleep knowing very well, I’ll never have to work another day as long as I live 🤍

What?

Are you thighs burning already?

We’ve barely made it 10 feet from the car and you’re already out of breath, who would have thought in such a short amount of time that this little walk from the car to the front door would be like running a marathon for you, it’s pitiful yes but I can’t help but say you look so cute like this.

Your face red and your breathing ragged, your waddle has slowed to a stop to allow you to catch what little breath you can manage. Something that was such a simple task for you now seeming almost impossible like you’re pushing a giant boulder up a mountain, but in this instance the boulder is your own body just heavy and covered in fat weighing you down with every step of your lard laden legs.

You and I both know once you get inside and plop yourself down in your seat in front of your tv, as you catch your breath the only thing running through your piggy mind is how hot it was how out of breath you where and how much hotter it’s going to get the fatter you get, just think about how much more you’ll waddle in the next twenty, hell even the next fifty pounds.

make her so big that typical fruit analogy shapes no longer apply

she's not pear shaped, she prius shaped, she 1993 lumina van shaped, fuck idk