mutual-deathfeedism-fan - Tumblr blog

mutual-deathfeedism-fan · 2 days ago

Text

ANNA BRUTALLY FEEDING LISA TO DEATH

Female Feedee and Female Feeder

-Part 1-

The freedom after high school was a vast, empty expanse for Lisa, and she found herself adrift in it. The structure of classes, the chatter of friends heading to different colleges, the constant buzz of expectation—it all evaporated, leaving a quiet house and her well-meaning but worried mother.

Her mom, Brenda, spoke the language of love through food. A bad day was met with creamy mac and cheese, a triumph with a rich, fudgy cake. Boredom was answered with a trip to the grocery store for chips, ice cream, and the ingredients for gooey brownies. Lisa, feeling increasingly invisible to the world, accepted every offering. Each bite was a temporary comfort, a warm, heavy blanket against the growing chill of irrelevance.

She noticed the changes first in her clothes. Jeans she’d worn since junior year grew tight, then impossible to button. Soft rolls of fat began to pillow her sides when she sat. One afternoon, lounging on the couch after a lunch of leftover pizza and a milkshake, she absently squeezed the softness of her belly. It was a profound, yielding softness that was entirely new. A strange, thrilling thought flickered in her mind: What if I just… didn’t stop?

That night, curiosity took her to the darker corners of the internet. She typed hesitant, clumsy phrases into search engines: “liking getting fatter,” “kink for gaining weight.” And there it was. A whole world, a lexicon she never knew existed. Feederism.

Her eyes widened as she scrolled. For hours, she fell down the rabbit hole. She read erotic stories about devoted “feeders” pampering their “feedees” with vast feasts. She watched videos of beautiful, fat women and men joyfully consuming mountains of junk food, drinking thick, calorie-laden shakes, their bodies gloriously soft and expansive. She learned the acronyms: BBW (Big Beautiful Woman), SSBBW (Super-Sized BBW), and finally, USSBBW (Ultra-Super-Sized BBW)—women of such immense size they required special furniture, who moved with a slow, majestic gravity that captivated Lisa.

She pored over “progress pics,” timelines where once-slim women transformed, month by month, into immense, soft-bodied goddesses. She was mesmerized by the later stages, where mobility became a challenge, where every movement was a testament to their size. The devotion, the surrender, the sheer abundance of it all made her heart pound.

Then she clicked on a link that led her deeper, into a place where the air was thinner and the stakes were ultimate. Death Feederism.

Here, the talk wasn’t just about gaining weight for pleasure or beauty. It was about the aesthetics of decay, the beautiful tragedy of unhealthiness. Women spoke in poetic, haunting terms about their goal: to eat themselves to death. They talked about the romance of giving their lives to their appetite, of feeling their hearts strain under the weight of their devotion, of the ultimate surrender. They posted pictures of swollen ankles and breathless smiles, writing captions about eating for content, for joy, for the final, beautiful release.

A cold shiver ran down Lisa’s spine, but it wasn't fear. It was recognition. It was clarity. This was it. This was the purpose her empty post-high-school life lacked. It wasn't about being fat; it was about the journey itself. The glorious, self-destructive, all-consuming act of eating oneself into oblivion. She loved the idea. She loved the sheer, terrifying finality of it. To give up her health, her future, her very life, for the profound pleasure of consumption—it seemed like the most honest thing she could possibly do.

With trembling fingers, she created a new account. The username came to her instantly, perfectly: death_feedee_Lisa.

She posted a simple, earnest introduction: “19. New to this. My goal is a young death. I want to eat until my heart gives out. I want to be the biggest, softest girl to ever do it. Looking for a feeder who understands.”

For a few days, nothing. She continued her solo journey, her mother’s cooking now a tool in her new mission. Then, a direct message appeared. Her breath hitched.

The username was AnnaFeedsWell. The profile was sparse, private.

The message was simple: “Your goal is beautiful. Tell me more.”

Lisa’s fingers flew across the keyboard, pouring out her newfound philosophy, her desires, her detailed plans for her own demise through food. Anna responded with encouraging, insightful words. She understood the artistry, the dedication. She asked for a picture, a starting point.

Shyly, Lisa took a picture of her soft, round stomach, still manageable but clearly growing. She sent it.

A moment later, a picture appeared in return. Lisa expected to see another feedee, perhaps someone large and experienced.

But it was Anna. And Anna was… skinny.

The woman in the picture was about 21, with a sharp, slim face framed by dark hair. She was wearing a black lace bra that showcased a busty, generous figure, but beneath it, her waist was narrow, her stomach flat and smooth. Her body was a collection of sleek curves and sharp angles, a complete and utter contrast to everything Lisa was trying to become. She was beautiful, but in a healthy, conventional way that felt alien to Lisa’s new world.

Beneath the picture, a new message arrived from Anna.

“Perfect. You’re a perfect blank canvas. I can’t wait to watch you grow.”

-Part 2-

The days blurred into a hazy, delicious rhythm. Lisa’s phone became her constant companion, a portal to Anna’s intoxicating world. Their chats, once exploratory, now focused with a laser-like intensity on the art of Lisa’s decay.

Anna’s words were a constant, seductive drip in Lisa’s ear. “Did you finish that whole pizza, baby girl? I want you to drink a soda with it. The sugar will help it all settle into your pretty little fat cells.” Or, “Why walk to the kitchen? Wait until you’re absolutely starving. Let the hunger pains mix with the ache of your full belly. It’s a beautiful feeling.”

Lisa obeyed, reveling in the surrender. Her world shrank to the confines of her bedroom and the journey to the kitchen. One afternoon, after a particularly gargantuan lunch of two family-sized frozen lasagnas and a half-gallon of chocolate milk—all consumed on Anna’s direct orders—Lisa realized she was out of the cookies Anna had demanded for dessert.

The stairs to the kitchen looked like a mountain. With a sigh that was equal parts genuine exhaustion and performative bliss for Anna, she heaved herself off the bed. Each step was a monumental effort. Her breath came in short, sharp pants by the time she reached the landing. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, fluttering bird trapped in a cage of soft fat. She could feel the jiggle of her belly and thighs with every heavy footfall.

She retrieved the cookies, her body already screaming for rest. The climb back up was worse. Damp with sweat, her vision spotting at the edges, she finally collapsed onto her bed, the bag of cookies clutched to her chest like a prize. Gasping for air, she opened a voice message and held the phone to her lips.

“Anna… oh god,” she panted, her voice breathy and strained. “The stairs… I… I almost didn’t make it. My heart is going crazy. I’m so… out of breath. It felt… it felt like I was drowning on air.” She let out a weak, gurgling laugh. “I’m never doing that again. You’ll have to bring me my food from now on.”

She sent the message, a thrill of dark pride coursing through her. She found it extremely amusing, this rapid unraveling of her own body. The girl who’d been on the soccer team just a year ago was now winded by a single flight of stairs. She loved the feeling of her stamina leaching away, replaced by a heavy, languid softness. She was always stuffed, her stomach a taut, aching globe beneath her t-shirt. Her feet often felt puffy and swollen by evening, another sign of her body’s rebellion she cherished.

Anna’s response was immediate, a voice message dripping with honeyed praise. “Oh, my perfect girl. Listen to you. You sound so weak, so ruined. It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. You’re destroying that young, healthy body just for me, just for that little bit of bliss. You’re rotting from the inside out and it’s making you so, so pretty.”

Those words were a potent aphrodisiac. That night, after a dinner of fried chicken and creamy mashed potatoes, Anna pushed her further. “I want you to eat the rest of that tub of ice cream. Right now. I want you to feel it. I want you to hurt.”

Lisa was already painfully full, her stomach stretched to its limit. But Anna’s voice was in her head, whispering about decay and beauty. She dug the spoon in. Each bite was a struggle, a nauseating, overwhelming sensation that made her eyes water. But with each swallow, a bolt of raw, twisted arousal shot through her. She was doing it. She was ruining herself.

She sat on her bed, her legs splayed apart to accommodate the massive swell of her gut. The cold ice cream was a shock to her overwhelmed system. As she forced down the last few spoonfuls, a powerful, shuddering wave of pleasure washed over her. A massive, warm puddle suddenly bloomed between her thighs, soaking through her pajama pants. She’d been rubbing her thighs together subconsciously with each agonizing bite, the pressure and the overwhelming fullness pushing her over an edge she didn't know she had.

She was breathless, sweating, aching, and soaked. She was a mess. A ruined, bloated, leaking mess.

She took a picture of the empty ice cream tub resting on her monumental stomach and sent it to Anna, her fingers trembling not with shame, but with excitement.

The response was instant. “My gorgeous, filthy pig. Look what you’ve done to yourself. You’re perfect.”

Lisa sank back into her pillows, a blissful, exhausted smile on her face. She was decaying, and it was the most alive she had ever felt.

-Part 3-

The world beyond her phone screen ceased to exist. Lisa’s universe had condensed to the four walls of her bedroom, the constant, heavy ache in her belly, and the glowing text and voice messages from Anna. Her thoughts, once capable of meandering through school memories or future anxieties, were now single-file soldiers marching toward one goal: the next meal, the next stretch, the next wave of blissful, painful fullness.

Her body was a testament to her devotion. Her belly, once a soft pillow, was now a taut, lower-hanging globe of flesh that rested heavily on her thighs when she sat. It was a canvas of stretched skin and dark stretch marks, constantly groaning and gurgling under the strain of its contents. Her heart, a traitorous muscle she was learning to despise for its weakness, fluttered and pounded at the slightest exertion—shifting in bed, reaching for her phone, the Herculean effort of a trip to the bathroom.

Her legs, pale and thick, were perpetually swollen, the skin shiny and tight. She could no longer see her feet past the vast dome of her stomach, a fact that sent a thrill of accomplishment through her every time she looked down. Her face, round and moon-shaped, was often smeared with the evidence of her latest feast: a dusting of chip salt on her cheek, a smear of chocolate syrup on her chin, a permanent sheen of sweat from the immense effort of simply existing inside her expanding body.

The dynamic with Anna had evolved into a perfectly synchronized, twisted symphony. It was no longer just about encouragement; it was a shared, intimate ritual of destruction.

One evening, after Lisa had documented the consumption of an entire family-sized bag of cheese puffs followed by a two-liter of soda, the pressure in her gut was astronomical. She was moaning, shallow breaths whistling past her lips, her hands pressed against the throbbing, overstretched drum of her stomach.

Her phone lit up. A video message from Anna.

Lisa opened it. The video was shaky, intimate. Anna was in her own bed, her slim, toned body a stark contrast to the ruin she was orchestrating. She was touching herself, her movements frantic, her eyes glued to a picture on her screen—a picture Lisa had sent minutes before of her massively distended belly.

“Look at you, my pig,” Anna’s voice gasped, thick with her own pleasure. “Look at what a mess you are. You can’t even breathe right, can you? You’re just a thing for eating. A beautiful, broken thing.”

Lisa watched, mesmerized, as Anna’s fingers moved faster. Anna’s moans were not soft and sensual; they were sharp, greedy, and possessive.

“You’re doing it, Lisa. You’re really doing it. You’re killing yourself for me. You’re so fat… so sick… so… perfect. I’m gonna— oh god, I’m gonna cum for my fat, dying pig!”

The video ended with Anna’s sharp cry, a sound of pure, ecstatic triumph.

Arousal, hot and immediate, flooded Lisa’s overwhelmed system. The painful pressure in her gut seemed to amplify, transforming into a different, more urgent ache. Anna’s pleasure was her command.

With clumsy, swollen fingers, Lisa switched to her camera. She didn’t bother to wipe the cheese dust from her face or the sweat from her brow. This was what Anna wanted to see. The real, unfiltered decay.

She hit record, angling the phone down her naked body. The video showed the massive, pale swell of her belly, the skin stretched so thin it looked like it might split. She could hear her own ragged, shallow breathing, each inhale a struggle against the weight crushing her lungs.

“It… it hurts so much, Anna,” she moaned into the microphone, her voice thin and reedy. “My stomach… it’s so full… I can feel my heart… it’s beating so fast…” She let out a pained groan, a genuine sound of distress that she now craved to express. She panned the camera lower, showing how her belly completely obscured her view of the bed beneath her. “I can’t… I can’t see my feet anymore… I’m so… big…”

She sent the video.

The response was a series of text messages, rapid and feverish.

Anna: Again. Do it again. Right now. I want to hear you struggle. I want to hear you break.

Anna: Stuff yourself more. Now. For me.

And Lisa, her body screaming in protest, her mind clouded with a fog of pain and devotion, reached for the stash of candy bars she kept in her bedside drawer. The symphony continued, each moan from Anna met with a painful gasp from Lisa, each orgasm paid for with another piece of her failing health.

-Part 4-

The digital dance of decay continued for weeks, a relentless push and pull of pleasure and pain. Lisa’s world had shrunk to the size of her bed, the constant, aching fullness in her gut, and the glowing screen that delivered Anna’s praise. One night, after a particularly brutal stuffing—a whole large meat-lovers pizza, a dozen garlic breadsticks, and a liter of soda—Lisa reached a new milestone of helplessness.

Lying on her back, a sweaty, groaning mountain, she tried to wipe a spot of grease from her lower belly. Her arm, heavy and weak, couldn’t navigate the vast, sloping terrain of her own body. Her fingers fell short, patting uselessly at the air above the distended curve. A thrill, sharp and electric, shot through her. She tried to shift, to reach between her own legs where a familiar, wet heat was building, but the immense shelf of her stomach was an immovable barrier. She was trapped within her own body, a prisoner of her own glorious decay. She recorded a series of ragged, breathless moans, sending them to Anna.

The response was a voice message, Anna’s voice husky and thick, clearly in the throes of her own pleasure. “Listen to you… my beautiful, pathetic sweetheart. You can’t even touch yourself, can you? You’re too fat. Too ruined. God, you’re perfect.” There was a shuddering sigh, then the words that sent Lisa’s straining heart into a frantic gallop. “We need to meet up. I need to see my masterpiece in person. I need to feed you myself.”

The planning was a fever dream. Anna lived states away, but the obstacle was nothing. Anna quit her job, packed her car, and began the drive to Lisa’s city. The texts during her journey were a countdown of anticipation. “I’m thinking ten double cheeseburgers to start.” Or, “I found a shake place that does a ‘Gut Buster’ challenge. We’re doing it.”

Finally, the day arrived. Lisa’s mother was at work, oblivious to the monument of self-destruction wobbling in her daughter’s bedroom. Getting dressed was a humiliating, arousing ordeal. The only shirt that would remotely stretch over her chest and upper belly was a old, tight gym shirt from middle school. It rode up, exposing the vast, pale dome of her lower stomach, the deep navel now permanently stretched into a shallow crater. Her pajama pants, the elastic waistband digging cruelly into her flesh, were stretched to transparency across her immense hips and thunderous thighs. Her feet, puffy and swollen, refused to fit into any of her shoes. She finally forced them into a pair of worn-out sneakers, the laces splayed wide open, unable to be tied.

She wobbled out the front door, each step a precarious sway. The short walk to the curb where Anna’s car idled was a marathon. The fresh air felt alien and harsh in her lungs, which burned with the effort. Her heart hammered, a painful, erratic drum against her ribs. She was sweating profusely by the time she reached the car, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

She fumbled with the door handle, her fingers clumsy and weak, and somehow managed to haul herself into the back seat. The car sank noticeably under her weight. The effort of the walk left her dizzy and nauseous, slumped against the leather, heaving for air.

Anna turned from the driver’s seat. She was exactly like her pictures: sharp, slim, and radiating a predatory health that was intoxicating. Her eyes, dark and hungry, roamed over Lisa’s massive, helpless form, taking in the exposed belly, the strained clothing, the pitifully untied shoes. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face.

“Well, hello, piglet,” Anna purred, her voice even more commanding in person. She didn’t lean back to kiss her or hug her. She simply stared, drinking in the reality of what she had created. A droplet of saliva gleamed at the corner of her mouth. “Look at the state of you. You can barely breathe. It’s better than I ever imagined.”

Lisa could only manage a weak, gurgling sound, a mixture of pain, exhaustion, and overwhelming arousal.

Anna turned back to the wheel, putting the car in drive. “There’s a drive-through just around the corner. I think it’s time for your first course.” She glanced at Lisa in the rearview mirror, her eyes gleaming. “I’m thinking a couple of triple-bacon burgers, large fries, and a chocolate milkshake. We need to get something in that bottomless pit of yours. Let’s see if we can make you pop.”

-Part 5-

The car idled at the drive-through speaker, the staticky voice asking for their order. Lisa was slumped in the back, a low, continuous moan emanating from her. Her stomach was a taut, groaning sphere, visibly pulsing with the strain of its current contents. It felt like a separate entity, a hostile planet grafted to her body, protesting its very existence.

Anna didn't even glance back. Her voice was cool, clear, and utterly devoid of doubt as she spoke into the speaker. "Yeah, let's get four triple-bacon burgers, two large fries, a twenty-piece nugget, and three large chocolate milkshakes. Extra, extra whipped cream on those shakes. Like, a ridiculous amount."

The list was a physical blow to Lisa. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through her, a sour tide of acid and half-digested food threatening to climb her throat. Her intestines cramped in preemptive rebellion. She whimpered, a pathetic, wet sound.

But beneath the pain, a dark, slick thrill coursed through her. The sheer audacity of the order, the casual way Anna was commanding her body to accept more than was possible, was the most potent aphrodisiac she had ever experienced. She felt a hot leak of arousal seep into the already strained fabric of her pajama pants.

Anna pulled forward to the window. As she handed over a wad of cash, the young cashier’s eyes, bored and automatic, drifted past her into the back seat. They landed on Lisa.

His expression shifted instantly. The bland professionalism melted away, replaced by a raw, unfiltered disgust. His nose wrinkled slightly, his lip curling as he took in the vast, pale expanse of her exposed belly, the food stains on her shirt, the sweat-sheened moon of her face. It was a look of pure revulsion.

Instead of shame, a surge of profound, twisted pride flooded Lisa’s veins. He sees it, she thought deliriously. He sees what I am. He sees the ruin. His disgust was a validation, a testament to how far she had fallen, how completely she had surrendered. She held his gaze for a second, a faint, glazed smile touching her lips, before he quickly looked away, flustered, handing Anna the bags and drink carrier with hurried, awkward movements.

Anna took the feast without a word, a smirk playing on her lips. She passed the first of the grease-stained bags into the back seat. "Here you go, piglet. Don't keep me waiting."

As Anna pulled out of the parking lot, Lisa’s hands, clumsy and shaking, tore into the first bag. The smell of grease, salt, and fried meat filled the car. Her body screamed in protest, but her mind, owned and operated by Anna, pushed her forward.

She unwrapped the first burger, the bacon greasy and limp, the cheese a congealed yellow slab. She took a massive bite, chewing mechanically, the flavors a dull echo against the overwhelming sensation of her stomach stretching further, tighter, beyond any limit she had previously known. She could feel her insides, packed to the absolute brink, rebel against this new, fattening wave. It was a labor pain of pure consumption, each bite a push towards a devastating, beautiful birth of total immobility. And with each agonizing swallow, she felt herself slipping deeper into the blissful, welcoming abyss Anna had created for her.

-Part 6-

The last chicken nugget was a dry, choking lump that she had to wash down with the final, sickly-sweet dregs of the third milkshake. The act of swallowing was a monumental effort, her throat muscles straining against the overwhelming urge to reject it all. When it was finally down, a profound, terrifying stillness settled over her.

She was a monument to gluttony. Her face was a sticky mask of ketchup, special sauce, chocolate, and sweat. Her hands were slick with grease. Her shirt, already too small, was plastered to her upper belly and chest with various spills, the fabric straining over her swollen breasts and doing nothing to contain the vast, pale dome of her stomach below.

That stomach was now the dominant feature of the car’s interior. It pressed insistently against the back of Anna’s seat, a firm, unyielding weight that pushed Lisa back into her own seat with constant, uncomfortable pressure. Every breath was a shallow sip of air, each inhalation a battle against the crushing weight of her own body.

The seatbelt had been unbuckled miles ago. The strap, designed for a normal person, had dug into the side of her gut with such cruel pressure that Anna, with a chuckle, had told her to release it. “We don’t want it slicing my masterpiece in half, do we?” Without it, Lisa felt both terrifyingly vulnerable and completely free in her captivity.

Her pajama pants were a lost cause. The seams groaned audibly with every tiny shift of her immense hips and thunderous thighs, the fabric stretched to a transparent thinness, threatening to give way at any moment.

She barely registered the drive, lost in a haze of pain and fullness. When the car finally rolled to a stop, Lisa blinked, her vision blurry. They were in the driveway of a small, modern apartment complex. Best of all, it was on the ground floor.

Anna was already out of the car, opening the back door. The afternoon sun was bright, and Lisa flinched from it, her eyes sensitive, her skin feeling raw and overstuffed.

“Welcome home, piglet,” Anna said, her voice dripping with possession. She didn’t offer to help Lisa out. She simply watched, her eyes gleaming with avaricious delight.

The process of extracting herself from the car was a slow, humiliating, and agonizing ballet. Lisa had to turn sideways, grunting and heaving, her hands uselessly pushing against the car frame for leverage. Her swollen feet, spilling out of the open shoes, slapped heavily on the concrete. She stood upright for a moment, swaying dangerously, the world tilting around her. The short walk to the apartment door was a marathon of wobbling, jiggling misery. Each step sent sharp pains through her overburdened feet and knees.

Anna unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping aside to let Lisa lumber in.

The inside was dim, cool, and perfect. Anna had prepared. The windows were covered with blackout curtains, casting the space in a perpetual, soothing twilight. It was quiet, a sanctuary dedicated to a single purpose. The air smelled faintly of clean linen and, underneath, the sweet promise of more food.

Lisa stood in the center of the living room, breathing in ragged, shallow gasps, her body aching and sloppy and utterly spent.

And she felt it. A sense of profound, terrifying rightness. This was not a place for walks, or sunshine, or health. This was a place for consumption, for decay, for giving up. This was a den built for a creature like her.

She was home.

-Part 7-

The world narrowed to the couch. It was a vast, plush island, and Lisa was its beached queen. The cheap, food-stained fabric of her pajamas was her only royal garment. Anna had knelt before her, not in worship, but in ownership, and with a pair of sharp scissors, she’d snipped the laces and sliced through the strained sides of the sneakers. Lisa’s swollen, puffy feet had spilled out, red and marked from their confinement.

“You won’t be needing these anymore,” Anna had purred, tossing the ruined shoes into a corner like garbage. The finality of the gesture sent a shiver of excitement through Lisa’s bloated frame. It was true. She would never walk further than the bathroom again.

Then, Anna turned on the TV. The screen glowed to life, and a curated hellscape of temptation began to play. It wasn't just random shows; it was a playlist, a calculated assault on Lisa’s senses and sanity.

A video of a woman, easily over 500 pounds, slowly, sensually devouring a entire sheet cake, her hands plunging into the frosting. A montage of vintage junk food commercials, all bright colors and euphoric jingles, selling happiness in a bag. A documentary-style clip of an SSBBW listing her health problems—the diabetes, the sleep apnea, the swollen ankles—with a proud, defiant smile. A medical show detailing the horrors of congestive heart failure, the narration ominous over images of strained hearts and clogged arteries.

It was a symphony of corruption. Every image, every sound, reinforced the path Lisa was on, glorifying the very things that were killing her. Her brain, already fogged by constant digestion and lack of oxygen, absorbed it all without criticism. This wasn't warning; it was instruction. It was porn for her demise.

Lisa’s eyes were glazed, her mouth slightly agape as she watched a woman struggle to rise from a reinforced chair. She didn't feel fear. She felt envy.

Anna moved around the couch. She placed a family-sized bag of cheese puffs on the highest slope of Lisa’s belly, the curve serving as a perfect table. She wedged a two-liter bottle of soda into the crease between Lisa’s hip and the couch cushion, within reach of her clumsy fingers. Then she placed a large bowl of M&Ms on Lisa’s chest.

“Snack time, my love,” Anna whispered, her voice blending with the audio from the TV. “You need to keep your strength up.”

The command was a paradox. Keep your strength up really meant surrender your strength completely.

Lisa’s stomach was a solid, painful mass of food, stretched to its absolute limit. The thought of putting anything more into it was a form of torture. But her hand, seemingly of its own volition, dipped into the bag of cheese puffs. She brought one to her lips, the artificial cheese dust smearing on her chin. She chewed slowly, the crunch deafening in her head, the act of swallowing a Herculean effort that sent fresh cramps through her gut.

She washed it down with a gulp of flat, sugary soda. The carbonation was gone, but the sweetness remained, a thick syrup coating her throat.

She was eating past pain, past fullness, past the point of any possible pleasure. She was eating purely because she was told to, because the woman on the TV was doing it, because the entire purpose of her existence had been reduced to this single, terrible, beautiful act: to fill the unfillable.

Each chip, each candy, each sip was another brick in the wall sealing her into her own body. And as she ate, her eyes glued to the screen, Lisa felt more complete, more herself, than she ever had before. She was finally achieving her perfect, tragic shape.

-Part 8-

Time lost all meaning. The dim, perpetual twilight of Anna’s apartment was the only world Lisa knew. The cycle was simple, brutal, and blissful: eat, drink, doze, repeat. Her shirt had been the first to go, the strained seams finally giving way with a soft rip during a particularly forceful inhalation. The pajama pants had succumbed soon after, the thin fabric tearing at the hips and thighs, until they were just ragged scraps that Anna had disdainfully cleared away.

Now, Lisa lay naked on the couch, a vast, pale mountain of teenage flesh. Her skin was a canvas of food stains—dried chocolate, greasy fingerprints, smears of cheese dust, and sticky patches of soda. Her once-soft belly was now a terrifying, overstretched globe, a taut, shiny canvas of purple stretch marks that groaned and gurgled continuously under the relentless pressure. Her breasts, swollen and heavy, were mottled with similar marks, resting on the colossal shelf of her stomach.

Her lap was a forgotten concept. The immense swell of her lower belly pressed down cruelly on her thighs, forcing her legs apart in a permanent, vulnerable sprawl. The pressure was constant, a deep, aching reminder of her size. Her fingers were sausage-like, swollen and clumsy, perpetually smeared with the evidence of her last meal. Her face was a round, sweaty moon, usually nestled in a pillow she couldn’t see past her own cheeks, her lips chapped and often circled by a residue of whatever she’d last consumed.

Anna’s curated playlist was a never-ending loop of corruption. Lisa’s glazed eyes watched, unblinking, as a video played of a woman being force-fed pie by a demanding feeder, her protests weak and half-hearted before giving in to blissful submission. The scene shifted to a stern-faced doctor listing the fatal complications of morbid obesity: heart failure, pulmonary edema, liver failure. The words “death” and “organ shutdown” were no longer threats; they were goals, achievements to be unlocked.

Then came the most potent footage: videos of truly immobile feedees, bed-bound giants, being funneled gallons of thick, calorie-laden shake through tubes or by hand, their eyes glazed with a mixture of pleasure and helpless surrender. Lisa watched their massive, inert bodies, their labored breathing, and she felt a deep, yearning envy. That was perfection. That was the finish line.

A weak, gurgling sound escaped Lisa’s lips. She reached a trembling, greasy hand toward the bag of chips resting on her chest. Every movement was agony. Every breath was a struggle. Her heart fluttered in her chest like a dying bird, a frantic, irregular rhythm that was becoming the soundtrack to her life.

She forced a chip into her mouth, the salt stinging her chapped lips. The act of chewing was exhausting. Swallowing was a conscious, painful effort that sent a fresh wave of pressure through her overwhelmed system.

She was eating against her body’s every screaming protest. She was eating toward a beautiful, young death. And as she swallowed, her eyes fixed on the screen where a woman twice her size was being praised for her immobility, Lisa felt a profound, peaceful sense of purpose. She was almost there.

-Part 9-

The final descent was a slow, sticky, and sensory-deprived slide into oblivion. Lisa’s mind, once capable of forming complex thoughts about the future, had been reduced to a liquified lump, its contents replaced by the constant, hypnotic stream from the screen. It wasn't just watching anymore; it was a form of neural erosion. The videos of women being force-fed to the point of tears, the grim medical warnings about congestive heart failure and diabetic comas, the immobile giants whispering hoarsely about their failing health—it all blended into a single, undeniable truth: this was beautiful. This was success.

Her body was a monument to this corrupted ideal, a grotesque masterpiece nearing its final form. She was no longer a girl on a couch; she was the couch. Her belly was the room's centerpiece, a monstrous, brightly swollen dome that dominated the space. The skin, stretched beyond any natural limit, was a horrifying tapestry of angry purple and red stretch marks, so thin and taut it looked less like skin and more like plastic wrap straining over a overripe fruit, threatening to split at any moment. It had begun to sag under its own impossible weight, the lower curve now resting on the floorboards, a pale, doughy island connecting her to the ground.

Her breasts, massive and heavy, were defeated by the sheer scale of her gut. They sagged down to either side of the mountainous curve, resting on the couch cushions like discarded sacks of grain. Her legs, which hadn't moved under their own power since she’d first collapsed onto the couch, were permanently splayed apart by the immense downward pressure of her belly. They were colossal pillars of fat, the skin shiny and tight, utterly useless.

Her arms were firmly filled piles of softness, resting at her sides. Her hands, resting on the slopes of her own body, were perpetually swollen, the fingers like plump sausages, curled in a permanent, helpless state.

Her face was a bloated moon, her features nearly swallowed by the fat. Her eyes were tiny, glistening dots in the doughy expanse, permanently fixed on the flickering screen. Her lips, often parted in a shallow pant for air, were caked in a crust of old, molding food—dried shake, chip dust, flecks of chocolate. Slobber and spilled drinks had created a permanent, sticky glaze on her chin and chest, attracting a faint, sweet-sour smell that permeated the dim room.

She didn't think. She didn't dream. She only consumed. A tube of frosting, squeezed directly into her mouth. A bag of cookies, crushed against her face as she nuzzled into them. Anna would place a straw between her lips for a shake, and Lisa’s only function was to suckle, her body accepting the calories on a primal, instinctual level, even as her organs shrieked in protest.

She was eating herself into a young death, just as she’d promised. And in the few lucid moments that pierced the fog of digestion and brainwash, she felt nothing but a deep, serene satisfaction. She was rotting from the inside out, and it was the most beautiful thing she had ever done.

-Part 10-

The only thing louder than the constant, droning soundtrack of feederism from the TV was the frantic, irregular drumbeat of Lisa’s heart. It was a trapped animal pounding against the immense prison of fat that encased it, each beat a painful, shuddering thump that vibrated through her entire bloated frame. She could feel it constantly now, a strained, fluttering sensation that was as much a part of her as the crushing fullness in her gut. Yet, stubbornly, her body continued its grotesque expansion, bulging outward in a last, desperate surrender to the calories that flooded it.

Her belly was a permanent fixture on the floor, a vast, pale continent that had conquered the space between the couch and the coffee table. The skin, stretched to a translucent thinness, was a web of angry, weeping stretch marks. Some of the oldest, deepest ones had begun to split open under the relentless pressure, forming tiny, crimson fissures that oozed faintly. They went unnoticed by Lisa, just another sensation in the symphony of pain that was her existence. Her breasts hung like heavy, useless sacks to either side of her gut, their own stretch marks a testament to their defeat.

Her awareness of the world had shrunk to the size of the screen and the immediate, overwhelming needs of her body. She often didn't even flinch when Anna touched her, prodding a new roll of fat or tracing a bleeding stretch mark. Anna loved this profound, vegetative state. It was the ultimate sign of her control.

While searching for Lisa’s phone to send another placating text to her worried mother—“im fine mom. just busy. love u.”—Anna’s fingers found something tucked behind the cracked case. She pulled it out. It was Lisa’s old high school ID card.

The girl in the picture was a stranger. Bright-eyed, with a defined jawline and a slim neck, her hair clean and styled. She was smiling, a future stretching out before her. Anna looked from the photo to the monstrous, wheezing form on the couch. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face. The contrast was exquisite.

She held the plastic card up in front of Lisa’s face, letting it hover in her glazed line of sight. “Look, piglet,” Anna cooed. “Look at what you were. Look at what you’ve become.”

For a long moment, there was nothing. Then, a faint, almost imperceptible reflection of the ID card appeared in the dull sheen of Lisa’s eyes. There was no recognition, no sadness, no nostalgia. Just a blank, surface-level reflection of light on a glossy surface. It was perfect. She was truly gone.

Anna tucked the ID back into the phone case, a new goal crystalizing in her mind. Lisa’s twentieth birthday was approaching. It needed a proper celebration. A milestone.

She stroked Lisa’s feverish, food-caked cheek. “We need to get you a birthday present, my love,” she whispered, her voice thick with malicious promise. “Something special. Something permanent.”

Anna’s research had been thorough. She knew the signs, the thresholds. She knew how to push a body over the metabolic edge.

That day, the playlist changed. It became a curated hell of sugary temptation. Commercials for soda, cakes, ice cream, candy. Videos of people drinking pure syrup, downing packets of sugar. The orders became even more specific, more brutal.

“Finish this two-liter of soda, piglet. All of it. I want to hear your blood get sticky.” “This entire package of cookies is for you.Every last one. Let’s give your pancreas a birthday present it will never forget.”

Lisa, in her vegetative state, obeyed. The sweet, sickly flood poured into her, a tidal wave of glucose designed to overwhelm, to cripple, to destroy. Anna watched, mesmerized, as her creation consumed the poison that would officially mark her transition from a dying girl to a terminally ill woman. She was going to give Lisa type 2 diabetes for her twentieth birthday. It was the most romantic gift she could imagine.

-Part 11-

The final stage of the metamorphosis was both horrifying and breathtakingly rapid. Lisa’s body, pushed far beyond any conceivable breaking point, was now decaying in real time. Each pound of pure sugar, each gallon of thick shake, wasn't just adding weight; it was actively dismantling her from the inside. Her systems were shutting down, one by one, under the relentless assault.

The videos on the TV screen had evolved to match her reality. The playful force-feeding clips were gone, replaced by a grim, documentary-style descent into the abyss. Grainy, leaked footage of a hospital room where a massive, immobile form lay still, a sheet being pulled over a lifeless face. A shaky phone video of a feeder sobbing, not in grief, but in ecstatic triumph, as her partner’s labored breathing simply… stopped. Medical dramas showing frantic, futile efforts to save a super obese patient from a massive coronary, the flatline of the heart monitor a piercing final note. Lisa’s mind, a rotten, liquid mess, absorbed it all. There was no fear, no comprehension—only a deep, resonant pull towards that final, silent image. She was a dying sponge, soaking in her own inevitable end.

Her physical form was a landscape of ruin. Her belly, once resting on the floor, had grown so vast that its apex now bridged the gap to the coffee table, its weight causing the wood to creak in protest. The skin there was a nightmare canvas. Stretch marks weren’t just weeping; they were open, seeping fissures, leaking a clear, yellowish fluid mixed with tiny beads of blood. The old, moldy food stains on her chest and upper belly were now part of her topography, a crusted, fungal map of her consumption.

Her legs, forced into a permanent, agonizing spread by the weight bearing down on them, were twisted at unnatural angles, the skin purple and shiny from lack of circulation. Her breasts hung lower than ever, pulling painfully at their roots on her chest, their surfaces a roadmap of broken capillaries and bruised flesh. Her arms were so swollen and firm with edema that they looked like overstuffed pillows, the skin threatening to split. A needle, if pushed into them, would likely release a jet of fluid, not blood.

Anna stood over her, her own breath coming in sharp, excited pants. The sight was too much. The sheer, absolute ruin of the once-vibrant teenager was the most potent aphrodisiac she had ever known. The coppery smell of blood, the sweet-sour odor of infection, the stale scent of old food—it was a perfume of perfect corruption.

She couldn’t hold back. Her hand slipped into her pants, her eyes glued to Lisa’s bloated, deathly still form. She watched the shallow, irregular rise and fall of Lisa’s chest, a movement so faint it was almost imaginary.

“That’s it,” Anna whispered, her voice husky with her own pleasure, her fingers moving in a frantic rhythm. “Look at you. You’re almost there. You’re so… perfect.”

She was masturbating to the sight of Lisa’s imminent death, each of her own gasps syncing with Lisa’s painful, ragged inhalations. She was chasing her climax against the backdrop of the flatlining heart monitor on the TV, her ecstasy tied to the final, beautiful failure of the heart straining just feet away from her.

-Part 12-

The air in the dim apartment was thick with the cloying sweetness of sugar and the metallic tang of blood. Today was the day. Lisa’s twentieth birthday. Anna had prepared the perfect gifts.

The first was the lab result, printed on crisp paper. Days ago, Anna had drawn a vial of dark, thick blood from Lisa’s swollen arm, a painful and messy process Lisa had barely registered. The results had come back, confirming Anna’s triumphant goal. The paper screamed with medical terminology that boiled down to one beautiful fact: Lisa was now highly diabetic. Her pancreas had officially surrendered.

The second gift was the heart monitor. Anna, with her slim, deft hands, had managed to strap the sensors around Lisa’s vast wrist and ankle, the electrodes struggling to find purchase on the swollen, damp flesh. The machine whirred to life, and the line on the screen didn't just spike—it erupted into a frantic, jagged mountain range of electrical impulses. The numbers beside it were terrifying: a heart rate skyrocketing even at rest, blood pressure numbers that would make any medic gasp. It was a live feed of a heart in its death throes.

Anna smiled, a genuine, warm smile of pride. She had done this.

She settled next to the mountainous birthday girl, a box of extra-fudge cupcakes in her lap. One by one, she fed them to Lisa, who accepted them with weak, automatic swallows, her eyes fixed on a video of a woman being funnel-fed pure maple syrup. Between cupcakes, Anna picked up Lisa’s phone. Birthday notifications flooded the screen.

Happy Birthday, Lisa! Miss you! Hope you’re doing something fun!

Anna answered each one with breezy, dismissive cheer, all while stuffing another donut, dripping with pink icing, into Lisa’s mouth.

“thx! just having a lazy day, eating some cake! lol”

Then, the screen lit up with an incoming video call. It was Lisa’s mom.

Anna didn’t flinch. She didn’t panic. This was the masterpiece’s unveiling. She adjusted the phone, making sure the camera’s view was perfect, and answered the call.

The image that filled the screen for Brenda was not her daughter. It was a monstrous, bloated parody. A vast, pale body, glistening with sweat and smeared with food. A face so fat it was unrecognizable, with tiny, dull eyes. The background was a dim cave of junk food wrappers and a flickering TV showing unspeakable things.

There was a long, dead silence. Then, a choked, horrified gasp. “Lisa? My God… Lisa, what… what have you done to yourself?”

Anna smoothly brought her own face into the frame, her expression one of serene pride. She placed a possessive hand on Lisa’s heaving, massive flank.

“She’s had a wonderful birthday, Brenda,” Anna said, her voice sweet and calm. “She’s never been better.”

“Better?” her mother’s voice was a shattered whisper. “She’s… she’s dying! How can you say that? How can you let this happen?”

Anna’s smile never wavered. She looked down at Lisa, who gave a weak, gurgling moan, a tiny string of drool and chocolate connecting her lips to the couch. “This is all she’s ever wanted. She’s never been happier. She told me so herself.”

It was, in the most twisted sense, not a lie. In the ruins of Lisa’s mind, there was only a profound, peaceful surrender. This was her happiness.

Brenda stared, her face a mask of utter devastation and disbelief. She tried to form words, but nothing came out. With a sound that was half-sob, half-retch, the call ended. The screen went black.

Anna looked from the dark phone to the terrifying numbers on the heart monitor, then to the blissfully oblivious, dying girl beside her.

“Happy birthday, my beautiful piglet,” she whispered, and fed her the last cupcake.

-Part 13-

The following weeks were a symphony of decay, conducted by Anna with a maestro's cruel precision. The feeding escalated beyond gluttony into a form of mechanical, brutal force-feeding. Anna couldn't go faster; she was already operating at the maximum capacity of what Lisa's ruined body could physically accept. It was a race against the inevitable, and Anna was determined to win.

Lisa's body, a testament to impossible endurance, was finally losing the battle. It was running on the last dregs of its vitality, every system screaming in protest. Her immense weight had long since defeated the couch; the frame had splintered and collapsed days ago, leaving her sunk in a crater of broken springs and torn fabric, a beached whale on a shoddy shore.

Her body was consuming itself. Her vast belly, a pale, leaking planet, had grown so enormous that it had subsumed her legs completely. There was no longer any distinction between stomach and thigh; they were one massive, continuous swell of tortured flesh that spilled across the floor. Her torso had swallowed her arms halfway to the elbow, pinning them uselessly at her sides, her sausage-like fingers protruding from the doughy slope of her hips.

The stretch marks were no longer mere marks. They were deep, open wounds, trenches carved into her skin that wept a constant, thin mixture of blood and clear lymphatic fluid. This seepage pooled beneath her on the ruined couch, creating a foul, sticky bog. The smell in the room was a nauseating cocktail of infection, sweet rot, and stale sugar.

Her chin, chest, and the upper curve of her belly were buried under a thick, hardened crust of wasted food, mold, and dried bodily fluids. It was a grotesque armor of neglect. Her breasts, monstrously heavy, hung so low they now brushed the floor on either side of her main bulk, the skin at their roots stretched to a terrifying thinness, looking as if they might tear away from her body with every shallow, rattling breath she took.

Her face was a bloated mask. Her eyes were tiny, distant glints buried so deep in the fat they were useless, seeing nothing but the vague, painful light of the TV that still played its relentless loop. Her mouth was a permanent, slack O, through which Anna would pour liquefied cakes and syrups.

The heart monitor was her constant soundtrack, its beeps no longer forming a rhythm but a frantic, panicked staccato. The numbers on the screen—heart rate, blood pressure—were not just high; they were catastrophic, flashing red warnings of a system on the absolute brink of total failure.

Anna would sit and watch for hours, enthralled. She loved this. She loved the palpable aura of pain and impending death that radiated from the monstrous blob that had once been a girl. Every labored breath, every weak, gurgling moan, was a note in her favorite song.

But as she looked at the horrifying, beautiful ruin before her, a thought crystallized in her mind, cold and sharp and utterly ruthless.

It’s by far not unhealthy enough.

The diabetes, the failing heart, the septic wounds—it wasn't the finale she envisioned. It was too… slow. Too medical. She didn't want a body that was trying to fail. She wanted a body that had been forced to explode.

A new, even darker goal began to take shape. She needed to push past decay. She needed to achieve total, catastrophic structural failure. The skin, stretched to the transparency of a bubble, was the key. The next swallow wouldn't just be of food; it would be of oblivion. Anna wanted to see it tear. She wanted to see what was inside.

-Part 14-

The final act of the tragedy required a new tool. The clumsy, messy process of hand-feeding was too slow, too inefficient for the finale Anna had in mind. She returned from a medical supply store with a bag and a cold, determined glint in her eye.

The installation of the feeding tube was a brutal, clinical affair. Lisa, so deep in her vegetative state she was little more than a warm, breathing mound, offered no resistance as Anna worked the tube past her slack lips and down her throat. There was a gurgle, a weak cough that was more reflex than protest, and it was done.

Anna connected it to a large pump, which she filled with a thick, brown slurry—a liquefied mixture of melted ice cream, weight gain shakes, pancake syrup, and protein powder. She set the flow rate to a punishing, continuous stream, roughly double what Lisa’s body had been struggling to process before.

The effect was immediate and horrifying. The pump whirred, and the slurry began its relentless journey into Lisa’s stomach. Her body, which had been expanding at a terrifying rate, now seemed to inflate. The growth was visible, a time-lapse of decay on fast-forward. The already catastrophic stretch marks tore wider, becoming gaping, meaty trenches that seeped a pinkish fluid of blood and lymph. The skin around them, stretched to a glossy, impossible thinness, bulged between the tears like pale sausage casing.

The effort to contain this new, violent influx of calories was her body’s last, clear function. Her heart monitor’s beeps merged into a single, screaming whine of alarm. The numbers on the screen—her blood pressure and heart rate—were no longer numbers but frantic, meaningless dashes of light, the machine unable to compute the sheer extremity of her vitals.

The immense weight of her belly, now receiving a constant, pressurized influx, finally finished the destruction of the coffee table, splintering it into pieces that were swallowed by the advancing tide of her flesh. Her arms vanished completely, consumed by the rolling waves of fat expanding from her torso. Her breasts, hanging like bloody sacks on the floor, began to weep thin trails of blood from the nipples, strained beyond any natural limit.

She was no longer a human being. She was not even a "blob" in any recognizable sense. She was a geological feature of fat and decay. A pale, leaking mountain range of flesh, its surface a nightmare of open wounds and crusted filth, its core a pressurized tomb of rotting food and failing organs. The only signs of life were the terrifying, rhythmic distention of her stomach as the pump forced more slurry in, and the shallow, wet rasps that passed for breath.

Anna watched, her own breathing shallow with excitement. This was it. This was the masterpiece. The pump whirred on, a metronome counting down the last seconds of Lisa’s life, inflating her toward the beautiful, violent rupture that would be Anna’s ultimate triumph.

-Part 15-

Anna’s calculation had been a catastrophic underestimation. She thought the body, already a ruined husk, would capitulate to the tube’s assault within an hour. But some deep, animalistic will to survive, some final, stubborn spark in the ruin, had held on. For weeks.

The pump had whirred its relentless, mechanical song without pause. And for weeks, Lisa’s body had undergone a transformation so horrific it defied biology. She was no longer inflating; she was blooming, like a flower of rot and decay.

Her belly was the epicenter of the nightmare. It had expanded so far that it now pressed against the low sideboard on which the TV stood, causing the screen to tilt precariously, its grim footage flickering over the landscape of ruin. The surface of her stomach was a horror show. The deep rips Anna had first observed had widened into canyons of raw, meaty flesh, weeping a constant, slick flow of blood and serous fluid that pooled on the floor beneath her. The skin between these gashes was stretched to a translucent, paper-thin membrane, bulging with the pressure of the slurry still being forced inside. It pulsed with a sickening rhythm, each pulse from the pump threatening a total, catastrophic delamination.

Her breasts, her "bobs" as Anna called them, were a tragedy in themselves. They hung so low they were now flat against the floor, their weight having torn the already fragile skin at their apex. They were less like breasts and more like two deflated, bloody sacks, adding their own slow seepage to the expanding lake on the floor.

Anna was in a state of perpetual, dripping ecstasy. The sight, the smell, the sounds—it was a symphony for her twisted senses. She was constantly touching herself, her fingers working in a frantic rhythm against her own slickness, her moans harmonizing with the gurgle of the pump and the wet, tearing sounds Lisa’s body made.

“Yes… yes…” Anna would pant, her eyes glazed, fixed on the horrifying spectacle. “Look at you… you’re so… open.”

A new sound would cut through the room—a sharp, wet tear as another stretchmark gave way, splitting open to reveal the glistening fat beneath, immediately beginning to leak. Anna would cry out, her own climax triggered by the visual and auditory evidence of Lisa’s destruction.

And through it all, Lisa groaned. Deep, guttural, painful sounds that vibrated through the massive frame. They were not conscious expressions. They were the sounds of a nervous system pushed beyond its limits, the final, desperate signals of organs shutting down, of bones stressed to splintering under the incredible weight. She didn’t notice the pain anymore; she was the pain.

But Anna noticed every sound. She hung on every wet, ragged groan, every choked, bubbling exhalation. To her, they were not cries of agony. They were a language. They were songs of surrender. Each groan was a verse in the epic poem of Lisa’s destruction, a poem Anna had written and was now reading aloud, reveling in every tortured syllable. She was the conductor, the audience, and the most devoted fan of this beautiful, terrible opera of death.

-Part 16-

The air in the room was a thick, hot soup of decay and arousal. Anna was in a constant state of feverish excitement, a sheen of sweat on her own skin mirroring the constant seepage from Lisa’s. She was a spectator to the most intimate of unravelings, and it consumed her utterly.

The decay was no longer a slow process; it was a cascade failure. You could almost hear it, a silent, internal screaming as one system after another threw in the towel. The liver, overwhelmed by the toxic flood of fat and sugar, had quit first, its failure turning the weeping, torn parts of Lisa’s skin a sickly, jaundiced yellow. The fluid that leaked from the canyon-like stretch marks was no longer pinkish, but a pale, ominous gold.

Lisa’s breathing, once ragged and labored, had become something else entirely. It was frantic, a series of short, sharp, bird-like gasps that did nothing to oxygenate her blood. Each gasp was a fight against the immense weight crushing her lungs, a fight she was losing with every passing second.

Her skin, what little of it wasn't torn open, was a mosaic of death. Vivid, purple bruises bloomed everywhere—on her shoulders, her buried arms, the vast slopes of her sides—a sign that her blood, thick and syrupy with sugar and fat, could no longer navigate her collapsing circulatory system. It was pooling, stagnating, and suffocating her from the inside out.

Her face underwent a horrifying transformation. It would cycle between a deathly, waxy white as blood fled its surface, to a sudden, violent, beet-red as her struggling heart managed one last, desperate push before fading again. It was the flickering of a broken bulb, a visible sign of the life flickering within.

And then there was the heart monitor. For weeks, its scream had been a constant, frantic whine, the numbers a blur of catastrophic red. But now, something new was happening. The beeps, once rapid and panicked, began to slow. They became… distinct. Each beep was a monumental effort, a lone, echoing clap in a vast auditorium.

Beep…

A long, terrifying pause.

…Beep…

Another eternity of silence.

The monitor was no longer just showing high numbers; it was now charting the precise, horrifying rhythm of a heart giving up. Each beep was weaker than the last, the line on the screen flattening dramatically between each struggling beat.

Anna watched, her hand still between her legs, but her movements had slowed. This was the crescendo. This was the moment she had worked for, fantasized about, orchestrated with such cruel precision. The slowing beeps were the most potent aphrodisiac she had ever experienced. This wasn't just decay anymore. This was the end. And she was here to witness every beautiful, agonizing second of it.

-Part 17-

It was a sound that wasn't a sound, a feeling that shook the room. Lisa's heart, that overworked, tortured muscle that had beaten itself into a pulp against a prison of its own making, made one last, violent rebellion.

A final, seismic shudder ran through the mountainous body. It wasn't a gentle sigh of release; it was a brutal, internal convulsion that made the vast expanse of flesh quake. The heart monitor, which had been tracking the slow, agonizing descent into silence, suddenly spiked in a last, insane peak of electrical activity—a final, furious protest—before the line on the screen jagged violently and then…

…flattened.

It didn't gently slope to nothing. It went from a struggling peak to a dead, unwavering horizontal line. The machine emitted one long, continuous, ear-piercing tone—the sound of absolute zero, the sound of nothing.

In that exact second, as the tone began its relentless shriek, Anna’s body went rigid. A choked, guttural cry was ripped from her throat, part triumph, part ecstatic release. She came harder than she ever had in her life, her own climax a violent, shuddering echo of Lisa’s final death throe. It was a perverse synchronization, her pleasure inextricably tied to the exact moment of Lisa’s extinction.

Then, silence. Not just from the monitor, but from Lisa.

The immense tension that had held the bloated form in a state of agonized inflation seemed to vanish. The body didn't just relax; it sagged. It settled into itself with a heavy, final, wet sound, a mountain collapsing under its own weight. The last breath—a faint, wet rattle that had been catching in her throat for hours—left her lungs not with a sound, but with a feeling of absolute emptiness.

The room was still. The only movement was the slow, relentless drip of fluid from the countless wounds onto the soaked floor. The only sound was the low hum of the feeding pump, still whirring pointlessly, trying to force slurry into a stomach that would never process it again.

Anna slowly pulled her hand away, breathing heavily, her eyes wide and fixed on the monstrous, still form. The masterpiece was complete. The beautiful, young death had been achieved. A profound, peaceful silence descended, broken only by the pump’s futile hum and the soft, steady drip of leakage onto the floor.

-End-

44 notes · View notes