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queercoshon · 3 months ago

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And here is part three, about a week late lol

Christmas Eve

It takes you a few tries to heave your body out of the kitchen chair, the stove timer sound drilling into your skull. You miss the button a few times, alcohol swaying your hand and concentration. But you manage to hit it and get some peace and quiet finally. You even remember to turn off the stove.

Bending over to get the lasagne out is a little difficult, your gut is still a bloated orb and completely in the way. Your balance is also already off from the copious amounts of intoxicants coursing through your body. Somehow you manage to get it out without burning yourself or falling over.

It still needs to rest though, so you have more waiting to do. You grab some beers from yhe fridge, and the bottle of baileys for good measure, and make sure they're within arms' reach of the couch. Either from a drunken stupor, couchlock, or food coma, you're making sure you won't be getting up again.

You also grab a box of hostess cakes, for when you need a flavour change, and chips for a texture change. Your munchies are killing you now, so you gotta be prepared.

Finally the lasagne is cool enough to cut and transfer to a big serving dish. You don't know if you'll actually be able to eat the whole thing, but the booze and weed are certainly saying you can. You can't keep it in the original pan; you've burnt more than a few pillows by using them as a barrier between your food and your belly table.

Getting the dish to the living room takes maximum concentration. The world is swaying, and the ground feels uneven. How will you keep it level? There are a few close calls where you almost dump lasagne all over yourself and the floor, but you always catch it. Can't be wasting food.

The couch gives an ominous clunk and creak when you lower your girth onto it, but you pay it no mind. You make sure the beers are on the couch beside you; can't have a repeat of last night.

It takes you a minute to start eating. First, you lean back and stroke your belly, rubbing in soothing circles. You're still physically full, even if the weed is telling you otherwise. You're so high, and very drunk, and rubs just feel so good. You were meant to be a fat, drunk pig, just getting fatter and more incoherent.

Your rubs loosen up some burps, and then you feel ready to eat. The pillow barrier is set up on your bare stomach so you don't burn it with the hot serving tray.

You manage to put on a dumb stoner comedy despite really struggling to use the remote. What button did you mean to press again?

Finally, it's time for dinner. You dig in with reckless abandon, burning your mouth just a little bit with the first few bites, and chugging half a beer to cool it down. A massive belch works its way up before you start scarfing down dinner.

You shovel it into your mouth, nearly forgetting how to breath as you focus on consuming as fast as possible. You grunt and groan as your feeding craze intensifies. Your nose flares and snorts as your body fights you for air, making you sound and look like an engorged pig.

You eat three large pieces in fifteen minutes. Your stomach complains under the added pressure of the dish on it, despite it being emptier. Without thinking, you drain the rest of your beer and take a swig of baileys before stuffing your face again.

Getting fucked up on baileys is hot, it's such a sugary, heavy, empty calories drink that is too easy to suck down.

A pressure builds in your gut, and you worry about hiccups or vomiting, but a forceful burp explodes out, your gut feeling euphoric relief. You rub a few more out and realize you're getting really full. A break is needed. You pull out a joint and manage to get coordinated enough to light up. An inhale hits a bit to hard and you devolve into a coughing fit, holding the lasagne so it doesn't fall and your belly so it doesn't explode.

You barely catch your breath before the hiccups start. The tray wobbles dangerously as your gut bounces against your crotch. It haphazardly gets moved to beside you on the couch, and you hold your gut to stabilize it.

Didn't you read somewhere drinking water would help with hiccups? You don't have water, but you do at least have a drink. You crack a beer and drink deeply, until you need air. A few seconds of respite come, but as soon as you dare to believe they're gone, another hic jolts your whole body, sending ripples through your fat. So you drink again, less this time. Didn't work, try again. And again. And finally, they subside. You have no idea that there's basically three mouthfuls in the can. A few burps rumble out and you get right back to your feast.

It's getting increasingly hard to get the food onto your fork. You can't make your hands cooperate, and every movement is clumsy. It doesn't help that your vision is swaying and blurring. Instead of frustrating though, you find it funny. You've gotten so drunk you're struggling to do the most basic tasks, like eat or change the volume on the tv. If you could reach, you would have started getting yourself off, but your gut got too big for that a while ago, so you'll just have to keep eating.

Your pace slows drastically once you get halfway through the fifth piece. It hits you like a ton of bricks just how full you are. Your gut is a solid mass, with barely any give even with the flab. It's now been 24 hours of binging, and you're starting to really feel it. Fucking glutton. You rub your gut, using it to apply pressure to your crotch, trying to create friction. It's not enough tho; the only way you're getting off is if you eat yourself into an orgasm.

You need a break from the lasagne, the tomatoey burps coming up are starting to feel dangerous. So you drain the rest of that beer and start working on the hostess cakes. You still have room in your 'dessert' stomach.

The change in flavour really helps, and you're able to once again mindlessly plow through your food. Your focus is drawn to the tv, each stupid joke making you laugh around a mouthful of cake.

Your head lolls as you look around for the baileys bottle. Found it. Figuring out the screw top is hard, and getting the opening to your mouth is even harder, but you manage, only spilling a few drops down your front. You meant to only take a gulp or two, but it was so difficult to get to this point, might as well make it worth it. So you drink deeply, feeling the sweet cream bloat your abused stomach further, and know you have about five to ten minutes before you'll be completely useless.

Moans blend with panting as you pull your sticky sweet mouth away from the bottle. The cap gets haphazardly twisted on and you prop the bottle up in the corner of the couch. Your gut is creaking again with every breath. Gurgles of complaints get louder the harder it works to digest. Low burps keep coming up, your belly just desperate for any sort of room it can make.

Everything is swaying and spinning, so you close your eyes and your head involuntary slumps forward. Your mouth is open and you can feel drool starting to form, but there's nothing you can do about it. Any noise or movement is purely from instinct now, the soft kneading and rubbing of your belly, moans that get interrupted by belches and dangerous hiccups. You don't register that any of this is happening. The combination of getting incredibly stoned, drunk as a skunk, and stuffed like a pig has made you catatonic.

By the time you come to earth again, the credits are rolling. Fuck it felt good to be that fucked up. You're going to keep going.

It takes a few tries, but you eventually get the remote pointed at the tv and put on a tv show, something that will autoplay for a while.

Before continuing with your debauchery you have to get up to use the bathroom. After working up the momentum to rock your body up put of the indent on the couch, you stumble for far too many steps before barely catching your balance.

On the way back you grab an edible. It'll be hot in about half an hour when it starts to hit. Will you even remember you've taken it? You stand in the kitchen leaning heavily on the counter, but still swaying dangerously, trying to get the stupid package open. You struggle with these things sober, but as fucked up as you are it now seems impossible. Eventually you give up and cut the bag open with scissors and triumphantly pop 5mg in your mouth. You grab a bottle of water and take a swig to wash out the aftertaste. After that it's back to the living room, your feet shuffling and stumbling, never feeling like they're fully under you.

You fall back onto the couch, too drunk and full to do it with grace. The couch gives another dangerous clunk, and the liquer bottle falls out of its crux. It only spills a little from the side of the cap, but you decide it's a bad idea to have it on the couch. The cap comes off, and you let your head fall back as you drink.

Your gulps are audible, desperate, sloppy. Cream drips down the side of your face. You're so fucked you try and gulp a few times after you've drained the bottle. Your arm falls and the bottle rolls off to the side, leaving a little trail of liquid on the couch. A few drunk hiccups rock your body and you seriously worry about the contents of your stomach, but it stays put. The gurgles somehow get louder tho.

Time for another break. You don't mean to take one, but you can't move anything voluntarily now. You just cradle your aching gut, unable to figure out how to move your arms to soothe it. Every once and a while another glorp will push up another burp, making your head bounce and then loll back to the side. Sometimes you moan, even if you don't know it. Your eyes close, and you let the sensations of being a glutted pig wash over you.

Aches radiate from your poor belly, so overfed for so long that every part of it is completely rounded out, making it look like a completely separate part of your body. You can't help but pant, your lungs far too encroached upon to breathe regularly. You feel like a cartoon character, gut enormously stuffed, woozy and out of it, completely round after gorging for days. And you still have another full day to go.

You rouse a little to your stomach growling. You're starved, but you're as round an full as ever.

The edible. It's starting to hit, and the overstuffed ache in your belly is dulled to a soft throbbing, and somehow that's pleasurable for you.

Any normal person or sober person would be concerned about the amount already packed inside of you, but you know you can handle it. You spent the last year going from just overly chubby to a full on fatty; you know how to keep pushing, so you do.

The lasagne is too heavy now, even in your reinvigorated state, so you alternate between chips and hostess cakes, enjoying the sweet and salty flavours. Strings of little burps spill out, your gut desperately trying to get any relief. Itchy pain shoots over your skin as it stretches, your stomach visibly pressing against it. You can feel new stretch marks coming in, and you still keep going. Your pants turn to moans and gasps, and you literally gorge yourself to climax for the first time.

You barely finish by the time you pass out in a drunken food stupor, dead to the world until tomorrow.

#queer feedism #intox kink #intox feedee #stuffed fatty #feedism story #intox wg #stuffing literature

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