growthpig

[growthpig]

Get so fat your fupa/fat pad shakes like a second belly. It's so plump down there you can't even tell what's under all the padding. Either way, you can only use a vibrator to get off because you can't reach it yourself anymore.

[growthpig]

Up. Come on, wobble forward. I know it’s hard to move with that apron of belly hanging down, dragging like a wet tarp full of meat. But you’re going to do it anyway, because I’m tugging that collar, and when I pull — you follow.

Good pig.

You're sweating already. Just from standing. I can see your thighs trembling, your breath whining out like a busted bellows. But this is important. Today’s your check-in. I want to see the numbers. I want to document just how far you’ve fallen.

Let’s start with the tape.

Arms up. No, higher — or as high as they go now, which is barely past nipple-height with all that lard weighing you down. I wrap the tape around your gut, burying it beneath the folds, pressing into the warm, stretched-out blubber until I hit resistance. There. I pull it tight. You flinch. The flesh squirms around it.

“Eighty-nine inches,” I read out loud, slow, amused. “That’s over seven feet of belly, pig.”

You blush. I see you blush — somewhere under the puffed cheeks and the fat-padded neck, a bit of shame still flickers. Good. You’re supposed to feel it. You're supposed to feel exactly how unnatural you are.

“You know the average waist size for a healthy adult?” I murmur in your ear. “Thirty-four inches. That means you’re almost triple. You’ve got more belly in one side roll than most people have on their entire body.” I pad your blubbery gut that's hanging in front of me.

Then I slide the tape lower. Around the hips now. More numbers. I take my time.

“Your thighs — forty-three inches. Each. That’s a full waistline just in your leg. And your upper arms? Bigger than most gym guys’ chests. And not an ounce of muscle to show for it.”

You shift, awkward, half-aroused and half-horrified. Your eyes lower. But your body betrays you — the way you tremble, the way your breath comes faster. You want this. You need this. The shame only makes it sweeter.

Now the scale.

I tug the leash. You grunt, stumbling forward. It takes effort to hoist all that mass. Your belly slaps against your knees with each tiny step. But eventually, you make it. I guide you onto the platform — steel, reinforced. You pant, drool threading from your lip.

And then the number appears.

“936 pounds.”

I smile.

“That’s nearly five of them. A whole family’s worth of meat stacked into one greedy, wheezing carcass. And you’re still gaining. Still swelling. Still pretending this is just some kink and not full-blown biological ruin.”

I lean down. Grip a love handle. Knead it. Soft. Hot. Leaking sweat. “They’d be in shock if they saw you, pig. Just a regular person, walking past the grocery store scale, and there you are — almost a thousand pounds of bloat and feeder’s pride, barely mobile, breathing like you’re being strangled by your own body.”

You shiver.

You’re turned on.

I can tell.

Because this is what you really want, isn’t it? To be broken down into numbers. Into stats. To have someone take stock of the damage and call it beautiful. Or disgusting. Or both.

I pull the tape measure off you with a snap. You flinch.

I tug the collar, lead you back to the mattress, let you collapse into your own overfed ruin.

“Next month, we’ll pass a thousand. And then we start comparing you to livestock weights.”

You don't answer.

You just moan.

And I write down the numbers. Every one of them.

[growthpig]

Oops- guess the 6xl shirts must've shrunk in the wash 👀

[growthpig]

my rugby coach & me

🍼 🍼 🍼 🍼 🍼 🍼

[growthpig]

@justincredib

[growthpig]

slob (non-consensual)

(Don’t say I didn’t warn you. CW: implied weight gain. slob. sensory descriptions. encouragment.)

I hate to break it to you, but you’re going to be such a slob when you get fat.

I know, I know, you’re not actually going to be that sloppy, surely those folks just don’t care about their appearance, and a nice, put-together fatass is pretty hot anyway, right?

Sorry, but I just don’t think that’s going to be you. I’m sure you’ll start with great intentions, you might even try to keep up your clothes with your rapidly expanding body, but sooner or later everything is going to catch up with you.

Do you think you’re going to want to buy new clothes when you outgrow your shirts again, especially as your appetite necessitates that food budget ballooning? Or will it be easier to let your standards just…drift a little?

It might start small - you wouldn’t normally wear a shirt that makes your tits that prominent, but maybe it’s okay just for a few weeks to wear ‘em a little taut, maybe Christmas is coming up and that holiday indulgence can get covered up with some money afterwards, and you can get away with wearing an extra sweater (that’s also tight…)

You’re already used to that feeling of you being stuffed into clothes like a sausage, it makes it easier to accept when you notice that your shirts sort of rest on top of your belly, coming to rest just past your overhang, making you look even bigger - it’s not like you dislike the look, and even though you’re supposed to make sure the hem of your shirt reaches your pants, you swear you just bought this shirt a few months ago, and you’re hoping it at least lasts a year or so…so you let it go.

Of course, once all your shirts start fitting like that, it might take you a bit longer to notice when a sliver of belly starts showing, too - at first, it’s your tightest shirts, and only when you raise your arms. You probably won’t even notice until you catch yourself stretching in a mirror as you’re about to head out. Of course, you’re already dressed at that point, and you don’t want to to dirty another shirt with your natural sweat…and that little give, that little relaxation, starts gaping wide open once that sliver shows itself more and more, and starts growing into an omnipresent curve instead.

What’s that? Oh, you’re not naturally sweaty? That’s okay. Fat-You will be. Don’t believe me? You know that hot, sticky feeling of skin-on-skin, friction meeting body heat meeting perspiration, the kind that happens when getting intimate with someone while naked? Imagine that feeling across every inch of your yielding flesh.

Maybe it starts with your overhang pressing into your thighs, a joyful blossoming that’s also met with a new sweat patch. Or maybe your side rolls will start accumulating, sagging fat pressing into itself and trapping heat. There’s always the classic, too - fattened, increasingly insulated arms pressing against the sides of your fattened tits (the ones pressing into the front of your shirts), warmth and heat trapped in your new, space heater body. Eventually, your thighs will fight for space with your crotch fat too, you’ll have to fat-spread when you sit just to give a chance of getting some air.

Oh, you can try mitigating some of it - wearing extra layers (which obscure the sweat stains but insulate you even further), or caking yourself in deodorant. But face it. You’re going to be a sweaty fucking pig. Might as well enjoy it.

Speaking of those layers, you’re going to start to understand what fat fucks dress the way they do as you pack on the pounds. That aforementioned clothing budget is made a little easier with some elastic sweatpants, because at least your fat, blubbery ass won’t start hanging out of them for a little longer than usual. (Wondering what happens when you blow out the waist from over stretching? Yup, plumber’s crack.)

And even when you can find clothes that fit, you’ll find that taste goes down as Xs go up - did you think all big folks had no fashion sense? Nah, it’s because the only clothes that go past 3XL tend to be the most painfully generic brand T-shirts. You know the ones.

’Kickin’ it old skool’ in Comic Sans. Stock photo of an NES.

Star Wars Font:** ‘Big Daddy.’ **Clip Art Darth Vader.

Cartoon dog pointing. Speech Bubble: ‘VAXXED?’

Similarly, the act of bending over is going to go from difficult to untenable in the span of a few binges, and you’re going to love the ease of slipping into some cheap flip-flops once the thought of lacing a pair of shoes leaves you breathless.

Oh, yeah. Breathless. You’re going to have that fat fuck mouth breathing habit crop up, and it’ll get harder and harder to hide once a short walk leaves you winded, and walking and talking gets harder than it used to be.

Not even the most cartoonish acts of slovenly decadence will be completely obscurable - as that overhang grows, as that belly you’re going to be so proud of starts to fill your lap, you’re going to have an expanse to cross to get food to your mouth. And you know what that means, right? That’s right, tubby: food stains.

All of it will start to pile up - the stretched clothes and strained waistbands, the lethargy and the sweaty exertion, the sheer urge to no longer give a fuck…maybe you’ll start to realize - all those little things, that extra effort at your weight, will all be to try and placate people who don’t want to see past your size, to cater to tastes you don’t even share, to fit a model for your life you deliberately outgrew two sizes ago.

Then, you’ll realize - maybe those other fat fucks you’ve seen, maybe they haven’t given up. Maybe they merely chose to no longer squeeze into those imaginary rules. Maybe they’ve escaped.

Maybe that’s the feeling you’ve been chasing ever since you decided to get fat.

Personally, I think having some taco sauce spots just under your double chin will really accentuate the section of clefted belly wobbling under the bottom of your sweat-stained graphic tee, don’t you?

[growthpig]

The sexual pleasure at the idea of a hard throbbing dick buried underneath hundreds of pounds of fat. It's the ideal.

You're too fat to function, but your dick certainly seems to disagree. You feel the arousal and the physical sensation of sexual intoxication... but what can you do about it?

You're too fat to reach under your belly. Too fat to reach your own manhood. You've existed in this limbo of constant sexual desire with no ability to satisfy it. At least, no physical ability. Your gluttonous appetite seems to be the only thing that can finish you. That, and jiggling your fat.

If you can't reach your dick, or even the fat surrounding it, you can at least jiggle your belly aggressively with the hope that those hypnotic jiggles will transfer to your fat pad and help you cum.

But wouldn't it be better if there was another person there? A person who wants your fat body. A person who loves to see you eat and struggle and become impossibly aroused.

You fantasize about it. Stuffed to the brim, feeling the food in your stomach reach your esophagus... your only relief is burping. The more air you get out, the less full you feel.

But you enjoy feeling full. So, burping the air out, in your mind, is only making more room for food. And, yet again, that results in a reaction from your dick.

Eating: being impossibly full. Gaining: being impossibly fat... it is everything you ever wanted. If only you had someone who enjoyed it with you. Someone to stuff you into oblivion and dive beneath your belly to finish you off.

Keep dreaming. Don't give up. It'll happen.

[growthpig]

Tumblr keeps censoring fat male bodies and it's actually pissing me off. Why did I just see a chick dressed up in a cow bikini with the same fetish but a guy behind a blurred post with a shirt on???? How tf

[growthpig]

Once you get fat enough and gainer brained enough, you don’t have time for post-nut clarity anymore because your belly just starts demanding more food from the effort of tugging yourself to wheezing climax and your fat ass has the delivery apps open for more fast food before you can even stop to think. Your new post-nut clarity is a cheeseburger in your mouth.

[growthpig]

[Sheesh, it's seriously been nearly two months since I published anything??? Good god, time do be flying... Anyway, wrote this in a hungry haze this morning to get it outta my system. CW for implied immobility and tube feeding, as well as references to public feeding and group feeding. Enjoy!]

Inevitable.

That's what all your friends said of your current size. Too big for clothes, spilling over the edges of a king bed, rolls and folds of blubber piling atop one another to form a literal mountain of flab.

During your fleeting moments of lucidity, you went back and forth on whether you agreed with that assessment. Sure, you'd always been a hungry guy, but you'd joined the group as a much smaller person, probably an eighth of your current weight, if that. How could anyone say that your appetite alone, even hefty as it was, would cause you to snowball into this blob? That would be an absurd statement, especially considering how frequently your feeder friend group conspired to "test your limits". "Just to see, for fun," they'd claimed, but even in your overstuffed haze, you weren't entirely stupid. You could see their arousals written plainly on their faces; as their sacrificial lamb of lard, how could you not see what they were doing?

That was how it had started: pub crawls and restaurant dates, as you steadily outgrew each location's single chair and had to add another. Wider, heavier, hungrier you grew as your friends plied you with yet more food, all greasy, all decadent, all high calorie. Delicious, of course, but you wound up in a partial food coma after the first couple of entrees and drinks, so you could barely remember the tastes of most of what got shoved down your throat. "Oh well," said once particularly mischievous friend. "Guess you'll have to get it again!"

Not only that, but everyone could see what was happening to you. Not just within your group, but without as well. As your group meetups became more and more frequent, you started running out of time to shop for new clothes for your expanding form, with obvious consequences. The strip of belly hanging out of your shirt grew wider with the rest of you, sleeves started stretching over your hamhock arms before being cut off to allow them to breathe, and a nigh-constant plumber's crack amidst your swelling ass made it plain to see that not only were you getting fat, but it was happening fast. If only they could see the full extent of your stretch marks.

Anyway, all that was in the past now. All anyone had to do nowadays was take a single look at you. Limbs forced outspread by the amount of fat caked onto each one, your CPAP on one side of the bed and a feeding tube on the other, your gigantic belly keeping you decent even without a scrap of clothing on your body... Who wouldn't see this as the obvious outcome?

Well, we wouldn't, of course. Because we know how much bigger you're still going to get. Open wide, fatass.

[growthpig]

Sorry I've been gone a little while 🥺 School and life has really being kicking my butt, but I'm still around and as chunky as ever 🤭

[growthpig]

Does anyone know who this is? Video found on thisvid.com

[growthpig]

This one's very dark and quite explicit. Please only read it when you definitely are into the fantasy of Death Feederism. 🐷📈

You can barely breathe now, pig.

I watch your chest rise in those desperate, pitiful little jerks, gasping through layers of your own fat, drowning in yourself. And still, I lift the spoon. Still, I press food between your lips, even when your mouth barely opens — even when your eyes beg me to wait, to slow down, to give you a moment to catch your breath.

No.

You gave that choice up when you chose this life — when you squealed for more and let me break you into the animal you are now. There’s no pause, no mercy, no easing up. You exist to be filled, stretched, suffocated by indulgence. Every wheeze, every groan, every flicker of pain in those swelling eyes is another sign you’re mine.

You don’t get to stop now.

Your skin’s purple in places, where blood struggles to move under layers and layers of ruined tissue. Your belly is hot and red, split with stretch marks and sores, sagging across the mattress like an avalanche of spoiled meat. Your legs are useless. I don't even pretend to clean beneath you anymore — that part of you belongs to rot now.

But you’re still alive. And that means you can still eat.

I hear your lungs whistle when you try to speak, so I hush you like the dying sow you are. I don't need words. Just the faint tilt of your chin. Just the twitch of that overstuffed jaw. That’s enough. You want it. You always wanted this — to be force-fed beyond recognition, buried in your own fat, fed until the veins give out and the heart stutters under the weight.

I spoon in more. Grease rolls down your chin. Your nose flares like a panicked animal's. But I don’t stop. I won’t stop. I feed you through the coughing, through the choking, through the tears. Your life is measured in calories now, and I’m counting down the final thousand.

Every moan is a lullaby. Every new pound is a nail in your coffin — hand-carved by me, padded with your own flesh.

You begged to be ruined, and I listened.

And now, here we are. On the edge of the final binge. One more gallon of cream, one more tray of fried butter, one more bloated gasp for air. You’ll die the way you were meant to — helpless, hideous, magnificent. Surrounded by the wreckage of meals you were too weak to refuse.

You don’t get to stop now, pig.

You’ll stop when your heart does.

And not a second before.

[growthpig]

I can’t stop thinking about funnel feeding.

I’d tease someone’s lips with my thumb and start kissing the soft bulge of fat around their neck, working my way up. My lips meet theirs and it’s gentle at first, until I grab a handful of their hair while nibbling their lower lip, pulling slightly away with it still between my teeth. I’d get up to make them a massive shake of pure butter, heavy cream, peanut butter, and ice cream, leaving them eager for more while they sit pinned onto the couch under a blanket of lard. I’ll funnel the shake down their throat. Their eyes looking up at me, mock-pleading for me to stop but not being able to speak. Cream will pour out the sides of their mouth and onto their shirt, which maybe fit about 5 sizes ago, but now clearly does not. Tears in the underarm highlight dollops of fat begging to be freed, and the fabric is so taut I can see every last dimple of cellulite defiling their chest.

After stuffing them to their highest limit, the middle of the sofa dipping under their weight, I’ll get on my knees, eye level with their distended, gurgling gut. I’d press my hands so deep into their flab that my hands disappear completely. I’d bite the bottom of their belly that stays jiggly and soft no matter how much slop they choke down. I’d stick my tongue in every plum red, cavernous stretch mark, finally giving their brimming belly the attention it deserves. I’ll run my fingers over their stretch marks. Proof of how disgustingly large and lazy they’ve gotten. There’s not an inch of their body I could touch without finding one. I’ll wrap my arms around however much I can of them, which now is barely half of their waistline, and press my face into their folds. I want to feel the 10,000 calorie shake I just forced inside of them slosh around each time they have to hoist their blubber up just to take a single strained breath. By then I wouldn’t be able to contain myself. I’d continue to work my way down. Eagerly burrowing into their fat pad to find the last visible tip of their cock. I’d push their flabby, sagging apron of a gut up like an umbrella over me while I go down on them.