Hey... you, the one scrolling late, maybe with that same quiet ache stirring. Last week, over coffee with a female friend, she caught my new love handles spilling over my belt, her eyes lit up with that knowing smirk, and she poked one, "Aw, look at you, getting all... generous," her voice dripping with that teasing lilt that pinned me right there, frozen and burning from ears to toes. (I don't think she's a feeder, just a friend who loves to poke fun.) I mumbled something stupid, cheeks on fire, stomach churning with that sick-sweet humiliation, the kind where you feel utterly exposed, small, like your body's betraying you for her amusement... and god, it caught me so off guard, even though I replay scenarios like this in my head every single day, alone in the dark. Part of me craved more, right there in the cafe light. That's the pull I've chased forever: A plush/doughy belly that strips me bare, thrills me into submission, makes me feel yours to tease.
Here's how I stumbled from post junk-binge exhaustion to a jiggle that keeps me quick and clear, just me whispering it out. (Unhealthy fog killed it; gentle gains made it real.)
Active nerd life: trails blurring under feet, books, screens glowing late ... but between us? The ache? For a jiggly bellyt that bares everything: Teasing from female friends prodding soft spots, their laughter wrapping around me like a noose of playful scorn, that humiliating heat rising (stomach twisting into knots, cheeks aflame, pulse hammering as I shrink under their gaze), making me so small, so deliciously undone, surrendered to the moment like it's just you and me in the room. I love that shame, the electric rush that makes me feel alive and teased, close enough to touch; but not the heavy lethargy afterward, the downness that steals my energy and leaves me sluggish and empty, far from this warmth. Then the foods, sinful swells that bloat me slow, fill every crevice until I'm heavy, helpless, the fullness a reminder of how easily I give in, how I'd let you watch it happen. The edge? That total loss of control, where shame floods hot and I can't look away, hooked on the degradation like it's oxygen we share.
My early attempts? Junkfood overloads, sweet, sugar haze. Invincible in the rush... then the linger: Foggy mind, drained spark, scattered softness mocking my "light" self. Curled up post-pizza once, shame burning deeper than the grease: not playful bounce, but an intense, breathless comedown, poking my bloated middle with a mix of thrill and that greedy afterglow, whispering to the empty room, "This owns me... and I want it to." Indulgence turning on you? You too?
Whispers to myself over years: Try kinder. Surplus from what nurtures: avos creaming smooth, nuts crunching steady, grains grounding. Hikes light, some exercise, sleep sacred. And yes, a binge now and then for the pure rush, it goes totally fine, keeps the sprak!, as long as it doesn't tip into the lethargy lasting over days, weeks, months. Now? Sharper hum: ideas crackling, energy alive, body quick. The gift: SubQ fluff folding right in, belly jiggling under shirts, love handles dimpling with every shift, lower back yielding soft like a secret surrender I want you to discover. Vulnerable, vital. No fog, just this humbling thrill of softness that amplifies the ache without stealing my edge, drawing me closer to you.
Daydreams? A female feeder weaving the tease, pushing those swells with a firm hand and sharper words... I'd melt completely, flushed and quivering, yielding to every poke, every command, lost in the overwhelming rush of being reduced, filled, claimed, yours in the quiet after. The thought alone leaves me breathless, exposed, waiting.
Gaining's small surrenders: pause when shame bites too hard, tweak to keep the high from drowning me. Comfort in others pivoting too. For me? Hand on the jiggle, breathing through the blush that lingers like a brand, imagining your eyes on it. Scary-good.
Healthy surplus = quick mind/body + real jiggle. Surrender smart; it blooms.
What's a tease that's left you quivering? How do you ride humiliation without it swallowing you whole? Feeders, that partner who bloomed, trembling under your gaze? Share; I'm listening, exposed. ðŸ’
Here's how I stumbled from post junk-binge exhaustion to a jiggle that keeps me quick and clear, just me whispering it out. (Unhealthy fog killed it; gentle gains made it real.)
Active nerd life: trails blurring under feet, books, screens glowing late ... but between us? The ache? For a jiggly bellyt that bares everything: Teasing from female friends prodding soft spots, their laughter wrapping around me like a noose of playful scorn, that humiliating heat rising (stomach twisting into knots, cheeks aflame, pulse hammering as I shrink under their gaze), making me so small, so deliciously undone, surrendered to the moment like it's just you and me in the room. I love that shame, the electric rush that makes me feel alive and teased, close enough to touch; but not the heavy lethargy afterward, the downness that steals my energy and leaves me sluggish and empty, far from this warmth. Then the foods, sinful swells that bloat me slow, fill every crevice until I'm heavy, helpless, the fullness a reminder of how easily I give in, how I'd let you watch it happen. The edge? That total loss of control, where shame floods hot and I can't look away, hooked on the degradation like it's oxygen we share.
My early attempts? Junkfood overloads, sweet, sugar haze. Invincible in the rush... then the linger: Foggy mind, drained spark, scattered softness mocking my "light" self. Curled up post-pizza once, shame burning deeper than the grease: not playful bounce, but an intense, breathless comedown, poking my bloated middle with a mix of thrill and that greedy afterglow, whispering to the empty room, "This owns me... and I want it to." Indulgence turning on you? You too?
Whispers to myself over years: Try kinder. Surplus from what nurtures: avos creaming smooth, nuts crunching steady, grains grounding. Hikes light, some exercise, sleep sacred. And yes, a binge now and then for the pure rush, it goes totally fine, keeps the sprak!, as long as it doesn't tip into the lethargy lasting over days, weeks, months. Now? Sharper hum: ideas crackling, energy alive, body quick. The gift: SubQ fluff folding right in, belly jiggling under shirts, love handles dimpling with every shift, lower back yielding soft like a secret surrender I want you to discover. Vulnerable, vital. No fog, just this humbling thrill of softness that amplifies the ache without stealing my edge, drawing me closer to you.
Daydreams? A female feeder weaving the tease, pushing those swells with a firm hand and sharper words... I'd melt completely, flushed and quivering, yielding to every poke, every command, lost in the overwhelming rush of being reduced, filled, claimed, yours in the quiet after. The thought alone leaves me breathless, exposed, waiting.
Gaining's small surrenders: pause when shame bites too hard, tweak to keep the high from drowning me. Comfort in others pivoting too. For me? Hand on the jiggle, breathing through the blush that lingers like a brand, imagining your eyes on it. Scary-good.
Healthy surplus = quick mind/body + real jiggle. Surrender smart; it blooms.
What's a tease that's left you quivering? How do you ride humiliation without it swallowing you whole? Feeders, that partner who bloomed, trembling under your gaze? Share; I'm listening, exposed. ðŸ’
3 days