Cascadianjiggle:
Gaining is not good for that tight body of yours. As discipline unravels so to do the muscle fibres.

After a month of excess that lift is now too much. With the decline of ability comes the reluctance to participate in that thing which you were so good at.
As old habits new ones rise to take their place. Instead of crunching that core you stuff it. Those legs that once took you all over the place now only lift to go to the store. Those arms lift only to shovel in more food.

Two months go by and habits are once more ingrained in your mind. Those habits could not be more different from your old ones. When people look at you and the things you do, they likely think that your once olympian regime was as mythical as the gods themselves.

A year later goning up that hill you used to sprint up during a HIIT session is a workout even a at snail's pace. Those tree tunks, so disfurged by your excess lumber forwards. In part you go so slow because your thunder thighs rub together from your receding genitals too your knees. Naturally this does nothing but motivate you to stay off your weak and swollen feet.

Each titanic step sends shockwaves through your hanging fat. The abdomen which once resembled an elite athlete's now hangs far past that constricting belt. No longer do you have a core, now you simply have an androgenous sack of lard called a belly. The chasm you call a belly button is no longer where a proper human's should be but instead rides below, resting on your fupa.

And what a sight that fupa is. Below that unmistakable sign of your greed is the fupa: a ring of meat that stretches from thigh to thigh and props up the bottomless pit of hunger that has made you what you are. This fat pad bulges out, like a smaller belly underneath the much, much bigger one. This pad seals all it touches and signals a creature so committed to gluttony that it is willing to sacrifice it's sexual independence so it can eat. What most people would consider the pinnacle of pleasure is being buried alive under a mound of fat. You don't care do you though? You have trained yourself so well that you only respond sexually when food is involved. Your inhibitions so long forgotten that you climax without handling yourself downstairs. All you must do is stuff your pig face and fondle your fat.

Those firm chest muscles atrophied so long ago that you have forgotten what it feels like to flex and feel the muscle react. Now you only know soft fat. As you walk up this hill, you feel these globular mounds shake up and down. Your sensitive nipples push so hard against your tight shirt that you start to get aroused. These innumerable pounds you have put on have made your body weak and sluggish, but so much more sensual. The friction against your bouncing chest makes you want to hurry home fast so you can stuff your fat face, but it is all you can do to manage the pace you are going at.

The two slightly deflated beachballs you carry around behind probably don't help. One of the first things you noticed at the beginning of your metamorphosis was the loosening of your butt. Within a month the tone was gone. Within two months you could feel it shake about of its own volition. It was the burgeoning booty that kept you gaining in the first months. You couldn't help yourself, you had never felt anything like this before. You laughed at your vain attempts to grow your butt by increasing the muscles in it when fat was so much easier and sensual. That love affair has born bountiful fruit. Those firm little cheeks now resembled two loose beanbags that flop around and are only held in place by the restrictive pants you outgrew a month ago.

You have to stop for a moment and catch what breath you can. You also take a moment to stretch your over burdened muscles and as you stretched out your back you feel the fabric of your tight shirt get stuck in your back fat. When you were young you saw a fatty at the water slides and marveled at the way the fat on their back rolled together into a valley. Now that is yours, plus extra. Where your shapeless arms meet your torso is a roll. Where the fat of your chest grows around onto your back and meets the rising sphere of your belly is a roll. This roll runs much further and goes much deeper than the other. If you follow it to the bottom you think you may still able to feel your ribs. That's wishful thinking though isn't it? At the bottom of this gelatinous wilderness is the shelf of your butt. You often struggle to keep the top of this shelf from pushing up your shirt and exposing your long, deep crack. You always noticed fat people could never keep their shirt down and pants pulled up. Now their reality is yours.

giantjay:
Loved reading this! Thank you for posting it!

Delly:
All my fantasies and kinks center around helplessness, total helplessness.

My ultimate fantasy is about finding a woman who's not just fat, but fat from being unable to resist food and too lazy to exercise. She's a slob, and a messy eater. Not fat because she wants to be, but because she can't help herself. All I do is make sure she has food within reach, and sometimes help her stuff it in when she's too full and lazy to do the hard work of lifting a twinkie to her own mouth, lol.

She ends up borderline immobile at a much lower weight than you get purely from being fat--her muscles atrophy from lack of use, and she's not very coordinated. She waddles, staggers, and falls a lot.

The key part here is that she be physically *and* mentally lazy, even incapacitated. Half the time, my fantasy will put her under the influence of drugs or alcohol as a way to explain why she's so slow, stupid, and uncoordinated. But since this fetish isn't about drugs or alcohol per se, just helplessness, the other half of the time she's just a bimbo who can't think about anything except food, has concentration issues, is very forgetful, and depends on me to do her thinking for her.

Hand in hand with all this goes being submissive, and grateful to me for taking care of her and telling her what to do. I have a huge rescue fetish, of which stuckage is only one. I meet her by rescuing her from herself, and I make her more and more helpless and dependent when she starts living with me.

I'm into kidnapping and forced feeding, but only of a willing, grateful victim, and/or one who's too stupid or incapacitated to realize what's going on. I don't want to have to work for the object of my affection's submission--I want her lack of control to come from within. I'm here to enable her and make it possible for her to wallow mindlessly in her enormous appetites.

Feel free to message me if any of this appeals to you!

marakinsis:
Seems like a carrot-and-stick approach would be most effective.

First, the stick: dehumanise your feedee. They're a vessel for fat and all this "person" nonsense is getting in the way. If your feedee is just an object, it can't think, so call it "it" like it deserves. You'll want to discourage any behaviour that deviates from this role, such as excessive motion or trying to communicate. There'll be certain necessities such as bladder relief but this should be kept to a minimum. A particularly bratty feedee will need to be punished, and as food should be the only thing it values, food should be what is sanctioned.

The carrot: reward good behaviour. Blind, obedient consumption should be rewarded with more food. Your feedee will crave mental stimulation, so reward good behaviour with empty-calorie entertainment such as children's cartoons (ideally in a different language - you don't want it practising communication skills). You should try to wean them off this eventually, though, as in the long run you want it to be able to derive all the entertainment it needs from consumption. Eventually the only behaviour you should be rewarding is no behaviour at all.

Or if you're looking to make your feedee a fat cow, you probably want to keep it in the same place as animals. This would be an entirely different path of dumbing down, as instead of becoming an unthinking shell your feedee will deteriorate into a wild animal for you to ranch. Keep it in a barn with cows, dress it to match (either in cowprint or not at all), and feed it at the same time and in the same amounts.

Either way, the most critical stick you have is its food addiction. You need to make its life revolve around what you put into its mouth. At all times it should be craving more and that effects the perfect opportunity to punish unwanted behaviour by withholding that. Following that one rule should allow to assert unequivocable control over your unthinking, food-addicted, ever-growing feedee.

alelectromigration:
So awesome -- near perfect scenario. It's almost like she used your fetish against you. Perhaps she realized your fat fetish was for real and she had captured you with her soft charms. She knew you wouldn't be going anywhere. Maybe she was a bit shy about her attractions before or didn't even let herself dwell on them. But when she realized how smitten you were, her confidence soared and her true self came out -- subconsciously at first and then more and more consciously. Turns out she likes fat guys ... so guess what's in store for you

canuck:
i asked her to read this response, and her answer was just an evil laugh, lol!

something about that line "used your fetish against you" is just very, very exciting, and i am not even sure why?

alelectromigration:
Sounds like she's planned an appropriate grand finale to a the feeding adventure you had beforehand, and you're in loving, but firm, hands. Apparently she likes you, so it's time to take you off the feeder market and have you take a seat at the table with her.

But she's no ordinary feeder. She's an SSBBW, so she knows fat. She can show you the ropes. She knows what to expect and she won't be surprised or freak out when your gut starts hanging lower, your face softens, and you start jiggling more. She already knows what you'll be experiencing and feeling. Sounds like you can confidently relax in her hands

cakefiend:
What it says in the title. I'd love someone to play out a scenario like this with. Tease and humiliate me about how much I weigh, how much I eat, the size of my belly, etc. You can either be someone like this who is messaging me from "concern" or we can play it as if I'm physically at an appointment. Either way, I'd be happy to follow your instructions and take measurements, send you belly pics for assessment, maybe even short videos of me attempting exercise. After all, a fatty like me needs someone to make sure I follow through

Firelion:
Going full necroposting here, but I'm bored and like to talk.

A is super fun in fiction and fantasy, but I couldn't see it working IRL without straight up kidnapping and all sorts of other laws being violated. Even people who fantasize about it would probably panic at some point and you can't really just hide someone away in a basement forever. But damn it works for erotica!

Option 2 is the only realistic one, and also the way darker one, in my opinion. All you're doing is convincing someone. That's not a crime. On surface level this option seems more gentle, but the implications are so much worse. They go in too deep and want out a bit down the line? Probably won't work; their social circle has been watching them "do it to themselves" for years. You didn't hold them prisoner or anything, right? Eventually they have no choice but to keep going to whatever end. Way darker.

Dramaqueen2905:
It'd be nice to star books youve read and be able to look them up in your own library

marakinsis:
You thought you were lucky when she told you that she wanted to make you fatter. Just a little bit, she promised. You agreed. It's what you always wanted.

She cooks, and you eat. Every meal drips with butter and oil. She wants more, and you agree. You quit your job. She tells you that she's prepared the basement with everything you need. It's struggle getting down there, but you rejoice - no more stairs, at least not today. She brings you meal after meal, day after day. Every morning you get up to shower, and every morning it is a little harder to hold yourself up. She watches as you spend ten minutes shuffling yourself out of bed, and back in.

You're sure the days are becoming shorter, but you only have her word to go by - there's no window down here - and you've not yet needed to go upstairs. She keeps bringing you food, and you struggle to raise your arm to your face to eat it. She sighs, and takes over. Your arms stay by your side. You try to get up to shower and feel your legs quivering, sharp pains shooting up your legs and your spine. You sit. She tells you it's okay. You look wistfully towards the stairs and know that you will never again see them from the top. She tells you to get back into bed.

It's only been a few months, she says. You know that's not true but you say nothing. She stopped hand-feeding you and now each meal is liquid, entering you with a tube, bypassing your mouth and pouring directly down your throat. You don't recall the last time you chewed. You wonder what your family thinks. She assures you they don't mind. Every day seems a little shorter and she has started injecting you with something to help you sleep. You suspect the world thinks you're dead. You suspect it might soon be right.

The fatty sludge keeps coming - it stopped tasting of food long ago - and she insists it's always been like that. For once you say no. You've had enough, this has gone too far, she's lied and manipulated you for too long. She says you're just moody. She injects you with something, says it will calm you down. You lose focus. Your vision becomes blurry. You agree. You keep sucking down the sludge. She puts you to sleep a little sooner every day and in the morning you consume. She keeps the drugs topped up. You are not aware of how much time is passing.

There's the occasional moment of horrifying lucidity, when the drugs wear off and you're able to look down and recognise what you've become. You are sweat and flesh, a haulk of fat that spreads over what used to be the bed. You are decorated by dark patches, every fold is highlighted with irritated red skin, and she's put bandages where the skin has split down the sides of your lumpy legs that have long since turned grey. Sometimes you're lucid when she rolls you over onto your side, and you suffocate as your weight crushes your lungs and windpipe, physically unable to complain as she rubs some liquid into the folds on your back that stings like sweet hell before she drops you and you fall back onto the bed, raising a cloud of damp dust that fills your lungs as you try to catch a breath that always eludes you. You try to say something, but you can't - your mouth is rusty, the muscles have atrophied from never needing to chew or speak. But she notices your feeble attempts and, with no change in expression, she presses a syringe into you somewhere that you can't feel it and your mind recedes back to that blurry place.

You have become her plaything, nothing more than a mouth to feed and a body to grow. You try to raise your hands to your face - it's instinctive - and can't, your arms locked to your sides in the sticky embrace of your fat and gravity. You cannot call for help, your vocal chords have long since withered. You cannot remove the tube from your mouth. You desperately want to quit her game but you cannot. She has checkmated you. The only way out is to keep playing until she wins.