In my fantasy, I start seeing a feeder in like a casual dating relationship. We know about each other's kinks, and everything starts off like pretty "healthy". I agree to gain 100 lbs, bringing me up past 400, and for the next year or so that's what we do.
I take it kind of easy on regular days, overeating of course, but not excessively. On days when my feeder comes over, though, my arms are strapped to the bed, sometimes I'm blindfolded, and I'm force fed to my absolute capacity by my feeder who assaults my senses with sexual sadism and slowly ingrains in me an irresistible compulsion to eat and gain weight, because I now associate it with supreme sexual pleasure. Sometimes we spend weekends roleplaying immobility. She uses the ankle straps on the bed instead of the wrist straps, and takes care of my hygienic needs while still stimulating and force feeding me.
400 lbs quickly arrives, and one night, as I lay there stuffed past my limits, funnel still strapped into my mouth, she climbs on top of me and says, "Congratulations, ***. You passed the test. I think now you wouldn't be able to stop gaining weight if you tried, so here's the deal. Marry me. Marry me, and I'll never go away, because you will be my masterpiece. If you think you're fat now, this is nothing. You're going to be my private pig, and I will take very good care of you. You'll never see the outdoors again by next year, but this pleasure, of being helpless and fat, will become your whole life."
It's a bargain with the devil. I know that if I agree, I'll spend the rest of my probably short life in the care of this woman who knows exactly how to make me gain weight at the highest possible speed. I won't be able to work any more by next year, and I'll spend all my time in one or two rooms, imprisoned in my unmovable blob of a body.
Shen grabs a big handful of my generous moob, and squeezes. With the funnel gag still in place, I shakily nod my head. "Yes."
Like many, captivity appears frequently in my fantasies, but only as a beginning. My beautifully twisted wish is to be taken prisoner for a few years, and while I am force fed and fattened up a bit the focus is not on my body but on my mind.
My feeder completely breaks and then rebuilds my mind to his/her desires with conditioning, hypnosis, and even some torture. I become someone, something, else. My mind is emptied of all desires save to feed and grow my belly and to seek my feeder's approval and affection. My memories are altered or repressed. I am even trained to respond to a new name.
And then I am released and returned to my hometown. Now I am fattened up by my own will and action, and am constantly seeking to return to my captor. He/She returns for me only when I achieve a weight of their choosing. I am never seen again.
Gettingfatter: As controversial as it is an idea, I'm very into the idea of being secretly fattened up. Having appetite stimulants and metabolism inhibitors slipped into whatever I eat with me being unaware.
In fantasy stories I enjoy the good secret feeder aspect XD
Lemoncake: I have a fantasy of being a princess of a country who's tradition is that the queen is very plump as its shown as a status/power symbol.
So as the next queen in line, Im fattened up, and put through capacity training so my belly can hold more and grow bigger. The bigger the more beautiful. xD
The practical details of this are what I adore! You'd need royal tailors to make your giant robes, and a specially constructed throne to hold your weight in perfect royal comfort. If you ever needed to make a speech or public appearance, you might need an elegant cart just to wheel your mass out to appear before the nation. And legions of servants with trays of cakes!
I think A LOT about bondage, and how eventually one can get so heavy that their own body is the restraint.
I imagine being in a relationship where the rule is that I'm to spend all weekend cuffed to the bed, every week, while my partner brings me completely excessive amounts of food, and enjoys playing with my increasingly bloated body to her sadistic heart's content. One Sunday night, a couple years into this relationship, she undoes the cuffs around my now soft, puffy wrists and ankles.
"Well, get out of bed, fat boy. You've got to brush your teeth after all that," she says, probably struggling to keep a straight face.
I lurch and struggle, and only succeed in jiggling myself around and running out of breath. I can't get out of bed without help.
"It looks like we don't need the restraints any more, do we?" She whispers to me, and brings me my toothbrush.
I never show up at the office the next day, or after that.