I’m drunk as fuck browsing Feabie, a dating site for
feeders, feedees, chubby chasers, and fat admirers. Dudes that like fat girls.
Girls that like fat dudes. Fat people that like fat people. Skinny girls that,
for some fucking reason, genuinely want to become fat. Guys that like making
these skinny women monstrously fat…
My life is shit. I’m back at home. I’m 25. My
parents hate me. I’m 25. I’m living at home. I’m just a few months clean from
heroin and crank. I’m fucking miserable. Every night I eat a handful of
melatonin and chase it with a night cap of Evan Williams, dreaming of having
the balls to chase my entire Suboxone script with a fifth of that bottom shelf
swill and do my parents a favor for once…
“You can drink, Harry, but no more fuckin’ drugs,
understand me?!” My mother’s words swim around in my head as I pour myself a
shot of fire water, pounding my chest as it burns my esophagus and numbs my
cravings for the finer things. Spikes, spoons, and Nike shoes.
I’m so fucking lonely. I absolutely deserve to be
lonely, though. I’d never try and argue otherwise. I deserve every inch of this
tiny, congested, room I swore I’d never go back to when I was 19. And yet now,
here I am. Halfway to 30 and I’m back. What. The. Fuck…
I have no business being in the dating scene. My
life is in fucking shambles. There are so many obstacles one must accept when
they try to date me…
“Haha,
well, actually, I’m not exactly in school right now… I uh, I kinda dropped
out…”
“What
did I do in the mean time, exactly? Hm, well, um, that’s a good question…”
“Soooooo,
I used to have a drug problem…”
“Well
I’m kinda living at home right now…”
“I’ll
be honest with you, if it weren’t for the state, I wouldn’t even have health
insurance! You got the bill, right?”
“Yeah
I have a cat, that’s why I have so many scars up and down my arms. He’s a mean
little bastard.”
“Eye
contact? What do you mean?”
BING!
“Oh
shit…”
Several inches of dust and cobwebs dissipate into the
air as they’re shaken off my inbox.
What’d
I say to her again?
“Hey, you seem fun. If you ever wanna get shithouse
drunk and fed a proper meal, get at me.”
“Hehe, OK, that does sound fun…”
I chuckle and pour another shot as I browse her
profile. She’s in her early 30’s, and her profile says she weighs 220 pounds. A
bit slight for my tastes, but she identifies as a feedee, which means she’s
willing to change for the right man…
I don’t know why I love fat women the way I do. I’ve
always been this way. The big bellies, the big tits that sit on top of them,
the big fat asses and thighs that rub together with each awkward, labored,
waddle, good gravy do I fucking love that shit. I sound like I’m being shitty,
I know. I don’t go for them because I think they’re easy (I’ve actually been
shot down a fair amount by women more than double my size), I have a genuine
sexual attraction to them. I don’t really have a limit as to how big I’ll go…
Cumming makes me feel good. Like most things that
make me feel good, I feel a compulsion from within to do it as frequently as
humanly possible, and take it to its most destructive extreme. I think this is
where the feedism stuff comes in. I always told myself I’d never get into it,
but I also told myself I’d never snort coke…
I’d never do meth…
I’d never do heroin…
Yeah…
Her name is Jessica. She’s cute, with a bookish sort
of look to her that I don’t usually go for. Talking to her I quickly realize
that she’s anything but bookish. This girl has been around, not that I give a
fuck. Her sexual history is as lengthy and perverted as my drug history.
Swingers parties, threesomes, ass eating, all sorts of crazy shit. So you know
she’s got some crazy stories.
I haven’t been with a woman in a very long time…
We make plans to go out the following Friday night. I’m
nervous. I’ve never been with a feedee before. I should explain for those who
have properly working genitals: a feeder (me), is an individual who derives
sexual pleasure from the process of feeding and fattening their partner. A
feedee is the individual they feed and fatten. The feedee derives sexual
gratification from overeating, or “stuffing”, as we in the community refer to
it as. The feeder will encourage his or her feedee to eat until they’re
literally about to pop or vomit, and are congratulated and showered in praise
when they clean their plate.
I trim my beard and put on my most flattering button
down shirt and jeans on, along with some cologne from an ancient bottle I
haven’t used in years. I hate the way I look. I used to be fat (ironic, huh?),
and I hated it. Now I’m skinny fat from not doing drugs anymore. My head is
oversized and shaped like a lima bean. I have pointy ears and I can’t see.
Contacts are the only thing that keep me from looking like a pedophile.
Regardless of what any woman says about me, I know the truth, that I’m
completely revolting physically, and not much different from an emotional or
personality standpoint…
I
sure could use a bump of crank right now. Something,
anything, to convince me that I’m not literal trash. I sigh and hop in my car…
“Hey!” Jessica squeals as she wraps me in a hug.
“Hey, how ya doin’?” I ask, smiling.
She’s
bigger in person. Very nice…
We drive to a southern themed steakhouse in a
neighboring town. I am treading water conversationally as my heart races around
in my chest like I just pumped a quarter gram shard into my vein.
“I’ll take a Jameson and coke.” I tell the waiter.
Jessica orders some kind of fruity gimmick drink.
We’re sitting in a booth, and her tits are resting heavily against the table,
demanding my attention.
“So, you wanna get an appetizer?” She asks
sensuously.
“Anything you want, get it. I don’t give a shit how
expensive it is. Only rule is you buy it, you eat it. OK?” I reply with a
smile.
“Ok!”
I love to provide for my woman. I guess I’m kinda
old fashioned in that regard. As the feeder, as the male, it’s my duty to bring
home the bacon (LOL). I don’t want my woman lifting a finger. She needs her
calories, she needs her food, she needs my encouragement to get bigger and
bigger.
Fatter…
Heavier…
Sexier…
“So, have you always been…” I smile as my voice
trails off.
“Fat?!” Jessica replies.
We both laugh as the waiter puts our drinks down on
the table.
“Can I get you folks some appetizers or anything?”
He asks.
“Yes, we’re gonna get an order of fried pickles,
some nachos, and one of the samplers, please.” Jessica says.
I raise my eyebrows as my dick starts to stiffen up
in my jeans.
“Alrighty! Coming right up!” The waiter says.
“Where were we?” Jessica asks, pulling her wavy
black hair out of her big brown eyes.
“Um… We were talking about how you’ve always been
big…” I say back, draining my whiskey at an alarming rate.
“Oh yeah! Yeah, I’ve always been a big girl. At my
heaviest I was around… 350?”
“Ok. How big do you wanna get?”
Jessica smiles, exposing her adorable little double
chin. “Well, my first goal is 300. But I think it would be cool to get over
400… Maybe 420, ‘cause I’m a pothead…”
“Pot? As in, reefer!? You degenerate!”
“Hahahaha, fuck you!”
“Nah, I’m just kiddin’.”
“You don’t smoke?”
“Ehhhh I used to. It just doesn’t do it for me
anymore. I get anxious when I smoke now, it’s weird. It’s good that you smoke,
though. Gotta keep that appetite going…”
“Mhm…”
The whiskey melts away my social anxiety and I’m
able to make and maintain eye contact. Jittery sober Harry has been overthrown
in favor of the smoother and less self-loathing Harry the Drunk.
“Aren’t you gonna have some?!” Jessica asks me,
pointing to the appetizers in front of us.
“Ha! Yeah… I’m sorry, I just…”
“Got distracted?”
Jessica smiles, winks, and pops a fried pickle into
her mouth seductively. “Mmmm… I fuckin’ LOVE fried pickles, oh my God…”
I smile and dunk a buffalo wing into blue cheese
dressing. Jessica’s confidence radiates from her body, I love it. She doesn’t
give a fuck what people think. I love that kind of energy, it’s so sexy.
We learn a lot about each other as the meal
progresses. She’s in between jobs right now, and has a friend crashing on her
bedroom floor, which makes having sex regularly rather difficult. She’s willing
to forgive the fact that I’m living at home. She doesn’t care that I used to be
a criminal, nor that I used to shoot heroin and meth. In fact, she’s partied
quite a bit herself.
“You never had sex on coke?” She asks, mouth agape
in disbelief.
“Fat girls don’t do coke!” I reply, shrugging.
“You’re not partying with the right fat girls,
hahaha…”
The waiter collects our plates and brings out our
food. For me, a bacon cheeseburger and French fries. For her, a porterhouse
steak with a baked potato. The spark of excitement in her eyes as she looks
down at her food is just the most adorable god damn thing I’ve ever seen. The
gusto with which she tears into the juicy steak and brings a big piece to her
plump lips is just… Sigh…
“Ugh…” She grunts as she finishes off her baked
potato.
“You got this, c’mon, I believe in you.” I encourage
her.
“I know, I know. I’m a woman of my word. I’ll
finish. But I’m gonna need a good, thorough, belly rub after this…”
“You got it.”
Her belly is so full, but she keeps eating. Partly
because she wants to please me, partly because it pleases her. Gluttony,
hedonism, excess, too much is never enough. All pleasure, all the time. My dick
drools against my inner thigh as I watch her chow down, struggling against her
body’s instincts as she closes in on the last few bites.
CLINK!
“Atta girl! I knew you could do it!” I say.
“Ugh… Oh my God… I need a belly rub, stat.” She
moans.
“Soon as I pay the check…”
Once I pay the tab she gets up, her belly just
barely visible from underneath her tight t-shirt. She catches me staring and
smiles as she pulls it back down.
“Do you mind if I smoke in your car?” She asks.
“Not at all.” I reply.
“You’re the best…”
Jessica cracks the window and ashes her cigarette as
she puts her seat all the way back. She smiles and uses her free hand to roll
down her tight leggings and free her belly, allowing it to spill out into her
lap, expanding with each heavy breath she takes. She pulls her t-shirt up and
pins it underneath her tits, smiling as it just sits there, bloated and stuffed
to the brim.
Begging
to be touched, begging to be rubbed…
“You wanna touch my belly, Harry?” She whispers.
I just smile, reach over, and start massaging the
soft, warm, flesh while she smokes. She moans and puts her head back as she
exhales smoke. My dick pulses in my jeans as I jiggle, pat, and play with her
belly. We lock eyes, close them, and start to kiss. Groping and grabbing every
inch of her bountiful figure, I feel a sense of sexual freedom I’ve never felt
before. I’ve never indulged this side of me outside of porn.
“Is that a Five Guys?” She says, squinting through
her glasses across the parking lot.
“Indeed it is. Who wants ice cream!? Huh?” I ask,
jiggling her belly playfully.
“Mmmm I think I do…”
She leans on me as we wait in line, and we trade a
few chuckling glances as we stand there.
“You have beautiful eyes. They remind me of…
Blueberry pancakes.” She says.
“Always with the food, Jessica…” I reply.
“Hahahaha, wow, OK… Fuck you too…”
“Ah I’m just fuckin’ around…”
“I know. You’re funny.”
“What can I get you?” The kid behind the counter
asks.
“I’ll have a large vanilla shake… And a small fry…”
Jessica says.
“Small?” I whisper.
“Yes, small. I just ate three fucking appetizers and
a steak. And you didn’t even help me!”
“I’m just the supplier…”
“Hahahahaha…”
After getting Jessica her food we return to my car,
and she once again pulls her belly out from the confines of her leggings. She
smiles as she grabs her tummy from each side, letting it all hang out with
pride.
“You make some room in here, or what?” I ask,
patting her stomach as I open the paper bag of fries.
Jessica nods eagerly.
My dick is like a fucking St. Bernard, slobbering
pre-cum on the inside of my boxer shorts as Jessica relaxes, hands on her
belly, waiting to be fed. I realize the windows are in my car are all fogged up
now, and that I’m breathing like an asthmatic Michael Myers as my trembling
hands pull a few fries out of the bag.
“You want me to dip ‘em?” I ask, motioning to the
shake with the fries.
Jessica nods.
Dipping the fries into the ice cream is a new level
of gluttony.
“Mmmmmm…” She moans as I bring them to her lips and
hand feed her. There’s a tingly, electric, sensation going through my body that
I’ve never felt before. I don’t know if I’m ever gonna be able to fuck a
regular fat girl again. This is like going from snorting heroin to shooting.
“That’s a girl… Such a big piggy…” I say in a tone
that can only be described as pornographic and off-putting.
HICCUP!
“You make the cutest god damn noises when you
hiccup, you know that?” I tell her as she swallows yet another couple of fries.
“HICCUP! Aw, thank you!” She replies.
“C’mon… Just a few more bites…” I say as we near the
end of the ice cream and fries.
“Ooooh my God, I’m so fucking full… HICCUP!” She
replies.
“I know, I know. But you only got a few more bites,
c’mon…”
She sighs and smiles at me. “OK, OK. Just for you…”
When she finally finishes, she’s ready to burst.
“Ooooooh Harry I’m so full… I can’t put my belly back in my pants, hahahahaha…”
“I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you.”
Jessica lets out a moan that sounds like a 60/40
mixture of pleasure and pain. Her eyes are glazed over in ecstasy as she
lounges back in the seat, belly bulging out shamelessly in front of her. Big,
heavy, breasts sit atop it, sloppy and round. We start making out again, and I
run my coarse, calloused, hands all over her soft body. After that she lights
another cigarette and I put the defogger on.
“How quick can you cum?” She asks me.
“I don’t cum.” I reply.
“Pfft, yeah, OK, Superman…”
“No seriously. The meds I’m on, I can’t cum.”
“What? The heroin pills or whatever you take…”
“Nah, Zoloft. It’s an anti-depressant.”
“Oh! Well I know all about those… What’s the
problem? You can’t get hard? You don’t wanna get hard?”
“I can’t cum. I get hard, but my dick is like… Numb.
Trust me, I’ve tried. It doesn’t work.”
“Hmmm… Well, I don’t wanna give you blue balls. Or
get stuck sucking your dick for an hour…”
In an effort to appease my parents, I got on Zoloft.
Thing is, I’m not depressed. Well, I am depressed, but not due to a chemical
imbalance in my brain. I’m depressed because I’m 25 and broke and a loser and a
(non-using) junky and a career fuck-up that hasn’t made a good decision in well
over a decade. It makes sense for me to be depressed. I deserve to be
depressed. Somehow my parents can’t wrap their mind around that. I think it’s
because I’ve been such a monumental and catastrophic fuck-up, particularly as
of late, that they can’t process that they produced a shit kid. They need
something to pin this on.
That’s not to say I’m blaming my parents for me
being a terrible person. They did produce my sister, after all, who is the
complete opposite of me. She’s successful, she finished school, and she’s
tougher than me. She refuses to take no for an answer and is focused on her
goals. Unlike me, who sucks.
Jessica and I quickly start going out regularly. We
text every day, and she tells me what she’s eating and how much. Our dates
begin at a restaurant and evolve into tours of different fast food joints,
stuffing her with whatever she wants until she’s short of breath and can hardly
move. Having embraced my role as her feeder, I start bringing her bags of her
favorite snacks and treats to munch on when we’re apart.
I take her to Torrid so she can get new clothes.
It’s all so hot. She’s blowing up right in front of me. Within a few months she
creeps up to 250 pounds. A new milestone.
This
calls for a celebration…
After a good stuffing at the same steakhouse we had
our first date at, we get back into the car and head over to a bakery.
“Where we going?” She asks me.
“I’m getting you a cake. For hitting 250.” I reply.
The look of childlike joy on her face at the mention
of cake warms my frigid, black, heart.
“Oooooooh can we get a tres leches cake?”
“Absolutely. Whatever that is…”
“It’s so good, oh my God I’m so excited! Thank you,
Harry!”
“You’ve earned it. My big piggy…”
I jiggle her belly as I drive to the bakery. Jessica
is quite literally like a kid in a candy store as she browses all the desserts.
She ends up going with the tres leches cake. I pay for it and we leave.
Jessica doesn’t have much privacy at her place, and
neither do I, so we find a secluded parking lot and I open up the cake. It’s a
caramel colored sponge cake sitting in a pool of milk and cream. Jessica wastes
no time getting her belly out, giving it room to breathe as I take the top off
and dig in with a plastic spoon. I start hand feeding her, smiling as my dick
threatens to tear through my jeans.
“That’s a girl… Eat, eat, eat, eat… My hungry,
hungry, hippo…” I say as I pick up a spoonful of cake and bring it to her lips.
“Ooooh it’s so good but it’s so filling…” She moans
before taking another bite.
I smile as I bring another bite to her mouth and
yank it away right before she can eat it.
“Hey!” She yelps.
“Hahaha, I’m only joking. Here…” I reply.
We take a break as she nears the last quarter of the
cake. I rub her belly, massaging it until she lets out a few satisfied burps,
freeing up some much needed space in her gullet. She smokes, huffing and puffing
and bloated to the brim.
“We’re at the home stretch… Think you can finish?” I
ask her.
“I think so.” She replies, her voice subdued from
her overindulgence.
“Oh Jessica, Jessica, Jessica. 250 pounds! 250 god
damn pounds! I’m so proud of you!”
“Next stop 300!”
“That’s the spirit!”
“Oooooooh, Harry… I’m so full!”
“You can’t stop now, you’re so close!”
“Mmmmm…”
“There we go… You did it!”
I open the car door and throw the empty cake
container out into the parking lot before turning back to Jessica and kissing
her, rubbing and grabbing her soft flesh as we make out. She’s getting so big, I’m
so proud of her. Looking at her, gut spilling out in her lap, smoking a
cigarette, I should be repulsed. Biologically, I should be repulsed. Socially,
she should be embarrassed to be this way. What we’re doing right now defies
nature. It’s not good. But it feels good.
“I love how confident you are…” I say as I gently
rub circles over her belly.
“Aw, thank you! It’s taken me a long time to get
here…” She replies.
“You’re getting so big… What are we gonna do with
you, huh? Huh?!”
Jessica chuckles as I jiggle her belly. “I know!
These are my last leggings that fit. Being fat is very expensive…”
“I’ll take you to Torrid this weekend. You’ve earned
it.”
“Yay!”
“So, has anyone commented on your weight? Friends?
Family?”
“Well, my family is used to me being fat. My friends…
A couple of them have expressed concern…”
“Yeah?”
“Well, y’know, not in a mean way. But… When you tell
someone you’re gaining weight on purpose…”
“Right…”
My boner begins to wilt as reality sinks in.
“You know that if you ever get uncomfortable about
this you can stop, right?” I say abruptly.
“Yeah, of course!” Jessica replies, shooting me a
strange look.
“Ok.”
“I must say, I’ve taken to the feedee lifestyle. I
literally just sit around and eat all day. I know I should be looking for work,
but…”
“Ah, you don’t have to do that! You got me… I’ll
take care of you. No matter how big and fat and sexy and huge you get…”
“Haha! I’ll be like one of those fat people on Oprah
that can’t even get out of bed.”
“Hahahaha, wouldn’t that be crazy and totally not
sexy?”
“You’re a sick fuck, Harry.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Wow, breaking out the Dad jokes…”
We giggle and make out a bit more before I bring her
home, kissing her one last time before she waddles back to her apartment. It’s
not until I’m back on the highway that I realize how absurd this whole
arrangement is.
Yeah
you know you’re getting off to the fact that you’re killing her, right?
No… No, I’m not. I’m getting off to how big and fat
she’s getting.
And
being big and fat is scientifically proven to kill you.
Yeah, well… She’s a grown woman, and she can make
her own choices.
That
doesn’t make it right, though. What you’re doing is essentially enabling her to
make horrible choices that will have catastrophic consequences on her health in
the future. Without your participation and encouragement, her ability to
continue on with this destructive behavior would be severely impacted.
Fuck off…
I’m
actually not gonna fuck off. Because you claim to really like this girl, and
yet you’re deriving sexual pleasure from her declining health. It’s like
enabling a junky and masturbating when she shoots heroin. It’s literally the exact
same thing as that. You’re a piece of shit, you’re a piece of shit, you’re a
piece of shit, and you’re a murderer. A horny murderer. You’re a piece of shit.
ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, SHUT THE FUCK UP!
What
happens if you really fall for her? What happens if you guys end up in love?
Are you gonna keep killing her? Encouraging her to kill herself? What the fuck
is wrong with you?
I don’t know…
Aw
yeah, baby, show me your insulin pump. Oh, that’s right, after the stroke your
right arm don’t work so good no more. No matter, we don’t even have to have
sex, because I’m such a fucking weirdo that I’d rather tend to an immobile pile
of lard than have sex and reproduce with a fit and attractive young lady…
You’re not making me feel any better.
Good.
You shouldn’t feel good.
So I should just not be intimate with anyone? Just
be asexual?
How
about you just be fucking normal? You ever think of that?
Once or twice…
(To be continued.)
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