Explorations of Intense Fantasies

Chapter 1 - Musings and Scenarios That Turn Me On

You’ve tried to get away from this for nearly twenty years.

Actually, it’s likely even longer. You’ve been stuffing your clothes as long as you can remember, fascinated by heavily pregnant people, pregnant men, large tits, huge asses, and fat, fat, FAT obese bodies.

The perfect sexual partner is fat.
The perfect physical body is one that isn’t physically fit at all.
You genuinely believe that obesity is the future.

It’s been a blessing to feel your legs atrophy the longer you stay away from exercising. You feel your muscles turning to soft flab everywhere.

Your arms look fat lately. Your thighs rub together, always slick with sweat from the friction. Your ass sways when you walk in a way reminiscent of a time before testosterone, hips rounding out, tits bigger than they’ve ever been.

You know that your breasts feel good to squeeze. They turn you on. Your ass and belly becoming heavy and laborious to move around as they stick out of your clothes.

Stop fooling yourself with size small. You are already pushing your way out of mediums.

You expand by the day, you ***. Your breathing becomes harsher, and you feel your chins pressing into your esophagus. You’re clearly addicted to the deadlier aspects of this fetish, and admitting it is the first step.

One day you will let go completely. The process is slowly beginning. In your heart you know you want to blow up to proportions that will label you a monster.

You should continue to eat like a horny pig all winter, rot on the couch and consume nonstop calories. It would be easy to come out of the winter bursting out of your coat.

The goal should be to not fit into a single pair of shorts that aren’t sweatpants style that you own by the time spring rolls around.

You know you want to drink oil and break out in hideous zits, trapped under double chins, patchy beard, your hair slick with grease on your fatty brow.

You know you want to use mobility devices to get around, grunting and wiping your sweat profusely away from your exhausted body. Reaching for a loaf of bread on a second shelf is a workout now — but you usually take to just knocking stuff off of shelves and into your grocery store scooter’s basket with your cane. Lifting your lard stacked arms should be reserved for eating, and eating alone.

You’ll be clutching your chest, attempting to catch your breath without an oxygen tank. All of this just because you dared to try grocery shopping independently, without your feeder for once.

Sweat pools in your sweatpants, leaving a dark wet stripe up the back of your shelf butt. You wipe your brow some more and crack into a bag of family sized chips that you’ll pay for at the till. You’re starving, you haven’t snacked in an hour.

Everybody watches as you shove fistfuls of junk food into your swollen face, bright red and gasping as you drink two 2L jugs of Pepsi and finish a bag of cookies as well. You pant, belly protruding so far you’re automatically backing up the scooter into a display and knocking it down before it forces itself to a stop.

The embarrassment, the people laughing, the fact that you’ve been immobilized between the cans, and all you can do is wait for somebody to help you.

You’re told you’re going to need to get off the scooter, and your bloated, gelatinous form peels itself from the seat, a wet puddle left behind. You adjust your sweatpants and scratch your D-Cups, mouth agape and clueless, they help you get your cane and assist you and your products to the front cash.

You take up the entire space between tills, and can’t exit through the turnstile because you don’t fit. Two employees need to force your cellulitic asscheeks though. When you slip through the other side, your entire body jiggles; all 500 pounds of it.

Your belly sways from beneath your shirt, halfway out in the wind. Your fat pad barely fits into your pants as they’re stretched to the brim over your massive ass, your fat vagina and massive clit clearly visible. You shake weakly with every step of your cane, blubber drowning your skeleton and strangling your organs.

Your oxygen tank is in the passenger seat when you get to the car. You squeeze yourself inside and inhale, popping the trunk for the employees assisting you. The two fucks wordlessly allow you, the over inflated pig, to try to get you home, face strapped to an oxygen tank.

Your feeder greets you and grabs the bags, allowing you to struggle for their entertainment as you waddle into the house. You immediately collapse into a bariatric wheelchair and think about how life used to be easy — now you need to wear diapers and allow somebody else to shower you and baby you just to survive.

The grocery store is your single source of independent time and that’s only because it’s related to food, and your feeder allows you to buy anything you want (because you’ll be forced to eat it).

You can’t believe this went from experimenting with jerking off to belly play videos back in 2009, to posting yourself online anonymously with your flabby stomach out, to weighing half a fucking Tonne.

You are a fucking whale. You are a fucking hog. A fat, ugly, greasy, smelly, helpless, blob, fat cunt, huge tittied, chicken nugget butt flappy floppy fat thunder thighs pig. Never exercise again. Indulge. You’re going to be happier when you’re buried in a piano box.

Eat what you want and expand happily. You’ve never felt freer. You’ve never felt sexier. Your soft, wobbly body is so pleasant to touch, your tits are massive. Your stretch marks are deep and itchy.

You disgust yourself, but the worse you become, the more frequent your goonish boners are.

Obesity is sexy.
Obesity is the future of humanity.

…

Welcome back, YN.
Or should I say, Piggy.
Strip yourself of your identity and personality and replace it with nothing but thoughts of cascading folds of obesity and adipose tissue. You only respond to piggy these days. You claim social security checks that go to rent and food. At this point, your feeder takes care of every bill for you. You are immobilized and trapped inside of your apartment.

Your furniture has all been moved into the bedroom, which is used as a storage room now. You sit expanding on your mattress on the floor in your living room. As you approach 1,000 pounds you feel accomplished and euphoric. You know after that you will likely succumb to your obesity, but the rate you’ve been growing is almost supernatural.

Your tits are z-cups, puffed up and burying your face, yet still dangling to the side of your massive gut. Your humongous tits are engorged with milk due to your hormonal issues. You still take your testosterone so you stay nice and hairy and sweaty, but your tits have become a symbol of your lingering femininity.

Your feeder arrives and silently hooks you up to your pleasure machine. He changes your doggy pads and cleans you up before strapping your fat wrists to the wall, your trunk sized ankles to the mattress, and your inflated cunt with a massive and powerful vibrator.

Your feeder jams their fist into the folds of your mound and tickles your clitoris. They pull on your tiny strangled dick and get you hard. Your pussy starts to gush, fluids trapped behind your fat.

“Oh god,” you gasp, voice drowning in cellulite and chins. It warbles as though your body is made of Jello.

Your feeder attaches the final bits of equipment; your funnel… and this time, something new and unique. Your feeder attaches maternity breast pumps to your gargantuan, effeminate tits.

Your body shudders against the vibrator and your tits and cunt gush. You can’t even cry out as your feeder shoves the tube down your throat so the food gets delivered right into your stomach. Tears run down your cheeks but you are so turned on. You want to fucking kill yourself for getting here, but you’ve never felt better about yourself… all at the same time.

You are killing your self though.
You’re doing it with delicious food. You’re doing it with delectable fat. You’re doing it with the freedom of being an obese human in the world. The androgyny of obesity. The freedom of hedonism. Laziness. Give in to doing absolutely nothing except for blowing up.

You need to be morbidly obese otherwise you will NEVER be happy.

You are destined to be a fat cunt. A fat, ugly, obese, panting, horny, loser, cunt.

Take up your entire apartment with your failure. Your stench. Your shit. Your piss. Your fat, your fat, your fat… your body will need to be cut out of the room.

Eat yourself to death. Don’t forget it.

Keep taking the rides to work, fatso.

You like being called fat, don’t you tubby?

You know being a fat, chubby piggy is more appealing than exercise.

You know it turns you on the slower you get… and God, are you getting slow fast.

The worse your stamina is, the more accomplished you feel.

You move slower and slower everyday, don’t you?

It turns you on that you snore now.

It turns you on that you gasp for air when you take the stairs, but you do it anyway, just to feel how out of shape you become every day you put off positive health routines.

You know you’d break eventually.

You should take up smoking again too, so you also get fat and wrinkly and sick and ugly.

You want to be fat and ugly so badly.
You’ve been hot and skinny your whole life.

You want people to find you disgusting, and that turns you on.

You want your fat, chubby, cellulite ass out on display for everybody that can see you when you’re sitting down.

Your stained, ill fitted sweatpants struggle by mere threads to stay from tearing apart completely on you.

You love having your hairy, disgusting ass out for everybody to wince away from on the bus though.

You smell, fatty.

You already need to use a cane, or a walker, and your ass takes up an entire row of accessible seating.

You refuse to be THAT fat guy with a scooter, though.

The bus tips like a schooner as you meander onto it.

Your fat fingers struggled with your ticket and transfer.

You wipe your glistening brow as you struggle to get air into your lungs, and adjust your aching apron belly and fupa over your elephantine thighs.

You’re an ugly freak show just like you’ve always wanted so desperately to be.

Your gigantic swollen belly sways from side to side while you drag your swollen legs along, and your pendulous breasts and megalithic misshapen ass cheeks wobble in tandem when you collapse into your seat.

You hear the bench seating squeak under your weight.

Everybody stares. Everybody loves a good sideshow freak.

You are an unrecognizable, almost genderless looking figure.

Like Jabba the Hutt.
That’s it! You look like Jabba the Hutt, that’s what I’ve been trying to place.

Your swollen, purple, and red legs struggle against the taut fabric of your diabetic socks.

Everybody can see the lymphedema on your right thigh oozing into your worn out sweats.

They can see how discoloured your legs are beneath your socks.

You have a yeast infection under your double chin, and in grown hairs that are bursting like pustules at any given moment, as you’re unaware of anything happening under your neck beard.

You don’t wash your face. The grease and blackheads consume your previously pristine skin.

You’re in pain all the time too, so it’s not like you’d ever notice anything like that anyway.

Once you’re home, you shakily draw in from the oxygen tank you keep by the door. You refuse to take it out in public because it means you’ve completely lost your battle of normalcy.

It’s always a hard day at the office, but it’s your only socializing besides your feeder.

Your feeder sits your exhausted, piggy, lard-ball body down and hooks up the gainer shake funnel.

Your eyes widen in excitement because you’ve seen something you love.

Food. You love food.

It’s time to feed, you fat ugly hog.

On the side of your shameful shake, your feeder also feeds you fatty desserts, nuts, and fatty seeds with their hands.

You lick their fingers to get every last bit of calorie.

Somewhere beneath the stinking, oceanic folds of plump flesh down there, your tiny dick starts twitching.

You huff and puff and shift in your seat with discomfort.

Your feeder notices and shoves a magic wand vibrator between the mountainous folds of your hefty, Sasquatch vaginal mound.

The sounds and smells of wet, sweaty, fat-guy pussy fills the air.

You moan low and gutturally.

You snort and squeal like a pig as your sagging,drooping, fat, floppy, lumpy, ugly, apron belly, and your deformed, hairy sow udders bounce and ripple.

Your feeder is always so mesmerized by your gains. Of their proud work they’ve done raising a prized hog.

Your somehow-always-wet chins choke you with their heavy blubber every time you bounce down onto the sweet staccato relief of the vibrator on its highest setting.

The best part about your feed and fuck chair though is the latrine it’s attached to.

You can just strip down naked after a hard day and piss and shit all day and night as you consume endless calories.

You never stop consuming.

You work a job where you can sit on your ass all day, and snack and graze…

…but it’s gotten to the point where they took the price of a bariatric office chair out of your paycheck.

That is pathetic. You’re pathetic and obese and disgusting.

You like the social aspect, like I said, but it’s mostly the beer and food with the guys you look forward to now.

Your feeder loves watching the boys shove their fingers and hands between those damp folds, deep into your gaping soaking wet pussy hole sometimes too.

At work, you end your day with a quivering struggle out of your chair to your cane so you can meander slowly towards the elevator.

With pity, your coworkers allow you to use the elevator alone first.

“Take your time,” they say with judgement in their eyes. They say they don’t judge, but they certainly do.

Tonight, after your feeding, you’re going to be funnelled an entire keg and fed everybody’s leftovers at your friend’s house for game night.

You can’t do much besides crack jokes and shove beer and food down your throat when you’re hanging out.

You broke their couch the other month. Now you have to sit on the floor.

It takes so much to get you drunk too, but the keg does it.

Oh, gross…

Staggering and struggling to support your body, your knees give out in the elevator of your apartment.

Your body slams down so aggressively that the elevator gets stuck and you need to call for help.

How embarrassing, you ***. This is the fifth time this has happened this year.

You yourself have almost met over half the 1,000 pound weight limit.

Good fucking Lord.

You’re 550 pounds at 40 years old.

550? Super morbid obesity isn’t even kind enough for that.

You are a blimp.

A fucking blimp.

You are a whale, a cow, a pig.

You are an ugly monster that emanates filth from every orifice.

That’s disturbing.

That’s deranged.

You’re so fucking sick, but the thrill is so incredible.

The diapers you wear in public are the only thing anybody needs to hear about you to know what kind of person you are.

Your skeleton screams beneath a cacophony of adipose tissue.

Those bones are so fragile, they sit frozen beneath your layers and layers of blubber.

But it turns you on.

The thought of becoming an immobile, helpless, gelatinous blob of a hog, the thought of getting your titties milked and your gigantic vagina bred regularly…

It has warped you.
You jerked off so much to weird shit you’ve become that horrible fantasy.

Eventually, all you’re going to become is a baby incubator that does nothing but eat, shit, eat, shit, eat, sleep, masturbate, get drunk, shit, eat, eat, eat, masturbate, eat, shit, eat… eat… eat… eat forever… eat whatever… just never stop eating, YN.

You’re doing an amazing job.

Ten to fifteen pounds in two months approximately.

You’re going to get so fucking fat at this rate.

You want to look like a basement dwelling dungeon master. because that’s what you think is hot.

You love gaining weight, and you’ve never felt better about yourself.

So?
Just fucking do it.

Wear tighter clothes.
Give in, you fat tubby slut!!

Let everyone see you let yourself go completely.

Eat yourself to disability.

Eat yourself to death.

At forty years old you should
eat

yourself

to death.

It’s back, isn’t it? The little voice in the back of your head telling you that you want a feeder of any gender to help you reach your ultimate goal weight and then some.

We talk a lot about hyper immobility in this ever-growing (like your stomach) notes app, but you know realistically you want to hover between a solid and maintainable three hundred, and four hundred pounds. You’re not a tall guy, so that will feel like a lot more, too.

You still want to remain mobile, because at this point the idea of humiliation due to your weight is what’s starting to get you off. You find confidence in people seeing your body expand quicker than your skin can keep up with.

Your feeder will make sure you feel highly sexualized in public spaces, and ensure you wear clothes that are slightly too small.

You want your feeder to fuck your belly button. You want your feeder to stick their tongue, fingers, cock, whatever they have inside of it and fuck it deep.

The ground will shake when you walk. You’re so charming though that it doesn’t matter you weigh as much as you do. People want to help you drink all the beer in the world for their entertainment. You let the boys at the bar jiggle your fat and your tits for fun while you chug their offerings.

You have a massive ball gut that’s somehow squishy and gelatinous at the same time. Your feeder loves when people indulge in your public humiliations. Your cock gets rock hard and your nipples get hard, your hormonally engorged tits pressing painfully against your tight novelty saying t-shirt.

“I beat bulimia” is what your t-shirt says, barely covering your swaying gut, dangling out the bottom. Your tits are round and noticeable, especially with such large pizza nipples, but your stomach overshadows it.

You never needed top surgery after all because your tits and stomach somehow caught up with each other very, VERY, alarmingly fast.

You huff and puff before sliding into a chair at the bar… and then it breaks under your weight.

Everybody, including you and your feeder, are laughing. You love playing into it, it’s hilarious you’ve allowed yourself to become such a parody and amalgamation of all of your darkest kinks. You love being the fat guy. The fat guy gets all the laughs. The fat guy also gets pussy. It gets dick. Being with a fatty is everybody’s secret desire.

Yes, the world will become a better place when we all decide being obese is the answer to happiness.

FAT IS THE REVOLUTION.
FATTIES WILL TAKE OVER.
OBESITY SAVES LIVES.
DIE FOR A FATTER FUTURE.
FATTER FUTURE NOW!!!
I DEMAND TO BE FAT.
I DEMAND THE UNIVERSE TO MAKE US ALL OBESE.
I NEED US TO ALL BECOME ATTRACTED TO BEING FAT.

Everybody is hotter with ten more pounds. Everybody is hotter with fifteen more pounds. Everybody is hotter with thirty more pounds. Everybody is hotter with sixty more pounds. Everybody is hotter when they are over a hundred pounds heavier than they were an incredibly short time ago.

Get fat, be happy. Get fat, be happy. Get fat, be happy. Get fat, be happy. Get fat, be happy. Get fat, be happy. Get fat, be happy. Get fat, be happy. Get fat, be happy. Get fat, be happy. Get fat, be happy. Get fat, be happy. Get fat, be happy. Get fat, be happy. Get fat, be happy. Get fat, be happy.

Eat yourself to death.