#just two feedees and feeders

[femmefeedist]

just two girlfriends playing with each others' chub 🥰

@in-love-with-fat

🍀my links🍀

[fatrobotz]

T!kt0k reactions to stuff I'm seeing

Tw/ fatphobia, death feederism

[cherrysoftbody]

That fun feeling of ummm. Stuff so bad during weedtime that you feel like one of those candy jars from the county fair. 100000 beans in me maybe more.

[housecow]

something about people that don’t seem like they’d be into feedism gets me... they may be active in their community, well-liked, in shape, they might make healthy choices often. no one suspects they’re outside of the norm in any odd way. sure, people wonder why they just haven’t settled down yet—they could find someone, right? easily?

but no one knows that their eyes linger a little too long on the 400lb woman they see at the grocery store. no one knows how they fantasize about being between those monumental thighs—how they don’t mind if they have to fuck rolls or a belly button if access is just too limited. maybe that’s the way they want it, too. no one knows that the sight of morbid obesity accompanied by an overfull grocery cart of fattening, processed food is enough to distract them for hours.

after all, it isn’t normal in any way to want to make someone fatter. despite knowing that, 200lbs just doesn’t seem like enough anymore. they fantasize about getting a dedicated fatty to completely lose control. they know they’re getting deeper into this rabbit hole. their friends bring up someone normal sized, someone conventionally attractive, and they can make a comment or two to play along but fuck. the only thing on their mind is what an extra 200lbs could do to her.

and that’s just so fucking underrated. it’s all about the descent of the feedee, usually, which is understandable—we’re giving our bodies and minds to the cause. being fat is hard.

but with feeders, it’s so much more.. sinister. they can have everything, they know what they like and can get it—but the idea of fat lingers. they will want to squeeze, caress, kiss, bite, or maybe just cuddle up to the mass they’ve helped cultivate. nothing else can fill that hole and they know it.

maybe i can’t lose this weight, but you can’t get me out of your mind. that’s the power here, i think.

[epigstolary]

Welcome to Epigstolary, a place where I write about gaining, feeding, and all things fattening. My stories are usually at the higher end of the scale, with an affectionate emphasis on teasing, humiliation, and the consequences of extreme gluttony. If that sounds like your cup of tea, I think you’ll enjoy what’s in these pages, and I hope you’ll check out some of the stories linked below:

CONTENTS

Incubus — A shadowy creature has already made you eat yourself well past morbid obesity, and he’s not even close to being done with you.

Tough Guy — You may think you’re a man’s man, even if that waistline says otherwise. But your enabling partner’s happy to let you keep thinking whatever you want.

On Your Own — What does the future have in store for your superchub self without your feeder?

Real Talk — Your friend has some “advice” to share with you about your weight and habits.

Rebound — It’s easier to regain, and then some — as you’ll soon find out.

The Middle of Nowhere — Part One — A gainer who chooses an idyllic life in the country with their feeder might have gotten more than they bargained for.

The Middle of Nowhere — Part Two — How does a rural superchub handle dinner guests and a trip into town?

Lecture — You’re the focal point of a scientific teachable moment about the effects of hypermorbid obesity on the human body.

Deaf Ears — You haven’t been listening to your feeder’s warnings about your habits, and this is the result.

Step By Step — You don’t become a superchub overnight. But there are signs that’s where things are going.

Big Deal — It’s time you gave your feeder a talking-to after they get cold feet from your recent gains.

The Makings of a Glutton — What makes a superchub? A menu of food that’s terrible for you, apparently.

Too Much of a Good Thing — It may be wonderful, but the weight of your feeder’s affection is catching up with you.

A New Home — A newly-immobile superchub gets used to life in a facility meant to help them lose weight, but the caregiver who fed them that size has other plans.

Sedentary — Years of poor diet and too much time on the couch has made it harder and harder to get around.

A Normal Life — You consider a return to civilian life after years as a live-in feedee.

Out and About — Your feeder recounts their favorite things about taking you out and showing you off to unsuspecting, shocked civilians.

Wish Fulfillment — You awaken to find yourself the immobile superchub of your dreams, but how long will you get to enjoy it?

The Look — Your feeder wants to make sure you understand your situation.

Weakness — Your feeder confronts you with how your weakness for food brought you to your current obese condition.

Best Intentions — Unsuspecting bystanders gape, mock, and try to help as you begin mysteriously and rapidly gaining hundreds of pounds.

Enabling Delusion — You and your partner still think you’re going to lose the weight. Your friends think differently.

Center of Attention — Your popularity as a superchub influencer won’t save you from humiliation when your gains finally catch up to you.

Consumed — A poetic exploration of how gaining grew to dominate your life.

Expressions — A feeder recounts a gainer’s progress through how they react to their burgeoning body.

The Biggest Size They Make — You’ve been fighting your wardrobe for a long time, and now you’re losing the battle.

Morning — Nothing beats a cozy, comfy morning being spoiled by your feeder.

Excuses — You always have an excuse ready for why your weight isn’t a problem. But there are signs that you’re only fooling yourself.

The Deal — Your bodybuilding arrangement with a savvy gainer proves to be more than you bargained for.

Over The Edge — An admirer puzzles over how you let yourself get to the edge of the gaining abyss.

Just A Number — That’s all weight is, but yours has been going up alarmingly fast.

A Growing Problem — Your partner finally gets their concerns about your weight problem off their chest.

When, Not Whether — Gaining like you do isn’t sustainable. You’re heading for a crisis; it’s just a matter of time.

Realization — Your partner finally takes off the mask, revealing their inner feeder once it’s too late for you to do anything about it.

No Going Back — You thought you could experiment with gaining and lose the weight after you’d had your fun. You were wrong.

Trough — A shadowy feeder sets you up to eat like the farm animal you are, to see just how long you can manage.

Big and Tall — A rotund clothes shopper needs the help of a chaser sales clerk after a sartorial mishap.

Polite — You’ve gotten too fat to make fun of, but the polite restraint from your friends tells you everything you need to know.

Vignettes

You Ate

Beyond Your Control

Animals

Love

The Tailor

Comment Section

Drive-Thru

Scale #1

Scale #2

[hedonists-den]

Concept: Feedism Thruple

Two people start dating, fall for one another, and become comfortable enough to confess something: they're both feeders. It's a curveball, definitely. Neither of them are feedees in the least, and they're not interested in mutual gaining. What to do? Their relationship is perfect aside from this, but it isn't something either of them can deny.

So, they discuss the possibility of adding a 3rd to their relationship: a serious feedee. Someone who is ready to completely throw ambition aside and basically become a doted-on house pet. The couple can have their feeder desires fulfilled, they maintain their loving relationship, and the feedee gets to be double overfed.

After a little while of searching, they find someone perfect. All three have been chatting for a while, they've met up a few times, and they're all in agreement for the feedee to move in to the feeders' house.

It begins immediately. All parties are eager to start. The feeders make sure their feedee is eating 5 full meals per day, with snacks. The feedee is completely adored. Hand fed, encouraged, caressed, just spoiled beyond belief. The arousal that builds as feedings continue is unrivaled. Absolute euphoria.

The effects of such infatuation on all sides is...startling. In just a short amount of time, the feedee has piled on weight like crazy. With food and attention in excess, their body can't help but swell to more than twice the size of either of their feeders. Every need and desire is fulfilled. They're enabled to be the ever-fattening partner that each of them wanted.

For the feeders, just having a feedee that they can share is a strong aphrodisiac. Not only can they not keep their hands off their fattened pet, but they can't keep their hands off each other. The house is just permeated with desire and indulgence.

[mistyffa]

Something I've been thinking about a lot recently is working with another feeder to blow up a feedee...

Especially if they're starting at the same size as us. Just having a cute NEET girl move in with us, her body all tight and toned. It starts small with my partner and I cooking her bigger meals than she's used to, always with a healthy slab of butter. There's always snacks lying around the house, specially curated to her tastes so she forgets she's even overeating. After a few months she's developed a nice, soft layer of pudge over her entire body, her hips are a little wider, a bit of a double chin is coming in, her belly pushes against her leggings and dresses, and she's started to slow down a little.

Then the weight starts to pile on faster. Depending on each of our moods, one of us feeds her more intently while the other comforts her and takes care of the house. Sometimes for fun we'll whisper about her progress just loud enough for her to hear us from the next room. We talk about how much thicker and softer her thighs are, how her tits have gotten fuller, how cute she looks when she's snacking on the couch. Then we act surprised when we walk into the den and see her double-fisting a soda and an ice cream sandwich with a sly grin on her face. By this point she's solidly chubby; her thighs and belly jiggle when she walks, and she hasn't quite realized the wardrobe she started out with is much too small for her now. She totally fills her athletic shorts, which nowadays she only uses to lounge around the house, and she always needs one of us to help clasp her bra.

Fast forward another year or so, and she's completely puffed up. She'd put on at least a hundred pounds and gone through two wardrobes. The first time she popped the buttons off a pair of pants, we went out for dinner to celebrate, but now it's become a regular occurrence. Her days all blend together for the most part. My partner and I would set up our work schedules so one of us will always be home with her, preparing her meals and feeding her so she doesn't have to waste any calories standing by the stove or moving the food from her plate to her mouth. Essentially every waking moment for her is spent completely stuffed. On weekends, when we're all home together, we like to have a little extra fun. My partner and I would cook her at least five full meals a day, each a couple thousand calories, with lots of snacks and sweets in between. When she's not eating she's splayed out on the couch, puffing on her wax pen. One of us cuddles her, rubbing her belly and squeezing her tits, whispering teasing words into her ear. The other kneels on the floor between her legs, holding her gut out of the way while she eats her out. Then the timer goes off, and it's back to pigging out.

At night, we'd stand her up in front of a mirror and point out every new stretch mark and curve. We'd talk to each other about how much we loved her huge hips and her hanging gut, how cute her plush arms are, how fun it is to cup her double chin when we kiss her. We never address her directly so she can squirm in her overwhelming horniness. Sometimes we like to pull out her old clothes and help her try them on. Lately it's taken both of us just to pull her old tshirts down over her belly and breasts, at least twice as wide as they used to be.

She loves it though. She loves the attention, the humiliation, the constant care, the approval she gets when she outgrows another outfit. She loves nothing more than lounging around all day, stuffing herself to her heart's content, smoking pot, and watching TV.

And we love it too, of course. Watching her grow and settle into her new body, then do it all again. Doing everything for her. Talking about our plans for her. Our next goal is to make her big enough that she needs help standing, which doesn't seem too far off, seeing as she's already huffing and puffing every time she needs to get up on her own. And we can't wait.

[extra-stout-stories]

Special Delivery

As a growing gainer's mobility diminishes, his regular delivery order takes an unexpected turn. (SSBHM to USSBHM feedee, gender-unspecified fat feeder, no explicit sex. CW: Immobility, bariatric tube feeding, brief moment of dubious consent.)

Written at the suggestion of a friend, here's a special delivery of XWG and immobility/bariatric kink. I've left the gender of the feeder unspecified so that gluttons of all persuasions can enjoy it. Eat up, and reblog if you like it!

--

He paused to lean on the doorframe of his apartment building, huffing and puffing, before swiping his key card to open the door.

The bus stop was only about 250 yards from the entrance to his apartment, but the walk was getting more and more difficult. By the time he made it out of his apartment, down the elevator and to the bus stop, he was red-faced and sweaty, wheezing and gasping, his gigantic belly rolling and wobbling as he struggled to squeeze himself into a seat.

Fortunately, there was a bench halfway between the bus stop and the building. More and more often, he found himself stopping there for a minute or two or three, pausing to catch his breath and harvest his energy for the rest of the trip.

This wouldn't even be an effort for most people, he thought to himself. But he didn't mind.

He enjoyed it, in fact. For years he had been getting fat on purpose, watching the numbers on the scale rise as his body grew softer and heavier. Other people would be shocked if they knew, but it even secretly turned him on to know that he was getting so fat that just walking to the bus stop was becoming a struggle.

Still, the effort could be a pain sometimes. Like right now. As he passed through the door of his apartment building and into the elevator, feeling his belly quiver against his thighs and leaning against the wall to take some of the pressure off of his knees and back, all he could think about was beaching himself on the couch until it was time to stand up and walk again.

That time wasn't too far off. He had already placed the order when he was riding home on the bus. But the walk from his couch to his apartment door was just twenty feet. And at the end of that walk there would be food.

--

Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, the buzzer rang. He took a deep breath, grunted, stuck his arms out for balance and began laboriously standing up from the couch, breathing heavily, pausing occasionally for an especially deep breath. The buzzer rang again. "I'm coming!" Slowly and ponderously, he waddled to the door.

He ordered from this particular fast food place all the time, but tonight there was a new delivery driver. He couldn't help noticing that they were substantially fat themselves, with thick thighs packed tightly into the pants of the driver's uniform, upper arms spilling like dough out of short sleeves, even a hint of belly peeking out from the bottom of the shirt. "Four burger meals, four milkshakes. Three chocolate lava cakes. And a two liter of Coke."

"That's me." He steadied himself on the wall by the door, then reached an arm out and took the bags, managing to slip both handles around his wrist and get a steady one-handed grip on the tray of milkshakes. "Thanks."

There was a smile on the driver's face as he shut the door.

--

It was getting harder and harder to reach the bus stop. He wasn't just pausing for a break on the bench any longer. Now he was stopping multiple times to lean himself against the building next to his, or on the fence that stretched the last few dozen feet from the bench to the bus stop. Then he had to climb into the bus, which was a struggle in itself, and hope that there would be a pair of side-by-side open seats at the front so that he wouldn't have to squeeze his belly in behind another pair of seats.

He found himself looking for excuses not to leave the apartment. It wasn't difficult to find them, since so many things could be done remotely now. And with the money he saved, he could afford to call a rideshare from an app instead of taking the bus. Pretty convenient.

The four burger meals were a part of his regular order rotation, and he found himself looking forward to visits from the fat delivery driver. He swapped out one of his pizza orders and started going for the burgers an additional night or two every week. Once he'd gotten in that habit, he bumped the number of burgers up to five, with an order or two of chicken wings for good measure.

As the driver handed him the last of his order, they smiled, their fat cheeks dimpling in a way he had come to recognize and appreciate. "I saw you trying to get the bus the other day."

He felt his face flush with embarrassment. "Yeah. Usually I take a rideshare, but the congestion pricing this weekend was really bad." He steadied himself on the doorframe and took a deep breath. "It's a pain in the ass trying to squeeze into those bus seats. I'm not exactly skinny."

The driver laughed. "You're a big boy. After all these burgers, who can blame you?" From someone else the words would have been hurtful, but they were said with obvious affection, and the driver was pretty fat themselves.

"Yeah, I guess I am." He grinned and patted his belly. "It's a lot of work hauling all this around. But I don't mind. I promise I'm not going to put you out of business by going on any diets."

Now it was the driver's turn to blush. "I'd miss seeing you. You're my favorite customer."

"Thanks." He hefted the bags of burgers and chicken, struggling to get a steady grip on the tray of milkshakes.

"Here, let me help you with that." The driver reached for the milkshakes, picked up the bag with the two-liter, and followed him into his apartment.

"Whew." He let out an exhausted sigh as he settled back down on the couch, feeling his quivering rolls slowly come to stillness as he sank into his favorite spot. "Thanks for the help."

"No problem." The driver was smiling again. "You know, you could put a bench there. To rest on when you're going to the door." They gestured at a spot between the living room and the bathroom door, where a bumpout for the hall closet made a natural alcove that was just deep enough to fit a bench.

"You know, that's a good idea." He grinned back at the driver. "I don't know what I would do without that bench at the bus stop."

"Or the fence. You must have been there a good five minutes before you got moving again."

He laughed. "Are you stalking me?"

"No! I was stuck in traffic. But I have to admit, I didn't mind the view. You're my favorite customer for a reason."

The driver's phone buzzed. "Shit! I have to get back on the road right now or my next delivery's gonna get cold. I'll see you soon."

As the driver hustled back to the door, he couldn't help admiring how their thick thighs and ass bounced and quivered in their snug uniform.

--

He took the driver up on their suggestion, and was glad he did. His burger binges, on top of all his other binges, were adding some serious weight to his body, and it was getting more and more difficult to walk. He had given up on the bus entirely. Making it downstairs to a rideshare was becoming an ordeal, even if it was pulled up right at the door of the apartment complex.

But he still didn't mind. With the bench in place, he could pause for a minute or two to catch his breath on the way to the door, and that made it not too difficult to order in. He had even put a mirror up on the wall opposite the bench so he could look at his flushed and panting face, the gigantic rolls of his thighs belly, and admire how fat he was getting. I'm so fat I can barely make it to the door, he would think to himself, and then all those hundreds on hundreds of pounds would quiver and shimmer as he shuddered with excitement.

Sometimes he'd spend so long in a reverie that the person delivering the food would get impatient, ring the doorbell again and again. That was when it wasn't his favorite driver, of course. They knew it would take him a while to answer the door. He found himself dropping the other restaurants out of his rotation, going deeper and deeper into the menu of what had become his favorite fast food place. And that driver always wore a smile.

One day they had another suggestion. "You know, it's not that expensive to get a remote door lock. You could open the door with a remote control, or with your phone." They smiled, fat cheeks dimpling, fat chins quivering. "That way I could bring the food straight to your couch."

"You'd do that for me?" He grinned. Their interactions were becoming more and more flirtatious lately. Sometimes he wondered if he should spill the beans and admit everything: that he was a gainer, that he had gotten this fat on purpose, that he looked forward to their delivery visits because he had a crush on them.

"Of course. Straight to your couch. Even straight to your bedroom, if you don't want to get up."

And sure enough, when he had the remote lock installed, they did.

--

It was a typical evening. He woke up from a nap to the bedroom beginning to darken as the sun began to set. He flipped on a light and pulled out his phone. Seven burger meals, six milkshakes, two family-size chicken platters… his mouth was already watering.

As usual, they came straight to his bedside, unloading the bags of food onto the bed right next to him so they would be in easy reach. But today they were rolling something in behind them as well, a large box on a handtruck.

"What's that?" he asked.

"It's a special delivery." There was a look on their face he had never seen before. The dimpled smile was there, a little more mischievous than usual. But there was an intensity in their eyes now, too, a flush in their fat cheeks that was more than just exertion. "Something I've wanted to do to you for a long time."

"For a long…?" He paused, not sure how to continue. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the labored breath from each of them.

"Close your eyes." There was a sudden note of command in the driver's voice.

"Mmmmph!" Before he knew it, there was a hand on his face, roughly shoving. For a moment he felt like gagging as he felt something slip down his throat and something else shoved into his nostrils. He tried to speak, but with the tube in his throat, all he could manage was a grunt. But his meaning was clear. What the hell is going on?

The driver spoke rapidly, their voice husky and heavy. "I know. I know you're a gainer. I know you got this way on purpose. I could see it on your face. In your eyes. The way you looked at the food. The way you looked at me." They paused and took a deep breath. "Trust me. I know what I'm doing. When I'm not doing delivery for extra money, I'm a bariatric nurse. I have this all planned out."

They were in control now. "There's a lot of calories in this tube," they continued, swiftly and assuredly hooking it up to a canister of some sort and turning the valve. "Oil mixed with sugar. Pure calories. Going straight into your stomach. You're going to get fatter. A lot fatter. And quickly."

He thought for a moment about whether he should try to resist. But when he saw the look on the driver's face, he didn't want to.

It was a look of love.

And after all, he had always wanted to be fat.

--

His routine changed again. He no longer bothered leaving the apartment at all. No longer bothered leaving his bed at all. Just stayed in bed lounging or napping, calories flowing effortlessly down his throat. His body continued to swell. Every day, in the morning and in the evening, the driver would visit to clean him and to replenish the canister of formula. Then their fingers would trace across his body, their palms lifting his rolls, their lips and fingertips sending an electric charge through the tender hidden places in his rolls and folds. He grew and grew. Would he ever make it all the way to the bus stop again? Would he ever make it all the way to the door again? If he managed to make it to the door, would he fit though?

No, he wouldn't. He knew that. But he didn't care. He was growing bigger and bigger, fatter and fatter, softer and heavier.

And if he never left his bed again, he would still be happy.

[overstuffd]

Thinking abt feeding and denial? Like setting goals for your feedee and not letting them orgasm again until they can reach it.

Sub feedee can only eat six of their dozen donuts and their feeder forbids them from getting off until they can eat all 12 in a sitting. The feedee gets so worked up and needy that they keep begging to be allowed to try again and earn their orgasm, but each time they fail. How many pounds would they put on before they're allowed to cum again?

Or a feeder who keeps changing the goals and pretending that they didn't. "Good job! You chugged five whole shakes! You can do two more right? No, I definitely said you had to have seven to orgasm tonight. You're full? You sure? Well that's too bad. Maybe next time"

Gaining progress or body parts could be fun too, but idk "you can cum when you've gained another five pounds" isn't as hot to me as "you couldn't clean your plate and now you've lost orgasm privileges for a week"

Ughh this is so exactly my sort of thing.

Setting you challenges I know you're going to fail, and then punishingly you appropriately.

Using denial as an appropriate motivator to encourage you to push yourself.

Leaving you home alone with a few thousand calories worth of snacks, a packed bowl and an instruction to have them all finished by the time I get back - or you won't be finishing for a while. Coming home a few hours earlier than you expected and telling you how disappointed I am that you have so much left. Hand feeding you the rest, teasing you the whole time, then when you beg for release condescendingly reminding you you didn't earn it, and anyway - it's time for dinner.

Keeping this going for days at a time, a week - increasing the amount of food I leave you, giving you even less time, till you're frantically stuffing yourself the minute I leave. Of course, when I get back I pull out the bag of chips I forgot to tell you about - looks like you didn't finish everything this time either.

Getting you to the point where you'll push yourself beyond what you thought were your limits just trying to earn a scrap of satisfaction.

You're so right on the last point as well - why set you a weight goal when I can see how much fat you'll pile onto your frame willingly just by being an eager slut.

[violetbeauregut]

Violet's Big Misunderstanding

It's been a while but I was inspired to write another feedee fantasy ❤️❤️❤️

Violet was browsing the ice cream section at the grocery store with her feeder at her back, absentmindedly rubbing her belly, when she heard the question. 

“When are you due?” The middle aged woman asked, her cart skidding to a halt. She gestured to Violet’s big, swollen belly and gave her a hopeful smile. Violet could see the barest hint of uncertainty in that smile. This woman knew it was impolite to make such an assumption, but was making the gamble because Violet’s feeder was worshiping her gut in a way that was almost always reserved for pregnancy. 

She felt her feeder press closer to her. He used the hands on her belly to gently steer her to face the woman. He ran a hand along the curve of her belly and said, “She looks ready to pop, doesn’t she?”

The woman chuckled goodnaturedly. “Any day now, then?”

Violet could almost feel his mischievous grin. He patted the side of her belly lovingly. “I swear she’s getting bigger by the hour.” 

“Well that’s perfectly natural, dear,” the woman said to Violet, reassuringly. “I was as big as a house by the time I had my first.”

Violet blushed deeply. Because her feeder had so readily played along, she was too ashamed to admit that she was actually just obese and not on the verge of giving birth. It was moments like these where she wondered if she had let things go too far–if she had let her gluttony and lust take her past the point of no return. It certainly felt that way, as her embarrassment at being so fat she was mistaken for pregnant warred with her arousal. 

Her feeder peered down at her, assessing her red cheeks and quickened breath. He moved around to her side and put a hand over her shoulders before making a show of squeezing her against him and rubbing her thick upper arm. “Aww, honey. There’s no need to get embarrassed; you are eating for two.”

The older lady nodded enthusiastically, saying, “He’s right. You’re pregnant, sweetheart, not fat. You just focus on growing that baby and you can always lose the weight later.” She turned her attention to Violet’s feeder. “Now you get that beautiful girl home and get her whatever she wants to eat. Make sure she stays off her feet too. Carrying around that belly is hard work.” 

Once the woman had given her fill of advice and walked away, Violet turned to him. “I can’t believe that just happened.”

He laughed again, reaching down and giving her gut a quick slap. “With how good you’ve been lately, piggy, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.” 

She blushed again, looking down at her distended belly. It was hanging heavily between her hips– a testament to how much fatter she had gotten recently. “I feel bad about lying to that woman though.” 

He pinched her chin and tipped her face back up to look at him. “Nothing we said was a lie. You are eating for two– for you and me. She made the assumption. And don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that. I know how wet you must be right now.” When she didn’t respond, he continued, “In fact, I know you enjoyed it so much that we are going to keep going. Okay, piggy?”

She nodded. She couldn’t help herself. If he gave her a choice, she would always surrender to him like the obedient sow she was. 

–

Violet waddled around the store holding an open bag of mini powdered donuts. The white sugar dusted her lips, fingers, and shirt (which had gotten so tight that it was riding up, exposing a strip of belly). The shopping cart was always in reach and trailing beside her. In addition to the fattening foods that were a regular part of their grocery runs, open wrappers and containers were littered inside. She had already eaten what would be a week’s worth of snacks for most people. 

It was frowned upon to eat in the store and then pay for the items during check out, but anytime an employee looked at her disapprovingly, her feeder would shrug dramatically and say, “cravings,” in an apologetic tone. She was left to gorge in peace after that. 

Violet was getting increasingly out of breath. Not only was she stuffed so full that her stomach was compressing her lungs, her walk through the aisles was more exercise than she was now used to. Not to mention that her heart rate would pick up everytime her feeder would make loud, teasing comments down the busiest aisles like, “pick up two, baby, I know that you’re going to gobble one up on the car ride home,” “let’s get the one with less sugar, the doctor said a forty pound gain was average, but you’re getting close to seventy,” and “careful, I know you feel like you have free reign to eat as much as you want right now, but remember that the weight has to come off eventually.” 

“I need to sit soon,” she panted. 

“Poor baby, I know that big belly is getting hard for you to carry,” he said. “Let me help you.”

He stepped behind her and let his hands trail over her wide hips until they snaked underneath her gut. He lifted her belly up with a quiet grunt that made Violet smile. 

Before she could even let him know what a relief it was to have him take some of the heft off of her lower back, a young woman popped up in front of her, excitedly holding her own swollen belly. Her’s, Violet could tell, really was a baby bump–and Violet could also tell by the way that only her belly was round while everything else looked tight and toned, that this woman was naturally thin and fit. She looked down at her stuffed, barely clothed pork belly that was covered in crumbs and sugar. She was immediately flooded with embarrassment. 

“Oh my gosh, we’re like twins!” The woman exclaimed. “I'm thirty-four weeks, but you look so much bigger than me! How far along are you?” 

“Any day now,” Violet mumbled, unwilling to lie so blatantly. 

“Oh how exciting! I’m sure you are both so ready. I know I can’t wait for my due date. I’m so sick of being this big and waddling around everywhere.” 

Her feeder laughed softly. “I bet! I’m sure you aren’t used to having to carry all that extra weight in your belly. You’re lucky though,” Violet’s feeder said, moving his hands to the side of her belly. “You’re all baby, but my Violet is swelling up everywhere.” 

After a few more pleasantries and the other woman’s sympathies that poor Violet’s fat distribution might mistakenly be seen as obesity rather than pregnancy, they finally got to the checkout line. 

“Have you finally gotten enough to eat, piggy?” He whispered in her ear. She nodded, rubbing the top of her tight belly. 

“I don’t think so,” He said with a smirk. He pointed to the rows of candy bars lining the top of the conveyor belt. He grabbed a handful of her lardy lower belly and gave it a little shake. “Go grab about six of them. You are eating for two after all.” 

She shuffled around to the front of their car and grabbed handfuls of chocolate, realizing too late that lifting her arms to reach the candy left her belly largely exposed and her deep red stretch marks on full display. She quickly scanned the faces of the shoppers around her as she desperately tugged her top down, but no one was staring at her or giving her the usual disapproving looks. Just when she thought she was in the clear, a hand that did not belong to her feeder landed squarely on the most round part of her belly. 

A large, strange man was now groping her stuffed gut. He rubbed hard circles into her belly and turned his head to speak to Violet’s feeder as if she were not even there. She was furious– were pregnant people really supposed to be okay with being touched without permission? Her feeder eyed her without responding to the man, ready to jump in at the first sign of her distress, but she gave him a look that kept him in his place. Violet let out a tremendous burp and giggled. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I ate too much.” 

“Oh, it’s alright,” he said, patting her belly again gently. “That’s to be expected with mothers-to-be.”

She feigned a look of surprise. “What? I’m not pregnant.”

The man looked at her and then back at her feeder as if waiting for him to contradict her. Her feeder just shook his head and Violet could tell he was trying to hold back a laugh. 

“No baby, I’m afraid,” he said to the horrified stranger. “Just a lardy pig belly.” 

The man released her and stumbled back, offering apologies as he fled. Her feeder hugged her from behind, his hands wrapped around her middle. He smiled into her hair and gently squeezed her fat, testing the softness with his large hands. “You sure are proud of this huge blubbery gut, aren’t you?”

“Aren’t you?” She challenged. 

“Oh yes, greedy girl,” he said, rubbing the swollen curve of her belly that had started their little rouse in the first place. “Now open that box of snack cakes and make it bigger for me. Next time I want someone to ask if you’re carrying twins.”

[overlydeniableteddy]

Fattening Valley

First pov / feedee pov / second pov feeder / intox feedism / weight gain / mention of sex

I’ve already been at the farm for quite some time, working hard to build a successful life for myself in the valley, engaging with the townspeople, pining after Harvey and slowly winning his affection…

And then one day, you come to town, taking it by storm. I offer you a place to stay in the farm house so you don’t have to worry about finding accommodation while you get settled. It’s only after a week or two that you begin to enact your master plan, only eating half of the dinner you prepared in thanks for letting you stay and giving me the rest of your portion and a few leftovers. Me being polite, I accept, not wanting to admit to you that I’m already full. You start cooking breakfast, lunch and dinner, all of them bigger portions than what I usually had. You bring me snacks throughout the day, slowing me down and making me feel more sleepy and lethargic.

The charade continues for a few weeks, a pot belly forming under my clothes, my thighs and ass looking a bit more thick and blubbery— my face puffing up slightly. That’s when you move onto the next stage, you take me to Gus’ for a big thank you dinner, all this time you’ve been making subtle moves towards me, declaring your romantic and sexual desires with me, I laugh you off and say that I’m flattered. But you don’t stop. At this dinner date, you ply me with a variation of wines and beers, getting me drunker as you flirt more and more with me, I start drunkenly flirting back for giggles. You order plate upon plate of food for me, stuffing me so full that I nearly fall into a food coma at the bar. You scoot your chair around to my side of the table, slipping your hand into my clothes, feeling the taut bloated body beneath. I rest my head on your shoulder as you make me finish every last bite. Whimpering and burping from how full I am. The other townspeople look on in confusion and worry, they thought that it was me and Harvey that were supposed to end up together… but they don’t intervene.

At midnight, Gus closes for the night. You essentially carry an exceptionally drunk me home to the farmhouse, I belch and moan the whole way back, one arm looped around your shoulders and the other resting on my stuffed full belly. Once we get back, you decide to encourage me to drink some milk I forgot to sell during the day and I comply, lusting after you with boarish desires.

The next morning, I wake up still stuffed and hungover, unable to bring myself to get up and go about the farm chores. You smile and waltz your way into my bedroom, a thick stack of pancakes and a large coffee (with some whiskey mixed in), you declare that you’ve already done the chores for the day so I should relax and take a day for myself in bed.

You start doing this more and more, always making sure I’m in a state of tipsiness at all times, it’s easier to get me to eat more this way. My bloated pot belly becomes a large hanging gut, my arms flabby sacks of fat that can’t even bring themselves to pick up even a hoe anymore, my legs thick and blubbery cellulite ridden slabs of meat. My face rounded and cherub like— constantly rosy and jolly. I’ve begun to outgrow my once baggy clothes, knitted jumpers always riding up my belly halfway, showing off a large slice of pale fat belly.

Harvey becomes worried, he sees my decline of diet and increased intoxication, he wants to confront you for my changes but I brush him off and tell him that farmers are supposed to carry a little extra thickness, it’s all just thick muscle. He’s flustered but let’s it go until I stop doing the farm work entirely, and only appear in town for our weekly date at the saloon where you get me drunker than I’ve been all week and stuffed to beyond my increasing limits.

It goes on for a year, you transforming me into a lazy, flabby pig that can’t even take care of his own farm anymore, spending his days eating and drinking in various locations— constantly outgrowing his clothes. My body truly becoming a round and blobby spectacle for the whole valley to bask in…

And then we marry, I’m yours and yours alone. Your fat, drunk piggy, a fallen vestige of a once promising young farmer.

[rahhhhhtbrbbsbwbbsbaj]

Tuesday

You woke with a distended and stretched feeling in your stomach. You groggily tried to remember what you did yesterday. After a moment the memories of gluttony came rushing back. Your stomach rumbled (probably from the day priors abuse) but your brain registered that as hunger. Lucky for you breakfast was on its way in about 15 minutes. Before that though, you went over to the mirror. You were so round, it was amazing, and was that a stretch mark? On your lower belly just below your ever flattening belly button a discoloured line ran down all the way to your underwear. Now that you were looking you could see the beginnings of a few other little stretch marks. This excited you immensely and so you immediately started preparing for breakfast.

By the time your food got here you had two hot chocolates with all the fixings (a ridiculous amount of whipped cream and marshmallows) as well as a coffee that was more cream than anything else. Today's breakfast consisted of chocolate chip pancakes, waffles and French toast, no point in choosing when you were enough of a fatty to get them all. This was paired with about 10 strips of greasy bacon and a few orders of maple butter and of course maple syrup. This was a serious amount of food and if you were following your old intuitive eating habits you would never even get yourself to this full in the first place, let alone be scarfing down more calories.

The thought of this made you really horny and you thought more about your stretch marks and how you were going to make them so much deeper and redder. This of course also made you really hungry. You tore through everything insanely fast and you immediately felt the consequences. But because of the speed you ate your mind had not even begun to register fullness, you could only feel an extreme pressure in your gut.

To relieve this feeling of hunger you grabbed all of today's snacks to graze on before you went for your little lie down.

Before you knew it lunch was here, 3 massive burgers, 1 large fry, a loaded fry, and 2 different flavours of milkshake. Yet again the food was gone quick. Your belly was like a furnace it was so hot and stuffed. You walked over to the mirror and almost gasped. It looked like yesterday's extra pounds had all gone straight to your belly and it was only noticeable for the first time because you were so full. For some reason it didn't register this morning that you were empty. You were empty and that big. You grabbed the underside of your gut, expecting the fully hard mass that was always there when you were stuffed. You were surprised and so turned on when your fingers sank about a half inch deep into brand new flabby fat.

Again hungry and horny you took the pint of ice-cream out of the freezer so it could loosen up a bit. While that was softening (much like yourself) you took 3 boost gainer shakes out of the fridge and sat in your 'eating chair'. You knew you were a habitual person and all of these habits would help you grow. The habit of remaining constantly overfed, the habit of eating the moment you had room in your stomach, the habit of grazing. And the habit of only eating in bed, this chair, and eventually your car so all three places could induce instant hunger no matter how overfull you were. The boost gainer shakes were working great for you, helping to keep your vitamins and minerals up in an extremely high fat and high sugar diet while also providing a lot of calories.

You were in bed with your ice cream not much later, and despite having just eaten, the ice cream was going down easily. Your plan was already working. Watching movies, videos, and feedee/feeder content to pass the time was really efficient. Soon dinner was almost here and you had to get up from bed. The only thing motivating you was the food, you were in an even more lazy mood than usual.

By the time you stopped pondering about a movie you just watched you had already demolished half of the sushi feast you had ordered. You knew it was going to be a rough one because you were already pretty full but you pushed through. After you had finished and waddling tremendously you made your way to the bathroom. The stretch marks from yesterday and this morning were angry, red, and itchy. They had thickened up a little also. Speaking of thick holy shit you were actually looking huge. This was easily the biggest you had ever seen yourself and you desperately wanted more. You turned to try and get a good look and your developing love handles. On your back were lengthy stretchmarks running parallel to your waistband. They were much much darker that the ones on your belly and looked like they had formed desperately trying to support the giant mass on the front of you.

You stepped on the scale yet again and saw 169. Almost 170. Wow. Already. As you went to sleep that night you couldn't help yourself fantasizing about keeping this gain up. Gaining over 100 pounds in 45 days. The idea of that was so hot to you.

And of course you didn't forget your nightly heavy cream, in fact this time you added a little more.

[hedonists-den]

Not really a POV for this one. Just sharing some musings and a scenario where I condition you to be a mindless, pleasure/hunger-driven fatty!

Enjoy! 💜

TRANSCRIPT:

There’s a part of me that wants to make sure you always have more than enough food, no matter what, at all times. A good, doting feeder that doesn’t ask anything of you.

But every now and then, there’s this urge to give you just shy of enough. I know how much you really need, but I want you to tell me how you're still hungry even after all I've fed you. I want you to hear yourself admit to me that you need more, even when you’ve eaten more than the average person could. But will you admit it? I suppose it depends on how long you've been mine. 

When you first start this hedonistic life that I offer you, I can imagine you're shy about it. Timid about your rapidly increasing appetite. Or, maybe you’re a brat about it. Can’t accept giving up control so easily. Either way, you’re hesitant to lose yourself to it just yet. You're dipping your feet in, but you worry about what might happen if you fully accept your life as a domestic glutton.

But when you're sitting there, in the aftermath of the first round of gorging yourself one night, you can't help but want more. Your greed is undeniable. You don't want to admit it, but you can't stop yourself this time. You’re just too hungry for more. You ask me for a second full meal, just after your first. 

"I guess enough food for two people isn't enough for you, is it?"

I drink in the adorably embarrassed look on your face as you squirm over what a greedy little pig you’ve admitted that you are. It may not seem like a big deal this time, but you’ve taken the first step, and there’s no going back. Not now that there’s precedent.

The next time, I’m a little more direct about it. You finish your second meal, as you’ve become accustomed to, and I have dessert ready for you. But you don’t get it that easily this time. 

“Ask nicely,” I demand. 

You look up at me. I can practically feel how badly you want the tray of brownies in my hands. Homemade, warm and soft, still a little gooey in the middle, your favorite. You ask for them, even adding a sweet little “please” at the end. I reach down and grip your belly roll. 

“Again,” I urge, fondling your pretty gut.

You ask again, very nicely, through heaving breaths. I decide that’s good enough, give your belly a nice pat, and set the tray on it. You start digging in immediately. Like a hog at the trough. You’re getting more and more willing to do whatever I ask, so long as you can feel the rush of complete indulgence. 

But I want to make sure that the sensation doesn’t stop at just a rush. It has to be a deeper craving. More primal. More intense.

So when I began slipping my hand under your mound of a gut, between those cellulite-ridden thunder thighs of yours, and pleasuring you for every bite you take, oh you started really packing on weight, didn’t you? And there hasn’t been a feast since where you weren’t stimulated the whole way through. I admit, I never let you cum until I’m satisfied with how full you are, but you never disappoint, and you always earn it. 

It’s like you’ve had this in you all along. You just needed the right person to enable you and push you to be the best hedonist that you could be. Sure, I play the part of the good feeder a majority of the time. But I think we owe it to the dominant feeder in me for how desperate you are to eat and grow now. And I want to see just how fat you’ll let me make you.

[phattiepheeder]

I posted on Reddit but I’m curious about a Mukbang aftermath shit

I’ve been thinking about these creators that stuff for the camera, or do mukbangs and eat an astonishing amount of food. Or feedees who are constantly being fed and you see their swollen tight bellies after. These girls with huge bellies and probably an insane capacity to fill themselves eating 15 burgers or 20 burritos or 10lbs of spicy noodles.

But I never see any videos of the aftermath after taking in thousands of calories of dense and fattening and greasy food. Their bloated overpacked bowels struggling to empty in time so that they can continue to eat and digest the neverending onslaught of food. I just know they’re shitting a mountain, clogging toilets. Those that have gainer shake after gainer shake (read about a gainer who had 12 in a row through a funnel) must have the most explosive, sloppy , muddy shits. I can just imagine how their relief is short lived as they quickly refill their bellies. And their feeders must be hearing their loud frequent bathroom trips, already preparing their feeder’s next fattening gut wrecking meal.

I’m saying this because my ex-bf was a feeder and also into scat. Though I’ve lost all the weight for my health, during our relationship he helped me pack on 55lbs in 6months by stuffing me. I loved eating for him and he loved watching me take enormous shits after our feeding sessions, multiple times a day due to all the stuffing.

For those 6 months, my guts were being assaulted daily with thousands of calories. Some days he’s feed me so much, 10k calories. I’d shit 4-5x and still feel like I had more to unload, each time with a huge pile. Our plunger was working overtime so we ended up designating a bucket for me to empty into after feedings.

Sometimes after a heavy day of eating particularly greasy food, I’d empty a huge load of greasy sludge two or three times, and still my guts would be such a mess that I couldn’t leave our place without fear of having an accident. And they were the greasy kind of shits where they’d leave skid marks even after the powerful flush of a public toilet. My farts were often wet and we always needed to be close to a bathroom or have extra panties in the car. I’d just always feel like I had a stomach ache and either needed to fart or destroy a toilet.

The gainer shakes were the worst on my system. They were so yummy and made my ass get so plump and juicy , and my belly so doughy. Plus they’d go down easy when I was already stuffed. But they gave me such bad diarrhea I needed to bare down on my slop bucket with all my weight , hole spraying against the sides of the bucket. The pressure behind it was so intense that I’d get up with a circle of liquid in my ass..

For my gainer shake days, I’d sit my bare ass in the bucket while my ex fed me , knowing that shortly after I’d have to empty myself again anyways. Gainer shake in via funnel, and emptied half an hour later desperately in the same spot. I’d already have another wave of slop screaming at me for release, so as soon as I’d wipe, I’d already need to slap my fat ass back on the bucket and unleash.

Another thing we’d do is stuff me for a few days with the help of anti diarrhea meds until I was absolutely packed solid with shit. Then I’d take a stool softener to ease the turd out without ripping me in two and I’d relieve my hugely swollen gut. When my poor hole couldn’t stop desperately trying to get rid of all that waste, He’d have me on all fours with a trough in front of me and the bucket behind me so that I could refill myself as my puffy sore asshole kept sputtering wet farts and emptying. Then when my trough was empty and the bucket was full he’d refill my trough and empty the bucket and put them back in place. And it was always filled again.

Anyways, the relationship ended but it made me think of all of these feedees and if they shit as much as I used to. Or more.

[toptierteaser]

The Two Fatties within You

You have within you, two parts of yourself, two beats to your heart, two sides to your spirit. Two, ravenous wolves within, each wanting something in total opposition to the other.

A part of you wants to be fed. To be fattened like a submissive piglet. To be forced to spread your mouth wide as a handsome feeder shoves food between your plump, greedy lips, stuffing you to the brim. Your eyes wide, fearful as you wonder if he'll push you too far to the limits, if he's going to make you pop. Squirming with excitement, heart hammering from nervousness as you race, your mouth chomping and chewing and slurping, trying to keep up with the forceful, feeding hands. Your belly distending out into your lap, plumping up and out and forth. Your chubby tits resting atop the great doughy ball before you. Your thighs crammed in your seat, rubbing against one another with no space to grow. Your face softening, a double chin appearing beneath your once-defined jawline. Your cheeks filling, reddening as you wonder how much more he's going to stuff into you. Your ass expanding in the chair, filling at the sides as you wonder if you'll split.

Then there's the part of you that wants to run. To wriggle away from this frightening feeder. To waddle as fast as you can out the door. The part of you that's embarrassed at how far you've let yourself go, humiliated by the sight of your own dough-filled body. Fearful that if you attempted to run, you'd split your pants, that you would be out of breath in less than a minute. Wondering how much you would jiggle if you even so much as tried. Wondering if those shorts of yours might just split with everyone laughing and pointing and calling you a fat ass. It's the part of you that can hardly stand what a porker you've allowed yourself to become, what a piglet you've made of yourself. The part that obsessively tugs away at your shirt, internally willing the buttons not to burst, not to pop, not to break.

The two parts of you, crammed within you. Two fat boys, wedged tightly within your grown body. Filling and fattening and busting out in every which direction. Growing overweight, into obesity. Half embarrassed and half enamored at the creaking of the chair beneath your growing butt. Half frightened and half in love with the hands that shovel more towards your face. Your mouth open in part out of that insatiable need for food, that gluttony, that greed, and in part out of shock. Shock at how much of a fat boy you're becoming. Wondering how much further you will allow this to go, how much bigger you will allow yourself to grow.

Which one will win? The part of you that wishes to be thin? Or the part of you that eats, allowing yourself to be stuffed to the brim, and then some. To grow out of your pants, your shirts, straining the waistband on your underwear that threaten at any moment to tear. Who will win, the fit jock inside you that yearns to run again without feeling his lardy legs rubbing, his blubbery ass jiggling behind him for all to see? Or the fat ass, the greedy, expanding feedee who is never truly full, never satisfied no matter how much he is fed?

At the rate things are going, fat boy, I think it's fairly obvious who between the two will be crowned the champion of your body and your mind and your growing, fat behind...

[bigbellybelle]

Everyone talks about feederism in such a broad sense and I am a firm believer that the different seasons are the best part. But winter, being my favorite, has the best scenarios~

Imagine a feedee and their feeder in front of a cozy fire during winter. Just the two of them listening to music or watching the fire in silence. The dim light coming from the flames glow onto the feedees now round tummy after a long day of seasonal treats~ apple pie, cookies, cakes, and of course plenty of hot cocoa~ and now that the day is done they're both a bit pent up~ the feedee, having eaten so much, a bit in pain. Moaning about how full they are while leaning against their feeder. The feeder just nodding while a hand gently wanders under the puffy sweater hiding their partners softer features~ and the feedee is just ready to finally get their reward after such a long day of constant calories. And of course the feeder knows that, but what kind of a feeder would they be if they didn't just get a few more snacks from the counter, that managed to escape the overfed squishy tummy of their stress ball partner~

And when the feeder returns to their spoiled partner and settles next to them with some snacks, all they have to say is "have some more for me~" to coax their partner into opening their mouth for even more food~