hedonisticfeedee

Sabotage

Published: July 17th 2020, 12:00:05 pm

[Content Warning: Extreme weight gain, abuse, and non-consensual fattening. We know I write depraved shit, but sometimes a content warning just seems right.]

Sabotage

1. Northern Kentucky

I like ‘em big. That’s what I tell all my friends when they ask why I only date fat people. What I don’t tell them is how big I like them, but I imagine they know with the size of women and men I keep as company. I love obese people who can’t catch their breath after walking for two minutes. I love obese people who struggle to waddle down the sidewalk. I love obese people who are struggling with failing health. I always have. 

The minute I got to college, I hunted for the fattest people I could find on campus. I embarked on safari in the concrete jungle known as Northern Kentucky University, and my dick acted as my compass. I made my decision because NKU was located far away from my parents and had an LGBTQIA+ friendly campus. I guess there is a decent Psychology program even though I could have majored in Psychology anywhere. The most important aspect of making my college decision included plenty of eye candy, with Kentucky having the fifth-highest rate of obesity in the nation. 

I made the right choice. I went on many dates during my first year at NKU. My body found itself planted in seats at all the people watching places on campus: the student recreation center, the bus stop, and the all you can eat buffet. Oh, yes, Norse Commons is buffet style making in the best place to scout big eaters. I’d watch the biggest student bodies enter with their Ultimate meal plans, sampling everything the school offered while I sampled every fat body I could find.

I used my charm, and maybe my muscles, to go out on dates with all kinds of people. I don’t believe fat people are desperate to be loved by fit people, nor do I believe fat people should be grateful a fit person notices them. On the contrary, I believe fit people should only be so lucky if an overweight person graces them with their presence. That is to highlight that my type above all else is fat, and I cherish each fat person I've been with sexually and romantically. It doesn’t matter where one fits on the spectrum of sexual orientation, nor am I uncomfortable with one’s gender identity or expression. All fat people are beautiful. I’ve always believed that, and I still do. The bigger, the better. Everyone I dated or hooked up with regularly always ended up packing on pounds.

The internet calls me a feeder. I’m not a feeder. At no point do I feed my partners. I don’t openly encourage them to gain weight either. However, get turned on by watching my prized pigs eat and gain weight. I’m an enabler, building on the instincts that are already there. I take food, a substance in which many have a history of abuse, and amplify the desire to eat in my partners.

1. Sol Krisana

I started dating Sol Krisana, or Krissy, for short, my sophomore year of college. SSBBW’s are just as hot as SSBHM’s, especially with how much flabbier their bodies tend to look. I’m a fiend for fat; I just want bulkier, flabbier, unhealthier. I’m not sure what to say about her. I’ve pushed her so far out of my mind that I don’t want to think about her anymore. I’ll admit we had a good run for three years, but she wasn’t happy with all the weight she put on since we started dating. I met her when she had a little pudge on her body, but when she put her foot down, she told me she gained almost two hundred pounds since our first date. Krissy let me know that she wanted to diet. I tried to be supportive, but I couldn’t help but be angry at her weight loss progress. 

I pushed meals on her when she didn’t want them. I filled the pantry with snacks. She wanted nothing I had to offer because she desperately wanted to lose the weight. As soon as she lost twenty pounds, I knew we were in trouble. Sex wasn’t fun anymore. It felt like a chore, so I jerked off to gainer porn when she went to bed instead. We drifted more and more apart with every pound lost until we both had enough. She got angry I didn’t touch her anymore and when I flirted with other fat people. I don’t blame her, but no one can blame me for wanting a chubby partner. 

Despite the issues, she not once blamed me for her weight. We amicably agreed to break up. I wasn’t right for her waistline, but we never discussed my feeder identity. She probably wouldn’t even call it that because I didn’t shove Twinkies and cupcakes in her mouth. However, I became one hell of an enabler. Regardless, she moved into one of her friend’s apartments around the time we graduated so she wouldn’t have to live with me anymore. I guess we are still friends, but I don’t see her much these days.

1. Buffet

I enjoyed my pass to have sexual conquests with any willing fatty I found after Krissy left. It felt like the old days, meeting with folx who always left my apartment heavier than when they entered. Old habits die hard; I participated in secret surveillance of the local buffets, examining my next victim like prey. I went in, sat down, and ordered a Diet Coke. Then, I’d go through the buffet line and create a giant bowl of salad. I limited my calorie consumption to stay thin, but I also knew I stuck out like a sore thumb. I’d eat slow while people watching, only paying attention to the morbidly obese patrons. When I found someone I found attractive, I’d time going back in the buffet line to run into them and flirt. Sometimes I got dates. Other times the plan fell apart. I did this several times per week until I met the one. 

A relatively huge young man entered the buffet that day. I guessed in his early 20’s, and about 450lbs on 6 feet in height. I noticed the man walked alone and sat by himself on the other side of the restaurant. His tight clothes highlighted fat in all the right places, showing accumulation in his chins, elbows, and knees. I remember thinking he must be in denial because his pink shirt showed off his perky breasts and hard nipples and rode up, revealing a large, hanging belly roll. I wanted my hands all over his lard. A belly like that is unforgettable. 

He found a seat on the other side of the restaurant. His ass spread out all over the chair. My heart sank when a thin man came by and sat down in front of him. I tried to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t hear anything. Only two minutes later, the thin man got up, red in the face with anger and walked out.  Then, the obese man went up to the buffet with a sad expression. I wondered if I witnessed a breakup or a terrible blind date. The man got up several times, cleaning plate after plate. 

I decided to take the risk of putting myself out there. The poor boy looked feral, eating with all abandon. It was sexy. This time I knew I needed to take a different approach to introduce myself. I felt nothing compared to a chicken leg for an insatiable beast. Uncertainty filled my mind, but I worked up the courage to go back into the buffet line to enact my plan. This time I grabbed a tray and filled it high with desserts: Cookies, brownies, cake slices, puddings, ice cream sundaes, random tarts, and chocolate-dipped marshmallows. After all, a suitor must show up bearing appropriate gifts. 

I walked toward him before stopping a few feet away. Watching him eat mesmerized me. The man belched loudly and looked up to see if anyone heard him. He caught me staring with the tray full of sweets. My stare caused him to blush and promptly look away, ashamed. A grin formed on my face as I walked forward. I sat the tray down in front of him before I asked, “Is this seat taken?” He shook his head no, prompting me to sit down. It’s all history from there. We had a good time, and I asked him out again. 

I love that McAlister is a big ol’ Kentucky boy with a southern accent and zero understanding of nutrition. I know I said I like my boys big, but I also want them sweeter, submissive, and less intellectual than I am. My boyfriend is a big dude, so sometimes straight people think that he is dominant: large and in charge. Let me make one thing clear: My boyfriend is submissive and feminine. Oversized panties? Check. Tied up in bed? Check. Chastity device? He doesn’t need it these days with that fat pad but check. 

He does whatever I ask in bed. Hell, he always does whatever I ask regardless and listens to me like I’m speaking the gospel. That’s why it’s so easy to manipulate him. I always fantasized about having a fat boy who has that “oh shit” moment when he’s too obese to lug himself out of bed and realizes he’s permanently trapped under 1,000 pounds of blubber. I think I’ve found that boy in McAlister, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

IV. Discussion

McAlister nervously steps on to the scale. McAlister is in the bathroom, but he left the door open, so I can hear the scale creak from the other room. I am in bed looking at recipes online and thinking about how to make the meals I make even more fattening for him. The scale’s capacity is bigger than our last one measuring up to 600 pounds. When I replaced the one that went up to 350, I got excited. I also appreciate this one is digital with a function to read the weight out. 

“597 pounds,” I listen to the digital scale in its electronic voice. 

“Fuck me!” I hear McAlister mumble with a hint of misery. He probably underestimated his weight. 

Their voices go silent, leaving heavy breathing on the other side of the wall. That can’t be good. It’s a different “fuck me” than when I have him up against the wall or when he is crushing my pelvis while sitting on my dick. He walks out of the bathroom to look at me. He looks so beautiful, yet pathetic with the majority of his lard spilling over the only thing he is wearing: pink panties. I close my MacBook and set it aside on the nightstand before patting the space of the bed beside me. He takes the cue, waddles over, and sits up in bed with me. He takes up most of the bed now.

“Did you hear that?” McAlister asks me.

“No. What’s wrong, Dumpling?” I lie back to him, knowing where the conversation is going. He’s disappointed the number isn’t lower, and I’m disappointed the number isn’t higher. I playfully jiggle his belly.

“Bryce, I’m getting obese.”

“You were obese at least 300 pounds ago. Besides, I love my boys heavy.” I hide the fact that I’m doing more harm than good to his body by saying that. I don’t care. I know I’m selfish. Every weigh in makes my libido skyrocket. I think he’d agree that we have intense sex when he’s more of a fat pig than man. 

“I know that, and I appreciate that you love fat boys. It’s just I’ve never been this heavy before. It’s starting to scare me.”

“There’s nothing scary about being a big teddy bear, Big Mac.” 

“There is something scary about getting so fat you can’t breathe, or wipe yourself, or walk around. Diabetes and heart disease are scary. Remember my old roommate, Brett? I’ve heard he’s over 700 and can hardly leave his house anymore. I don’t want that to happen to me too,” I hear the legitimacy of his concern in his voice. The example of his friend makes my cock hard, thinking about how that will be McAllister soon with my assistance. 

“I don’t know. Weight loss causes you to have loose skin. Is that worth it?” I ask McAlister.

“If I’m healthy, then maybe it is worth it,” McAlister protests.

“Are you ready to diet and eat rabbit food?”

“We can start slow, can’t we? I can start with small changes first.”

I move my hands from his belt up to his plush breasts. “And what about these? Don’t you love your feminine shape? Don’t you love having your big tits?” I demand an answer, pushing his breasts together and shaking them.

“I- I mean, I do love my tits, and when you play with them,” McAlister blushes.

“I like that there is plenty to play with, especially how fat your ass is these days,” I lean over to kiss him. I roll myself into a position where we are now belly to belly. I kiss him again with tongue, my cock poking into his stomach. 

I break the kiss, leaving McAlister breathless. “I’m...being...serious,” he inhales heavily between words. He’s getting worked up, but I have the upper hand.

“Sure, I’ll support you to reach your full potential,” I say. I don’t mean weight loss as his potential, but the vague wording provides enough support to make him smile. 

V. Psychological Manipulation

One might say sexual fantasies like the ones I have can't or shouldn't be fulfilled in reality. I suppose anything is possible if we try hard enough. I used to feel dirty and guilty for liking such extreme obesity in the name of sexuality. I’m not ashamed of what I want anymore because I can’t help it. Big is beautiful. It’s not like I can flip my desire on and off like a light switch. 

I mean, I feel a little dirty getting off on ruining McAlister’s body. Over the last few months, he gained weight. He broke through the scale’s capacity again, so I bought another one. He’s put on another 45 pounds in a short time. Whenever he weighs himself, I get so horny. I just want McAlister on top of me. I need his sagging belly pressing down on me as I grab a handful of flesh. Yet, when he gets on top, I crave more of him. I need more of him than he wants to have on his frame. When we get done fooling around, he goes back to talking about losing weight like he’s playing some sick game with my emotions. 

I was worried when we had a serious discussion about weight loss a few months prior. I quickly realized it’s all talk because the fat boy has zero control. Yet, I still get worried when he mentions the idea. Worried might be the wrong word. It’s more like anger, which indicates to me that my obsession with his morbid obesity is dangerous. I may also be pulling strings like a puppeteer, which prevents him from losing weight. 

I do things behind his back because no partner of mine will ever lose weight again. I encourage him to consume more. It’s not abusive; he just doesn’t know what he wants yet. I know because he willingly believes everything I tell him, and we get fucking freaky in bed together. He enjoys getting his fat ass plowed after downing an entire cake. I've tried to absolve myself for my sins. No one can blame me because I’ve tried. There is no overwhelming guilt. I can, and I will take this as far as I can by any means necessary. I’m not about to have another Krissy situation on my hands. 

My goal is to change his body chemistry, functions that regulate his system. My methods appear to be working. Once upon a time, a doctor took it upon himself to prescribe  Levothyroxine to assist with McAlister’s thyroid issues. My poor big boy apparently can’t tell the difference between the original medication and the appetite stimulant  I swapped it out for in his bottle. I also found some weight gain formulas online. It’s a fun time spiking his meals with a high-calorie substance. Everything is going great. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. 

Research is a close friend of mine, and so is my degree in Psychology. Some may call what I’m trying to be pseudoscience, practices that are false, unfounded, and sometimes unethical. I read that listening to music makes one eat more, so we now have music playing while we eat. McAlister also noticed I changed the aesthetic of the dining room. Marketing uses color psychology to sell products. Red is the color used by fast-food chains with some yellow or orange. All these colors make people feel hungry. Naturally, I painted our dining room and bedroom red. McAlister even noticed our new, large plates. Recent studies debate on the correlation between plate size and overbearing. Bigger plates are supposed to make one eat more due to the Delboeuf Illusion, an optical illusion of relative size perception. The science is questionable, but I’m desperate enough to try it to make him gain more weight whether he is willing or not.

VI.  Nutrition

“He’s huge!” Krissy exclaims, examine the photo in disbelief, looking at the picture of McAlister on my phone. “Sorry, I mean, I’m very happy for you.”

“Yeah, you know me. I’m a chubby chaser. He’s just put on so much weight over the last year. I’m a little worried, but he’s still cute,” I tell Krissy, trying to get a reaction from her.

“Oh, my. Is everything okay?” Krissy sounds genuinely concerned. 

“Yeah, he’s fine. He’s just going through some things,” I say mischievously. 

Krissy looks at me and then back to the photo. It’s hysterical to me she doesn’t realize that I’ve done the same to him that I did to her while we dated. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I tried making healthier foods for him. I’ve encouraged him to go on a walk or to lift weights with me. I put a treadmill in one of our rooms so he can walk and watch TV. He never commits to anything despite claiming that he wants to lose weight.”

“I know how hard it is to lose weight. I hope he makes the changes he needs,” she nods sympathetically. 

“I’m here at the store to choose some healthy options for him. You seem to be thinner and healthier these days. You look great! Do you have any advice?” she looks comically at my cart full of cosmic brownies, zebra cakes, and fudge rounds while formulating a response.

“Thank you for noticing! I’m about 100 pounds down from when we dated. Let’s see,” she says while picking up a box of Little Debbie's. “These were my favorite, but they are so bad for you!“

“Are they really that bad?” I ask, egging her on by pretending I’m utterly clueless about nutrition.

“Oh, very much so! I thought people were going to start calling me Diabetic Debbie with as many treats I ate. Spend some time reading the food labels before choosing snacks for him. If you can’t pronounce the ingredients, don’t buy it. Refined snacks only make you crave sweets quickly. If he’s anything like me, he can eat a box of these in a day if he’s not careful. Grab some apples or bananas instead,” she suggests.

“Thanks! I’ll definitely look at the food labels more,” I lie. 

“Good call. I hope you’re able to help your boyfriend.”

“Yeah, me too. I’m sure with a little discipline, I can get him to the weight I want him,” I say. 

I didn’t say anything about helping him lose weight, which I think caused Krissy to give me a confused expression. “Anyway, I’m done shopping, so I should probably get home to my husband soon. It was nice seeing you again,” she says, walking away.

“It was great to see you too,” I say while devising a plan in my mind. I intend to buy the grotesque junk already in my cart for my fat boy to shovel in his gut, but I also purchase high-calorie foods that he will think is healthy.

I throw yogurt into the cart because of the sugar content. I also think of other foods that are supposedly healthy but are terrible for one to consume in large quantities. I grab several massive jars of peanut butter. One tablespoon is 100 calories, which is perfect for tricking him into eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or as a dip for celery. I know I can add heaping spoonfuls into his oatmeal. People do not realize how many calories they are quickly adding. The poor fat boy won’t even know how many extra calories he’s consuming. I add a few more items to the cart, excited by my plan. 

VII. Stuffed 

I find McAlister asleep on the couch naked after what looks like a disgusting afternoon bender. Sometimes I wonder if he knows he zones out and binges. The trash bag lugs behind me as I clean up all the evidence of his lack of self-control. The bag quickly fills with pizza boxes, an empty Costco bag of candy, and a minimum of five cans of soda. I can only imagine how high his blood sugar must be. Is McAlister asleep, or is this a diabetic coma? Regardless, I’m rock hard while calculating the calorie intake in my head. 

Then, my attention focuses on dinner. McAlister always wakes up starving, so I prepare now. I dump an entire pound of pasta into boiling water as I brown ground beef. When the meat and sauce are ready, I mix it into the pasta noodles without draining the ground beef. I cut up a stick of butter and add it to the pot. 

The aroma from the pasta must have woken up McAlister’s tummy indicated by his lumbering into the kitchen. He looks at me with a confused expression on his face. “Are we having company? Shit, do I need to put on pants?”

“No, this is all for us.”

“I don’t think we need this much food. I’m on a diet,” he lies to himself. 

“Let’s use the leftovers as a meal prep of sorts. I’ll put them in individual containers, so you have lunch for the rest of the week,” I suggest. What I want to say is, “There isn’t going to be any fucking leftovers, pig.” I hold my tongue as I sit an enormous bowl of pasta and a side salad in front of him. He ignores the salad at first and goes straight for the spaghetti. 

After his first bowl, McAlister picks at his salad. He rolls around a cherry tomato with his fork. Then, he decides the bowl has too many vegetables and adds a handful of croutons before baptizing the left greens in dressing. Nothing screams, "I'm on a diet," more than convincing yourself you’re eating a healthy salad that you’ve ruined. Two tablespoons of dressings are close to 200 calories. There are way more tablespoons than the two recommended servings. He eats the salad before returning to his pasta bowl. 

I'm not one of their evil feeders who gets off on feeding their partners until their obesity completely disables them and then sends them to an early grave. Oh, wait. Yes, I am. I scoop another enormous helping of pasta into his bowl and then another when he finishes that one. It’s an endless stream until he’s finished the entire pot, almost entirely by himself. 

For a brief moment, I imagine a Mr. Creosote moment as he leans back in his chair, groaning and holding his enormous gut. Do I offer monsieur a bucket or a wafer-thin mint? “I’m so stuffed. I think I’m going to explode,” McAlister moans.

”I can't believe how much you ate tonight, Mac and cheese,” I tease. 

“Me neither. I’m sorry! This was supposed to be meal prep. I lost total control! Again! I need to get serious about losing weight,” he panics. 

I can’t handle it anymore. “Stop. Just. Fucking. Stop,” I breathe out each word with force, punctuating each word. ”Cut the bullshit. Do you really think you can still lose weight at this size? Do you think I want you to lose it?” I growl. “You’re too far gone now, fat boy, and you haven't even reached your prime.” 

He looks at me, stunned. The psychological games I’ve played benefit me. McAlister associates food with sex, both rewards in the bedroom. “Do you want a treat?” I coo at him. I’ve trained him well. He knows it means to get to the bedroom. NOW. He struggles to get himself out of the chair by himself. It’s worth it to see how excited he is for a handful of cookies or a cupcake. I’m also excited to watch all the jiggling blubber. All it took was the word “treat” for his eyes to light up like puppy’s and to lumber himself up. I can hear McAlister’s breathing getting heavier. I'm sure his tiny cock is trying to get hard under his fat and oozing against his chastity cage. He needs this just as bad as I do. 

McAlister’s body ripples with every movement, the wall decor trembles as he waddles as fast as he can down the hall. The pace is pathetically comical. His ass is swollen and covered in cellulite. The sweating, heaving fat fuck before me drives me wild. It takes everything in me to prevent myself from stopping him in the hall, bending him over, and violating his massive fat-filled globes. I restrain myself because there’s not a chance he won’t collapse under his weight and get us both stuck between the walls. I can hardly wait until we are in the bedroom. He’s about to figure out how fucking humongous I want him with no regard for his mobility or health.