The growing appetite

Chapter 1 - Immobility

Mark was a chef, and he loved to cook for me. Every meal was a feast, and I savored every bite. But soon, the portions began to grow larger and larger. At first, I didn't mind. I loved the feeling of being full, of pushing my limits. But then Mark started to force-feed me. He would hold my nose and pour food down my throat until I couldn't breathe. It was terrifying, but also exhilarating.

At first, I was hesitant about this new development in our relationship. I never thought I would be into being force-fed, but there was something about the sensation that I couldn't resist. It wasn't just the feeling of being full, it was the feeling of being taken care of, of being indulged in a way that no one else had ever done for me.

As the months went by, I became larger and larger. I was no longer able to move around easily. I spent most of my days on the couch, eating and watching TV. Mark would bring me plate after plate of food, and I would devour it all. I was addicted to the feeling of being full, of being force-fed until I couldn't take any more.

There were times when I thought about stopping, about getting back in control of my body and my eating habits. But every time I tried, Mark would convince me to keep going. He would tell me how beautiful I looked, how much he loved seeing me like this. And I couldn't resist. I would give in, and we would continue down this path of indulgence and excess.

One day, Mark brought me a cake. It was huge, with layers of frosting and sprinkles. I knew I couldn't eat it all, but he was insistent. He held my nose and forced a slice into my mouth. I struggled to swallow, but then something strange happened. I started to enjoy it. I felt a rush of pleasure as the cake filled my mouth, and I wanted more.

From that day on, I embraced my immobility. I reveled in the feeling of being force-fed until I was stuffed to the brim. Mark was always there to indulge me, and I loved him for it. I knew that I was no longer in control of my body, but that didn't matter. All that mattered was the pleasure that came with being filled to the point of bursting.

As time went on, I became more and more dependent on Mark for my food and my pleasure. I was no longer able to take care of myself, and he became my caretaker in every sense of the word. He would bathe me, dress me, and feed me. And I loved it. I loved being taken care of, loved being able to give up control and just be in the moment.

In the end, I knew that my obsession with food and being force-fed was unhealthy. But in that moment, as I lay on the couch, my belly swollen and my heart pounding with excitement, I didn't care. All I cared about was the next bite, the next moment of ecstasy. And I knew that Mark would be there to give it to me.

As the years went by, my body grew more and more massive, and I was barely able to move. I couldn't remember what it felt like to be anything but full, but I didn't care. I was happy in my own way. I had Mark, and I had my food. That was all I needed.

But then, one day, Mark was gone. I don't know how or why, but he was gone. And suddenly, I was alone. I was immobile, unable to move or take care of myself. And I was hungry. So hungry.

At first, I tried to get up. I tried to move, to make my way to the kitchen. But it was no use. My body was too massive, too heavy. I was stuck. And I was hungry.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. I was alone, with nothing but my hunger and my memories of Mark. I couldn't stop thinking about him, about how he used to feed me, about how he used to take care of me. And then, one day, I remembered something.

I remembered the way he used to hold my nose and force food down my throat. I remembered how it felt, the rush of pleasure that came with being force-fed. And suddenly, I had an idea.

I started to force-feed myself. I would buy food in bulk and sit on the couch, stuffing myself until I couldn't move. It was painful, but it was also exhilarating. And as I ate, I thought about Mark. I thought about how he would be proud of me, of how I was continuing on with his legacy.

In the end, I knew that my obsession with food and being force-fed was still unhealthy. But it was the only way I knew how to survive. And as I lay on the couch, my belly swollen and my heart pounding with excitement, I knew that Mark would be proud of me. Because I was still eating, still being force-fed, still indulging in the one thing that had always brought me joy. And that was all that mattered.