>>7469I can remember before. It's almost a curse; when I fall asleep I dream about life before I met him. Without fail, every night I remember what it felt like to be able to run for miles, the way my taut stomach and firm tits would draw the attention of every guy around as I sprinted around the jogging path in nothing but a sports bra and tiny shorts. For a few moments after I wake up, it almost feels real. Like none of this ever happened.
And then reality sets in. When I finally open my eyes, I'm greeted by a sea of flesh rising above me, the massively inflated stomach my fantasies helped create. I stopped crying whenever I woke up a while ago, but the sting was still there. My once beautiful breasts now flopped to either side of me and rested on the bed. The word "perky" could never be used to describe them again. Like the rest of me, they were now merely heavy, hanging sacks of fat, almost indistinguishable from one of my other many rolls. I barely looked human anymore, let alone feminine.
It had been months since I could see my privates, let alone touch them. The mirrors surrounding my bed showed nothing more than an obese blob of flesh, fat hanging down to completely cover what had once been my pride and joy. I used to make men weak in the knees with just a glimpse; and yet here I was now, nothing but an inhuman blob of adipose.
"You wanted this," he would remind me every day of my new existence. "You told me how you fantasized about being too fat to even touch yourself. No complaining about it now."
He wasn't wrong. I had fantasized about this. It had eventually gotten to the point where I couldn't orgasm without picturing myself obscenely obese, reduced to nothing but a helpless mound of flesh. I should never have told him about that. How was I supposed to know he would make it my new reality?
I hate how turned on I am by this. It was supposed to be just a fantasy. I was never supposed to get fat in real life. But here I am, 500 lbs and still gaining for him. He swore he'd send out all those filthy texts I had sent if I didn't comply with his feeding wishes. He said I would be at least 400 lbs whether I wanted it or not. I couldn't let everyone find out about my secret fetish. I didn't think he'd follow through anyway. But fantasies apparently have a way of coming back to bite you.
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The basement is devoid of any natural light so I've taken to measuring time in other ways. He measures and weighs me often, and I try to use that for a frame of reference. Endless calculations based entirely on assumptions. If I'm gaining an average of 3 lbs a week, and how long have I been here? I try not to think about gaining 3 lbs a week. I try not to think at all.
I inevitably fail at that.
Recently he's stopped allowing me to see the numbers. He promises I will soon, but he wants it to be a special surprise. I continue sucking down my shake and desperately wish I could still reach to touch myself properly. I will never forgive him for reducing my only possible form of self-pleasure to eating and stretching my stomach out for even more food. The more I gain for him the better he'll make me feel is a lesson I've learned very well in my desperation. It would have been a less horrifying one if that didn't make me so aroused every time. I try not to cry while he shoves a burger down my throat and fucks one of my new rolls and I come harder than I ever have before.
The mirrors surrounding my prison of flesh remind me constantly that I've gotten what I wished for. When he notices me avoiding the grotesque reflection he reads aloud from from fantasies I'd sent him before.
I wished to find my perfect feeder. Wishes are dangerous things.
"See, you love this. Look at what you've done to yourself and enjoy it!"
A massive pile of lard is spreading around a bed. She has my eyes and I know it's me but I refuse to accept it. This is not me. The arms bigger than the average waist don't belong to me. That gut with so many doughy rolls splayed out over those knees isn't mine. I would never really let my breasts become sagging nightmares draped out on the sides of a belly with too many stretch marks to count. I didn't really want this. I can't be the helpless blob spreading across the bed in that mirror.
Wishes are dangerous things.
I can still stand, barely. He reminds me I should be grateful for that while he laughs as I struggle to shift my enormous bulk just enough to get out of my bed. I think this was easy, before. Now it's a complicated process to just gain enough momentum to swing my giant legs over the side. He laughs endlessly when I can no longer sit up on the first try.
"Get up, Pig. Waddle your fat ass a few feet; I want to see what I've done to you this week."
When I manage to sit up I'm sweating and gasping for breath. I look like I'd just run a marathon. I just barely stopped myself from begging him to touch my pussy when I realized getting out of bed was my personal marathon. I'd prefer to ignore the fact that my body is now wide enough to take up most of the bed, but he refuses me even that.
"Looks like we'll need an upgrade there. How pathetic. If you're really so greedy to gain I'll hook you up to your lover right after measurments, Pig."
He always referred to the funnel as my "lover." And in some horrifying way it was accurate. My stomach has been so thoroughly stretched out that I crave it now. I hate it. I need it. It was the only way to satisfy the constant hunger I now feel. I asked for this, right?
The day I begged and cried and then begged even more for food other than the funnel is apparently his favorite. I think I was still slim then, maybe 270 lbs.
"I'll eat whatever you want, just please not the funnel."
I should have regretted that, I should have hated eating for him. And yet by the time he'd come back with $30 worth of disgusting McDonald's I was so painfully hungry I ate it willingly. Every time thereafter I resolved to resist. I hated him while my entire body jiggled as I orgasmed around his fingers.
I stand beside the bed and my legs tremble with the sheer effort of supporting a body more comparable to a hippo than a human. I know I'm expected to move to his measurment spot but even leaning on the handrail doesn't make it any easier. My knee brushes against my belly with my first step. I try not to scream when I remember what walking felt like before him.
Cruel hands grasp one of the upper rolls on my belly and I'm unable to stop myself from lurching forward until I'm forced to look him in the eye.
"You really should have been more careful what you wished for."
