1bgmthrfckr - Tumblr blog

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Off season bod

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rectifying the fact that i haven't drawn chubby valentine yet. her fat(e) is in your hands!

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got too fat for his uniform

I need to know who this is!

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And we are only one meal in 🧐

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Loose yourself in the jiggle 😵‍💫🐷

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This guy, as they say, ate.

This seems to be his dad

who is much too fat to pull his shirt down with only one hand, so he just has to own it

Though I do question what he was thinking wearing this shirt in the first place

but apparently it's the fashion right now.

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Chris Stout. 

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Eat eat eat piggy 🐷

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Art idea. Venom feeding Eddie and Spiderman?

ok i don't usually take prompts

especially for animation

but

nnnhhhhhgggg

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Ivan Makarov - physical with his physio 2

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PT 2

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2022-May Post #2 (V) - @kitzmanned

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An updated before and after.

Plus a track suit that was too big for me last summer when I put it away and have now outgrown.

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My belly is getting huge

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A Normal Life

You weren’t my first piggy. And you certainly won’t be my last. But I do think you’ve been my most interesting so far.

You posted on your profile for years about how you wanted to be bigger, and how much bigger you wanted to be. You made morphs of yourself, showing your body with a monstrously large belly hanging down to your shins, with thighs twice as big around as a healthy waist, with arms bloated with fat to the wrists, and talked about how badly you wanted that to be you someday. You complained about how far you were from anyone else like you, how you were never going to be able to eat yourself as big as you wanted if you didn’t have anyone around to help. And you were right — not a lot of independent half-ton piggies running around out there.

I don’t think you really believed me when I told you I’d take you away and give you the kind of life you said you wanted. I’m sure I wasn’t the first to make that offer; you’d probably heard it from guys before, only to have them disappear once they’d gotten their rocks off. But I like to think you realized it was the real deal when the car showed up for you with a meat lovers’ pizza in the back and a train ticket halfway across the country. No way I’m making even a 300-pound fatty squeeze onto an airplane, or travel on an empty stomach.

You were certainly already fat when you arrived — no question that you were willing and able to pack on some weight. I’m not sure if you chose smaller clothes with the intention of making a striking first impression, or if that’s all you had. But my first sight of you was with your too-small t-shirt riding up a tumescent, wobbling belly; outgrown shorts straining to contain a round and jiggling ass literally spilling over the waistband; and even accessories like a watch or a woven wristband that, pinching a fold into the fat bulging around your wrists, looked like they hadn’t fit comfortably for about fifty pounds. You seemed relieved when I told you we could do without clothes for a while, and gave you an oversized robe to grow into.

I had originally planned to ease you into a gaining lifestyle: shift over the course of a few weeks from regular meals to constant grazing whenever you weren’t full. But you were way ahead of me. You’d already taken up regular snacking in between meals; the limiting factor for you was the effort required to keep the snacks coming. With that barrier removed — the duty taken over by me — it didn’t take long before you were eating plates of food, or bags and boxes of snacks, almost as quickly as I could bring them. Your growing double chins wagged as you gobbled up every mouthful of fattening food, working to constantly keep your belly as close to full as possible.

Taking in that much food that consistently, it wasn’t surprising how quickly your weight began to climb. Within a matter of months, your robe went from oversized to wholly inadequate, your belly and tits spilling out into your lap between the flaps that could no longer reach around your waist. Your legs swelled from thick to bulbous, buried in rolls of fat that wobbled with each step, obscuring your knees and ankles, the weight and the friction of so much blubber holding you back more and slowing your pace with every passing day. Your arms showed the same progress, the lard cascading down from your dimpled, bulging biceps, past your disappearing elbow, down your flabby forearm to a grasping, pudgy hand like an inflated glove, rarely if ever to be seen without something edible in it. I noticed all these changes and more: how your posture shifted as your massive ass swelled and grew beneath you, how your voice changed as your vocal cords were swallowed by new and growing chins, how more and more of your movement became letting the weight and inertia of your fat do the work.

It was breathtaking to see what twenty pounds a month, every month, was doing to your body. And I could tell, at the rate you were going, that it wasn’t going to be long before you were knocking on immobility’s door. After that, it would just be a question of how long you could take the constant tube-feeding and how big you could get while it lasted; my bet was that you’d beat my personal best of 1,487 pounds, probably by at least 100 pounds.

And that’s when you made the request that brought me up all standing: you wanted to go back where you came from. You weren’t pleading to be released; you weren’t regretting ever asking me to be your feeder, or repenting the indulgence that made you as fat as a cow. You weren’t even apprehensive about getting stuffed past immobility. No, you wanted to get dropped back into normal life so you could feel the consequences of your gluttony. You wanted people to stare at the 800-pound hog struggling to waddle to the mailbox and back. You wanted to feel the embarrassment and judgment from breaking a mobility scooter under your obscene girth, and being stranded in the middle of a grocery store with a cart full of junk food. You wanted to haul yourself — a sweating, overheated, wobbling mess — to a doctor’s appointment so she could tell you just how badly you’ve been wrecking your body, and how much danger your obesity is putting you in.

It was more delightfully twisted than anything I could come up with.

And so, I let you go — with conditions. You had to eat all the food I sent you to make sure you kept your weight up; no exceptions. Not that that was ever a problem. You had to set up cameras in your apartment, so I could keep an eye on you and see exactly how my piggy was doing, 24/7. And you had to wear a hidden bodycam, so that I wouldn’t miss a moment of the abuse you’d be getting from the far thinner members of the public you’d be forced to encounter. You were more than happy to show off your life as a hyper-morbidly obese blimp for me.

I’m watching you waddle back from the kitchen now, absolutely winded from the four or five steps to the couch, eating from a tray of snack cookies on the way to help keep your strength up. I just finished rewatching the bodycam video you sent this morning from yesterday’s trip to the bakery outlet, chock full of side-eye and sneers from all the other patrons seeing the pathetic, enormous lardass filling their cart with discount sweets to go home and gorge on. I know someday you’ll get tired of the effort, the constant judgment at having wrecked your body and let your weight quadruple that of a normal person, and come back to me to finish your journey to immobility. But for now, watching you have to struggle with what your gluttony has brought you to, laboring to live a normal life under the weight of the countless calories you’ve crammed down your throat — I can’t think of any way I’d rather tease my fatty with the consequences of what they’ve done to their body than what you’ve chosen for yourself.

Now let’s see what my next piggy can come up with to outdo you…