Chapter 1 - brain dead

When she'd admitted that she wanted you to gain weight, you didn't really think much of it. You were happy to sacrifice a little of your body to make her happy. When she'd told you that she wanted to feed you, you were surprised, but again you wanted to make her happy. It worked, too - you would never had guessed that she'd hidden a sexual fantasy from you for so long, but once it was out in the open, she was like a new person. You were happy to be the one that she could be herself with, even if would take a little toll on your body.

The two of you got into a system. Most nights you'd have sex. Sometimes, once every two weeks maybe, you'd let her feed you. You let her feed you at mealtimes, sometimes, but she'd made it clear that sexual feeding was altogether different. If you were honest, it didn't really do anything for you, but it clearly did for her, and nothing makes you more turned on than seeing the woman you love turned on.

She began - without ever actually explicitly asking - to feed you more often. The sessions became more frequent, and normal sex became less so. You noticed, but you didn't complain; if what worked for you wasn't working for her then a fifty-fifty split was only fair.

She took over the cooking and the shopping, neither of which you asked for. You felt guilty about her taking an unfair share of the household responsibilities, and told her as much, but she didn't seem to mind. At mealtimes she began trying to convince you that because she'd made it, she should be the one to feed it to you. You didn't agree - but you couldn't come up with a counterargument, so you reluctantly accepted. You began to eat less, and be fed more.

Sex started to become monotonous, an echo of mealtime. She no longer seemed to have any desire to have sex normally anymore, always opting to feed you instead. The fifty-fifty was now far in her favour, but for now, you held your tongue. You were sure she'd outgrow it.

She didn't. You did. You'd put on weight without realising. Clothes that fit well were now fitting snugly and some not at all. You told her, and she apologised, but begged you to keep letting her feed you, telling you it was the only thing that turned her on. You wanted to make a similar argument back at her, but you looked into her eyes and could not bring yourself to say no. So you said yes - on the condition that she only feed you good, healthy food, and less of it. She agreed.

A week passed and the diet didn't change. Sure, there were fruits and vegetables and meats, and genuinely-delicious home-made dishes. But there were carbs and sugar and processed foods, too, far more than you'd like, and she'd managed to weasel her way into 5 meals a day. You knew you had to put your foot down before this got out of hand.

You did. She told you how much she loved making food for you. She told you how she loved watching you eat it. She told you that she loved knowing she was useful to you. Through tears, she told you how happy she was to finally be with someone who loved her for who she was and let her be herself. She stared up at you with her adorable eyes and even as you frowned you could feel unfamiliar fat in your cheeks form your expression. But you agreed to let her carry on.

But you didn't agree. You loved her for who she was, but it felt like that person was gone. Now, it seemed like your whole relationship - and you life - revolved around the food that she brought you. You'd barely had a conversation that wasn't punctuated with her spooning something into your mouth.

As mealtimes began to grow longer, you noticed that the diet was beginning to change. More sugar. More fat. Most meals had the aftertaste of butter. Whenever you tried to complain she gently touched her finger to your lips, shushed you, told you that you'd already had this discussion. For the first time you realised that you'd never really had any control over this, and that her ramping it up like this was inevitable. You suspected - as disgusting as it made you feel - that the person you fell in love with was an attractively-designed shell hiding a single-minded feeder.

Once, as she'd finished feeding you, you heard a quick beep from her phone. She laughed and told you that meant it was already time for your next meal. And from then on, mealtimes were no more - your day became either sleeping, or feeding.

You didn't want to just get up and leave - you still loved her, after all - but you couldn't complain, either, she shut you down at every attempt. You really had no choice but to acquiesce, at least for now. She was having you drink a full two litres of regular Coke each day, and enough alcohol to stop you from thinking about things too hard.

You noticed that you'd been moving less, no doubt because it was easier to feed you that way. Whenever you tried to get up, she'd shush you - like that would make a difference - and push you back down. You only left the bed to go to the toilet.

You could feel yourself getting physically weaker... but it was almost an effort to notice. You felt like there was a block on your brain, making your thoughts sluggish. It was as she was pouring the Coke down you one day that you realised it must be the sheer quantity of sugar that was passing through you. But you couldn't say anything - not just because your mouth was almost always busy either chewing or swallowing, but just because you felt so tired all the time. Thinking was exhausting.

She rearranged you such that you were lying back on the bed. She encouraged you to keep your eyes closed, if the bright lights were bothering you, and you did for most of the time. When you needed to go to the bathroom she told you not to speak - just make a noise. She'd help you up out of bed, support you as you shuffled to the bathroom, and clean you afterwards. She insisted that you do nothing. You instinctively went to wash your hands and she pushed them away, saying that you'd already done enough work. She walked you back to bed and helped you get settled back in.

You didn't speak to her again after that.

Feedings continued in silence. If you tried to make a sound that wasn't a grunt, she shushed you. It didn't matter that much. There was a rhythm: open, chew, chew, swallow, pause. Open, chew, chew, swallow, pause. She kept pouring liquid sugar into your mouth, further numbing your brain.

Any concerns you had before... they were still there, but rusty. They hadn't been forgotten, as such, just not used. Left on the mental shelf to collect dust. You felt the same on the inside as you did on the outside: useless, incapable of anything, dependent completely on her.

One day, the rhythm changed. She stopped feeding you. Instead, she placed a tube into your mouth. You were curious, but your eyes struggled to open, so you quickly gave up. You didn't know what it was - only that there was a tube in your mouth.

You were surprised - for the first time in months, years possibly - when warm liquid began to slowly pour out. It was thick and viscous. It poured too slowly to swallow, but too quickly to not notice. All you could do was wait for it to pool up in the back of your through, but months of chugging liquid had degraded the muscles that kept your throat closed. The fattening liquid dripped right through. She'd removed the need to swallow.

You were scared, now. Blind and now no longer dependent on her. Your last human contact, gone. You could feel her standing, watching; but not touch, no spoon in your mouth, no gentle shushing. Just an artificial tube.

You tried to gasp for help. You tried to open your eyes. Nothing worked - she'd painstakingly fine-tuned every muscle in your body so that they only obeyed her. You tried to speak but you hadn't spoken for months. You're not even sure you'd've been able to understand her response. You tried to reach for those concerns you'd placed on your mental shelf, but you couldn't - your sluggish brain was holding you down, you couldn't even begen to conceptualise the nature of your situation or even what was happening - your mind was just too slow. She'd made you dumb and stupid. She'd made you a cow - no, worse than a cow, a disembodied udder being fed fake animal feed.

She'd stripped away everything of you that was human. You were nothing, now. Less than nothing. A brain-dead sack of fat.

You couldn't see. You couldn't speak. You couldn't think. All of your senses still worked, but you couldn't think to begin to use them.

You couldn't smell the stench of sweat that had permeated every part of the room. You couldn't see the diabetic dark marks starting to decorate your body. You couldn't feel the itching between your limbs as skin that begged to move was forced to stay perfectly still. You couldn't feel your muscles in agony as they uselessly deteriorated. You couldn't feel the side of you that was pressed against the mattress, skin that was suffocating and cracking and bleeding, skin that was damp from a sweat-soaked mattess and would never know dry again, skin that was slowly turning black. You couldn't feel your lungs slowly getting smaller from the encroach of your ever-expanding stomach. You couldn't hear your wheezing, rasping breaths. You couldn't feel your heartbeat, fast and irregular, trying to push thick, fatty blood to at least some of your body.

You couldn't see her face, void of expression, as she no longer had to keep up a facade. You couldn't see what she was putting into your feed. You couldn't see that she'd started to court someone else.