Stay at Home Feedee

Chapter 1

When we moved in together, it was really the final nail in the coffin for my old, hot girl body.

I'd been slowly creeping my way toward 250 since first meeting you but my growth exploded when I handed over full control to you. It started when I got laid off from my job and I got too used to laying around on the couch napping between feedings. My already questionable fitness level tanked. I groaned every time I stood up, I was out of breath just from tying my shoes, my arms would get tired and tremble if I ever tried to do an intricate hairstyle.

I mostly loved it, being your dedicated pig. I was happy to obey your instructions and the schedule was easy.

In the morning I was allowed to sleep as long as I wanted. When I woke up I had to spend a couple minutes recording myself naked on the scale talking about how fat I was and how much fatter I was going to get for you that day. I'd send the video to you and get ready for the day. If it was extra cold I could squeeze into some too small sweatpants and cozy sweaters, but we both preferred me in only a pair of panties. I'd head to the kitchen and pull out whatever frozen breakfast food you'd put on my menu for the day. Mostly burritos or fancy croissant breakfast sandwiches but I also went through a lot of eggos and toaster strudel boxes. While I waited for everything to cook in the toaster oven I would stand in the kitchen and chug my first shake of the day. You always pre-made my shakes the night before so you could be sure I was drinking exactly what you wanted. Breakfasts were always fruity, just like I loved. Usually strawberries blended together with birthday cake weight gain powder and heavy whipping cream. They were big 32oz shakes and my stomach would be visibly bloated from them before my real food was even finished cooking.

When the timer dinged I would grab my feast and shuffle to the couch to plop down for the day. I was required to arrange my food so you could see that I'd cooked everything you'd told me to and take a selfie with it. I would send it to you and wait for you to reply with gushing praise and some embarrassing teasing before taking my first bites. We had a home security camera installed just so you would have the perfect angle to watch me on the corresponding app as I thanked you for helping me turn myself into the fattest pig possible and then took my first greedy bites.

Sometimes you could watch me devour all of breakfast, sometimes work was too busy and you could only watch for a moment. I never knew for sure, you never said when you were leaving the stream. It was something of a thrill for me, never knowing for sure if you were watching, taking screenshots of my most embarrassing moments to show me later, or if I was alone and being a glutton for no one's pleasure but my own.

By the time breakfast was gone I was always a mess. Grease and crumbs and syrup would be sprinkled liberally over my chubby cheeks and the double shelves of my tits and stomach. My stomach was always stretched to the max, bloated out to rest between my spread thighs. I was pinned to the couch by my own gluttony but that wasn't a problem because I was under strict orders from you to stay there. I would slouch down into the cushions and rub my packed belly while I watched TV with half lidded eyes. I would almost always end up asleep again. Your voice coming through the security camera speaker would usually be what woke me a few hours later.

I always woke to some variation of "Wake up piggy, time for lunch" or "Hey fat ass, can you even still haul all that lard off the couch? Time to get bigger for me". I would blush and squirm and maybe talk back but not for long. You always waited until the last couple of minutes to wake me up. If it was a day I'd chosen only panties, I would only have a few minutes to struggle off the couch and squeeze into the outfit you'd left out for me. Usually sweatpants that looked painted on and showed every dip and divot on my ass and thighs. They were elastic waisted but still too tight to fit over my breakfast bloated gut so I would have to tug them under my belly. The sweaters were usually pullovers, except those days you felt extra mean and left me one with buttons up the front. Those were so tight the fabric gaped between buttons but at least I could still fasten them. If you timed your wake up call just right, I wouldn't have time to wipe the remnants of breakfast off my face before the doorbell rang.

"Feeding time, butterball" you would laugh and my face would burn as I hurried to open the door. Nervousness and the exertion of racing to dress myself would have me almost gasping for breath when I greeted the Door Dash girl. At the start of this new routine she'd greeted me with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth. You'd had the pleasure of watching through the door camera as her eyes traveled from my messy flushed face, over my heaving braless tits, paused on my bloated belly that was hanging out from the bottom of my sweater, darted over the bulging mound of my fupa nestled between my wide cellulite rippled thighs and down to my pudgy bare feet. They had traveled the same path back up to my face and she didn't close her mouth for three solid seconds. When she finally did it was to bite her bottom lip to try and stop an incredulous smile. It didn't really work and when she held up two bags stuffed with Chinese food a little giggle slipped out. She was cute. Small waist, perky tits, curved hips but still maintaining a thigh gap between long slim legs. Her face was pretty, made perfect with flawless make up.

"I have this order for Miss Ashley, um... Piggens?" Her other hand darted up to try and smother a laugh. That first time I thought I would literally explode into tiny flaming bits of mortification. I was furious at you for using that name but also couldn't stop myself rubbing my thighs together at the shocks of pleasure the humiliation sent through me. You caught every twitch through the HD security camera and we had some of the best sex of our relationship the second you got home from work that day.

It wasn't always the same girl after that but you always put in a request for her so more often than not it was. She got bolder as weeks of delivering huge orders went by. She was always smirking when I answered the door and seemed to have caught on that the faster she got to my door the more disheveled and out of breath I would be when I answered. She no longer hid her laughs behind her hand and had morphed 'Miss Ashley Piggens' into 'Miss Piggy' all on her own.

When I managed to snatch my lunch away from her and stutter out an embarrassed thanks, I would shuffle back to the living room and you would spend a few minutes teasing me over the interaction. Then I'd have a moment to go grab my second shake from the fridge. This was typically chocolate syrup, chocolate weight gain powder, and again heavy cream. I'd make my way back to the couch and open up the multiple food containers to see what you'd ordered for me. It could be anything from McDonald's, to Chinese, to deli sandwiches, to pizza. There was always a lot of it, although lunch was my smallest meal of the day. You would text me a selfie with whatever you were having, typically a salad with some form of chicken. You were always smirking and picking the best angles to feature your toned body. You weren't a gym rat by any means but you did stay active and maintain a healthy figure.

I would then be obligated to send you a selfie, my pale doughy rolls surrounded by an absolute excess of calories that would soon be digesting inside of me.

You only had an hour for lunch so I would throw all self control to the wind and try to eat as much as possible before you had to get back to work. You would talk to me through the camera, urging me to eat faster, coaching me to tell you what a dumb cow I was and whine about how fat you were making me. It made my face burn but it also invited a feeding frenzy and I nearly always finished my massive lunch before you had to leave. I'd be in a food coma by then, stuck to the couch yet again. Groaning and whimpering as my packed stomach gurgled and protested my gluttony. If I'd kept my clothes on, I would slowly squirm out of them to get rid of the uncomfortable restriction. The TV droned on all day, but I was usually too hazy to focus on it. If I didn't slip back into a second nap I would just zone out trying to rub the discomfort out of my stomach. That always turned into weighing my blubber in my hands, pinching my side rolls and wobbling the fleshy bottom half that sagged onto my thighs. I'd try to decide if I was actually getting bigger yet or if it was just in my head. When I'd digested enough I would struggle to sit up straighter and look for the start of new stretch marks. Throughout the day you would peek at the security camera feed whenever you had a chance, delighting when you saw me playing with myself.

When the end of your work day finally arrived you would either go to the gym for a bit or come straight home on your off days. When you walked in the door, I would be exactly where you'd told me to stay. On the couch, deepening the forming imprint in the cushions. Naked except for my panties -which you couldn't even see for my thunder thighs and heavy belly- and the crumbs and sauce left over from the two massive meals you had ordered me to eat. You would drop your things by the door and come greet me, resting one knee on the couch cushion and leaning over me for a kiss. Your hands were always greedy, finally able to touch me after a day of watching from afar. It wouldn't take much to have me panting again. Sometimes it would devolve into sex but as time went on we got better at holding back. You'd push yourself off the couch with a parting slap to one of my tits and I'd try to follow you up but would inevitably stay pinned to the couch. Standing required bracing myself and catching my breath before I could, unless I had you to help haul me up.

You weren't going to let me off the couch yet though. You would head to the pantry and come back with an arm load of snacks. Packs of cookies, hostess cakes, cans of easy cheese, crackers, chips, a pack of soda. Every day was slightly different, but you expected me to eat it all before I went to bed. You would drop it on the couch and open one pack of sweets, which you would grab a handful of and shove into my mouth. It would be too much, and more crumbs would cascade over my tits. While I chewed laboriously, you would smack my fat one more time before heading to change into something comfortable. I would sit on the couch working my way through snack after snack while you cooked us dinner and talked about your day. When the meal was eventually finished, you would come and drag me off the couch. I'd usually get a hug and a couple more kisses before you'd shoo me into the bathroom to wash up. Really, I was only supposed to relieve myself and wash my hands. I had to see myself in the mirror, white donut powder caked into the syrup smears from breakfast, hot sauce and grease trails over my tits and double chin. You didn't want me to clean up the evidence of my gluttony yet, so I didn't. I usually couldn't help wasting some extra moments turning side to side, marveling at how far my stomach was bloated out in front of me. I was carrying around a ridiculous amount of food and it showed. I would practically drool at the thought of all that food turning into more soft fat for you to play with.

You usually had to holler to get me out of the bathroom, sometimes humiliating things like 'heeere pig, pig, pig!'. I always toddled out to the kitchen blushed bright red, my belly leading the way like I was pregnant. Just the small walk from bathroom to kitchen had me huffing and I'd gratefully sink into the chair you indicated.

There was no plate at my spot. To start dinner you served yourself from whatever dishes you wanted, typically only taking a normal portion from a few of the several on the table. Once you had your plate full, you ordered me to eat up and I would drag the nearest dish to me. You ate neatly, chewing each bit thoroughly. I shoveled each dish in with the serving spoon. It was always agreed that if I finished every dish before you finished your plate, I wouldn't have to drink the third shake of the day. We both knew you were a filthy cheater and made far too much food for that to be possible, but I played along anyway. I usually had an entire entree left when you finished, and while I was struggling to take each bite you would settle back in your chair and sip your wine, or beer, or whatever you'd chosen to enjoy that evening.

You always knew when I was on the verge of quitting and then the stream of taunts and mixed encouragement would start. Prodded by your words and my own burning need to be the biggest hog I could possibly be for you, I always managed to finish my third massive meal of the day. You would let me sprawl in my chair, sucking in the tiny sips of air that was all my enormously stuffed gut would allow. While I tried to recover, you would clear the table. Praising me for every clean serving dish I'd emptied. Then you would prepare my weight gain shakes for tomorrow and jot down my new breakfast menu on the fridge whiteboard.

By the time you finished I would be settled just enough for you to gently help me stand. You always wrapped your arm around my waist, allegedly for support but mostly to squeeze and knead the thick roll of fat on my side. We would walk together to the scale in the corner and I would step up. Every evening you wrote my weight on the custom chart on the wall. Day by day it fluctuated up and down, but after two months of daily weigh ins the upward trend was excruciatingly clear.

Then you would make me stand there and talk about how fat I felt and remind you of all the reasons why it was your fault I was steadily inching my way to the weight limit of our scale. Every word was breathless and interspersed with tiny groans and huffs of distress, courtesy of my overfed stomach. Eventually you would take pity on me (i.e. get so horny you couldn't stand it) and lead me back to the couch. I would flop into my crevice and you would climb on top of me, squeezing and shaking and slapping every ounce of fat you could reach. You were the worst, saying the meanest things to me but I adored every second of it.

When we would finally calm down and catch our breath -or, mostly catch it in my case- we headed to the bathroom. We both needed a shower by then, me most desperately. Luckily ours was plenty large enough to climb in together. Every evening you helped me carefully clean the results of my day away. You soaped your hands up and took your time slipping them over every curve and into every crevice. I ran my own pudgy fingers over you, not that you needed the help like I did.

We tried not to linger too long, although some days definitely resulted in extra long showers. Depending on how late it had gotten by this time, we might go back to the couch -you had a shop vac always handy to deal with the crumbs I'd dropped throughout the day- and we might watch a show and cuddle, or possibly play some video games together, or just sit and talk if there was something we needed to get off our chest. However, if it was getting late or you'd had a rough day at work I would go straight to bed while you made one more trip to the kitchen.

Every night you came back with my third weight gain shake of the day and a funnel. The excuse was needing to keep the bed and my freshly showered body clean, but really you just loved controlling what I ate and I loved being helpless. I was propped up with multiple pillows, always entirely naked in bed. My stomach was still gurgling off and on from being stuffed all day and it sat proudly huge on my naked thighs. My hands were usually moving restlessly over the stretched skin, occasionally slipping up to cup my tits as I waited for you. I never raised them to try and block the funnel, just sank back and opened my mouth wide. The tube of it reached all the way back to the opening of my throat. At first I'd struggled a bit with gagging, but after doing it every night I was used to it. My eyes slipped shut in bliss when you raised the shake and started dumping it down my throat. This one was the worst -or maybe best- of the day. It had a double helping of weight gain powder, a quart of ice cream, a stick of butter and of course the heavy whipping cream. It was thick, just barely liquid enough to slide down the funnel and into my throat. It slid into me just as fast as you poured it and it sat so heavily in my stomach. It felt like I was expanding fatter by the second under my hands. Every tiny crack and crevice left in my stomach was flooded with thousands of extra calories. My most recent stretch marks would start to itch more than they may have already been, and my blissed out eyes would open into a distressed squint as we neared the end. I would look at you with pleading eyes, but neither of us was ever really sure if I was pleading for you to stop or NEVER stop. You ignored it either way. I was your pig, your prized hog you were growing into the perfect size. I was too stupid to know what I needed, that's why you were in charge. Sometimes you gave me a second to breathe but usually you poured the shake steadily. I had to lay there and take it until it was all gone and you took the funnel away.

By that point, I would be in real pain but endorphins were really god's gift to masochists. While I squirmed under the weight of my ballooned stomach you would knock my roaming hands away and take over rubbing it yourself. You would press kisses to the drum tight peak of it, nibble bites into the doughy flab on the bottom. Eventually I would enter more of a food coma than really fall asleep, but come morning I never complained.

I only rolled slowly to my feet and waddled my way to the scale so I could record a new video for you, eager to see how much fatter you would make me.