queercoshon

[queercoshon]

World Central Kitchen is back up in Gaza!! They’re doing incredible and necessary work, so please consider donating if you can! I set up a recurring donation if that’s more your vibe.

[queercoshon]

y’all will beg feedees to do massive fast food stuffings, drink heavy cream daily, disregard basic knowledge on how to not feel like shit bc of diet, and then act surprised when they stop interacting with the community or develop health problems??

[queercoshon]

you need to get so big that going outside isn't even a thought anymore <3

[queercoshon]

sleepy stoner feedee who never realizes how much food you’re giving her 🥰

[queercoshon]

I love the term food-drunk. Not just because I love to see it--a boy whose brain has gone foggy with excesses--but because I love how it acknowledges the compulsive way some very good boys chase the pleasures of the table.

They order extra helpings and additional desserts, they go back for thirds or fourths, they get as many scoops of ice cream that'll balance on the cone just to try every single flavour; and they do it because everything tastes so good and feels so good that they conveniently forget the limits of their own physiology. They can't resist a food-bender, gorging themselves until they literally can't because they love how it makes them feel so very, very much.

I love the self-deception. Of course I have room for one more. Of course I am still up for milkshakes after. Of course I will finish that for you. Even while they are already so full that they can no longer sit forward with their elbows on the table, belly too tight and hard to squish in their lap like usual. They're too food-drunk to notice they've been reclined, knees splayed wide, flesh showing where their shirt won't meet their waistband, for a while now.

I love the lack of inhibition. Burping, rubbing the protruding shelf of their stomach, slapping their bulging gut and giving it a confident shake, aware of how bloated and swollen they are, but proud of their excesses. Who can be embarassed when they've been so impressive? They've moved past quietly overindulging into arrogantly grandstanding, showing off. Food-drunk and reckless, they unbutton at the table and lay a hand on either side of a swollen gut to show off their appetites. Slow down? Why? This tank can hold so much more.

I love the moment of regret. They didn't see it coming, but after they polish off the latest burger and snatch up the last scraps of fries, it hits them like a truck: oh god, they are stuffed. It was all so damn good, the courses just kept coming, and the drinks were flowing, and they'd lost count of how many burgers that really was, but suddenly they can feel it. They slump back in their chair and palm their belly, surprised in their food-drunk state at how fucking huge it is, and growing rapidly. It just hit them now, but they'd been eating so quickly and enthusiastically, it hasn't even caught up with them yet. They scramble to loosen their belt and slide down in their seat to relieve the growing pressure everywhere--all that food is packed in and making room. Their gut bulges straight out, round as a basketball and feeling distinctly like it is gonna pop if anyone were to jostle them too hard. Why did they do that? That third appetizer? The rest of the pie? The last two burgers crammed on one bun so it wouldn't go to waste? What were they thinking?

I love when they've finally really succumbed. Head lolling back, struggling to stay awake, desperately massaging their aching belly and too food-drunk to know or care what they are saying. Oooh, god, look at me. I have never been this huge. How could you--*hic*--let me eat all that? No, I can't stand up, I'm too fat. Nnngh, look at this. One more--*burp*--pint and I'll have housed a whole cask. UuUugh, let me just die here. Nnhm, actually, that feels good. Mmmhm, yes please. Keep rubbing. Yah, yah, I'll finish your cake. Uuuogh, kiss me, you monster. I didn't eat myself this fat for nothing.

[queercoshon]

cute things chubby boys do that i can’t stop thinking about

- leaning back in their seat and resting a hand on top of their big belly after eating too much

- struggling for a second to get up because their ever-expanding gut is throwing them off

- stretching to reveal underbelly and love handles

- making those adorable moans of distress and pleasure after being stuffed to capacity

- wearing shirts that hug their figure because they can’t quite justify buying new clothes

[queercoshon]

hey i’m just saying

if you’re into intox

and also a sub feeder

i highly recommend having your partner chug beer while on top of you

their one hand between your legs, the other tipping the can to the sky, higher with every thick swallow, exaggerated juuust a bit for you, followed by a knowing grin because it had exactly the intended effect—likely another gush of lubrication coating their fingers

and you get to rub big circles over the round swell of their stomach that has just a bit of give, maybe tracing a bit of that sinful happy trail, as a treat

maybe if you’re lucky you’ll feel some of the sloshing under the surface, occasionally requiring them to pause, taking a deep breath with a hand on their belly since the constant movement jostles the contents under pressure

bonus points for a hearty belch relieving some of the tightness and making room for more

and once you’re finished and panting, they heave their heavy stomach forward to lay completely on top of you, pressing your knees to your shoulders, out of breath and sweating, and kiss you open-mouthed so you can taste the alcohol on their breath while they finish what they started

yaknow. just saying

[queercoshon]

moments that are just another level of gluttony:

🥗 preparing yourself dinner while your belly is in the way, still bloated and gurgling from lunch

🧁 eyeing dessert even though your stomach is so tight it feels like a drum, convincing yourself there’s always room for something sweet

🤰🏼 unbuttoning your jeans for relief, but still reaching for another bite because "it’s too good to stop now"

🍽 snacking nonstop while cooking, so by the time dinner is ready, you’re already stuffed—but still finishing a full plate anyway, absentmindedly rubbing your stretched belly

🏠 eating at home before meeting friends, then acting starved as you order—hoping no one notices how ballooned your belly ends up by the end

💫 feeling your stomach actively churning and gurgling, stretched to its absolute limit, yet still considering just one more bite because "it’s already this full, what difference will it make?"

🧋 feeling really thirsty but unable to sip even a bit of water because you'll just burst right away

🍒 finishing a portion meant for two, then leaning back as your belly, now doubled in size, presses firmly against the table

🫧 swallowing air on top of an already full stomach, feeling it pushing further outwards

📍 wearing slimming underwear that's hugging your stuffed middle tightly, making you feel like you're on the line between hurt and comfort

[queercoshon]

Here's part 3 of a thing. I have no plans for this series. Just gonna write hot scenarios until I get stuck and then let it fizzle out. So enjoy until then! (Don't worry, I have plenty more ideas for this. Just don't expect like, plot or character development lol.)

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"Hic-urrp! Ohhh..."

It wasn't even 1pm and it sounded like Shavon had eaten themself to a drunk stomach ache already.

This wasn't quite an everyday thing since summer started, but pretty close. Mornings started with a hair of the dog drink and a blunt or bong rip, left conveniently within reach by Millie. Then she'd bring out some sort of breakfast, and that would set the precedent for the day.

"Mil-hic-lie! CannI have anothr drink please?" Millie smirked and flushed just a little. That pig doesn't know how to stop.

She set what she was cooking to low and grabbed a 6 pack from the fridge.

Shavon's face split into a dumb smile as Millie cracked a can open for them. "Thaaanks, Millie. You'rr the best-hic!" They took several large gulps, letting out a raucous burp when coming up for air. More burps followed as Millie rubbed along their stretchmarked gut, feeling it work away at everything inside.

"Are you hungry now, or can you wait for what I'm cooking?"

Shavon was lost in the belly rub, barely able to register that they needed to respond.

"Huh? Hic! Oh, I cn wait. I'm kinda -Urrap-hic- ugh full. Hic!"

"Okay, hon," Millie patted their gut and watched the outer layer of fat ripple, unperturbed by the stuffed mass beneath it. For now, at least. "I'm gonna leave a joint here in case you want it. Call me if you need help lighting it."

Shavon nodded, their dull eyes floating back to the tv, their hands absent-mindedly caressing their belly, feeling absolutely in hog heaven.

Unfortunately Millie had to work this evening, but it didn't mean she couldn't influence Shavon's habits while away. She had taken to making big batches of foods like casseroles and crockpot dishes. Most of the time there would be enough left for her to get a meal or two out of it. But when it was one of Shavon's favourites, like tonight's mac and cheese, Millie didn't expect any leftovers.

She knew the way she cooked was devious, maybe unethical or immoral, but if Shavon enjoyed it and she enjoyed it, what was the harm?

The sauce started out with a load of butter, and the liquid was pure heavy cream with just a little pasta water. The amount of cheese that got grated in made the whole sauce stretch and string like a cartoon pizza. And then there was added shredded cheese on top, broiled to turn crispy and golden.

She was busy thinking about what all these calories would do to her ballooning roommate when she heard a thud by the door.

Shavon was leaning heavily on the doorframe, somehow still swaying. Their gut was so rounded out from gorging all morning, but it still hung lower and lower every day. Their eyes tried to scan the kitchen, but Millie could see that Shavon couldn't.

"What're you doing up, Chevy? If you want something, let me bring it to you." She popped the dish in the oven and approached Shavon, wanting to be within arm's reach in case they went down. It would be a lot easier to stop them from hitting the floor rather than getting their 315lb mass off of it.

"I wan...I want.. uh..." they looked around the kitchen confused, trying to place why they got out of their cozy spot on the tiny recliner. "Urrp. I thinkk I wan food," they giggled and swayed a little more. Millie could smell the joint on Shavon's breath and skin.

"Munchies hitting you hard?" Shavon nodded a little too enthusiastically, all of their fat jiggling in the aftershock.

"Well, the mac and cheese won't be done until I have to leave for work-" the face Shavon wore could only be described as devastated, "but why don't I get you set up with some snacks until then?"

Their face screwed into a thoughtful look, and then nodded approvingly. Millie helped them turn around and gently led the lumbering mass back to the abused recliner. If she didn't have to work she would have guided them to the couch, where there was enough space for Millie to sit and help...

She cracked open another beer and handed it over, Shavon drinking it automatically,  guzzling as much as they could before letting out a monstrous belch.

No wonder they can barely walk, that's the fourth beer from the six pack. Drunk pig.

Millie made a few trips back and forth from the kitchen, bringing a big bowl of ice cream, a box of cookies, 2 different kinds of chips, and a coke with vodka (which was maybe two thirds coke...)

"Yyure -urrrrp- thhe beshs Millie." She didn't know if Shavon was barely intelligible due to inebriation or the two cookies shoved in their mouth. They were cute either way.

"I'll bring you dinner before I leave for work." Millie ruffled Shavon's hair, almost making them purr.

And with that, she left to take a cold shower before work.

---------------------------

You evef wake ykurself up vy burping? Happend to me all the tkme now. How long have I been passsed out for? Urrrp.

Whee the fuck is my phone? Oh, haha ut 's under my bellu. I losd a lit o things there now .

5:16pm. And a message drom Millie.

Dinner's in the oven on warm. Your bong is in the drying rack. Refilled the fridge, too. Have a good night;* xx

Mmm Millie's mac abf cheese. I been smelling it sunce thus afternkon. Just gotta grt yp to gfab it. One, two. Hnnnbg. Whoa, i,m up, and barely even stumbled! And not because i'm drunk. Thus is barely tipsy. But my gut has been gfowing do fsst, i havent fugured out my nfw centre of gravity yrt. Urp.

Millie says I'm starting to eaddle, but i don'f thjbk so. All my fat judt sways a lot more, and my beelly kinda grts in the way of my thighs. I just have to adjezt my gait a lil to make walkbg easiet.

Okay. Things I've remembered to do: turn of warming on oven. Use oveb mitts to get this dish out. Not bute into it right away even thoufh it smells irresistble because it's gonna br way too hot still. Grab a cozy sk i can put the tray on my stomaxh when i'm back in thr living room. Move the case of ales to thr living room, and geab cutlry. What am I nissing? Og right, the bong. Aww she even left fower in the grjnder for me. I just gotta fill it eith waterbefogre setting it up

Ahhh. I dn't realose how tired I am intil I sit down now. This gut is getting heavy, and standing maked my knees and back kinda sore. Sitting eases that.

Si does weed. Fee deep tokes and wverything is so relaxdd. It's alfeady hitting when I crack the first can.

I'm staving. Legit, I can hesr my belly grumbling. Not for long...

Ugh thid is seriously the best mac and cheerse. I din't know whst she does to it, but it's so cresmu and smooth, and rich and garlicy, sith a perfectly toSted bread crumv crustong on top. O know this pan is huge, but i hope she doesn't wsnt wnough leftoveds for a full meal.

Ressstong ot on mu belly means itXs super close to my mouth, so it,s easy to shovel right in. I'm enjoying the flavour too, I swer! So much that I judt need more of it right now. I just need more.

Fhvk. The tray feeks so fucking heavg. It's lighter now. Because mkst of the stuff is crammed un my gut. Im sk fuvking full, the trag us adding sk mych pressure. But i dont wanns move it, thered only like a 6th kf it left. I judt gott Urrrp! Ooooh rest a bjt.

Braaap! Hic-urp! Dowwsnt help havung 6? 7? Beerrs in my gut, tajing ul space. I mean, ig goes ggiod with the mac and cheese, and bser makds ne hungry. Urrp Mosf thhbngs make ne hungrh.

Weed. Weed will help. Unph f i can reach the sfupid bonb. Dont wanna spill the trayz and my gut is starting to get n the wau. Buuuuurraap! Mmm the presssure reaaalu helped pish that one out. Ok lihyt up and then buiiiig unhale.

Yeahhh thats it. This reclinner id so comgy i coukd mekt rught into it. Crack another beed for the ckttonmouth  and for the effecf its gonba have . Im still so stuffed, but noe i just need tk eat

Unnnggh braap. Jusf keep shovellig it in. Barely has a tastd now, im not even chewing. Jusr wallow forkfil after dorkful dosn. My bdlly us gettging itchy. Soon i finish the fray i can deak with that, but im so close, cant stop now.

Fuck. Fu-urrrp ohhh. I fodtgot to vdeathe i think. Im panting luke a dog. Im completely rund, better put thd tray diwn befjde ot slips off. Fuck eveth breatb is makinf ny ght bob up and doen rjght kn my lap

Oh my god belky rubf fdsl heavenkt right nkw. Its ao tight. I shoved a wbole casserkle tray of pssta and chesse saucd into my mkhth. Theres like, no giveto mu upper belly ehe  i press- urrrrrp! Burrrrp! Urrrap! Yh i needfed thast. Burks helo.

Means beer will hell? Chug, chug, chug mmm nopr the pressure ud back and wordr yhan befo- braaaaaap! Hic-buurp! Hic-urp! Urrrrrp hats helpful. Mmmm brerrrp ffffuck.

Ibdontbthink j can stag wake mhch linger. Igs so hkt tk be thid fuked up and rjoubnd, but i cant keeo mh eyes open   beshdes i cang even eeach wirhb all this dyiffed in me .... i dunno if u can reach at allk any mire.

I hope Millie's proufd kof me.

[queercoshon]

Something a bit longer since I've been slacking on the writing lately

I sat down heavily in the passenger seat, groaning in relief as I adjusted it to lean back, taking some of the pressure off my overfilled belly. I should have known you were up to something when breakfast wasn't as heavy as usual, when I mentioned how hungry I was when we were out and you gleefully handed me snack after snack keeping me grazing almost constantly as we went about the day. By the time I realized what you were planning it was too late, we were already at the restaurant and you had already ordered our usual.

When I finished off the appetizers the fullness started to hit me and a smug smile crossed your lips. "Whats the matter? The main course hasn't even arrived yet." I squirmed in my seat, feeling the weight of my belly heavy on my lap, knowing you had me trapped. I never backed down from your challenges before but this one had me worried. By the end of the meal my breathing was shallow. My shirt felt strained and it felt like the only thing keeping the button on my pants from popping clean off was hopes and prayers.

It took me 10 minutes which felt like an eternity just to feel like I could stand up to waddle back to the car. Thats where we find ourselves now. Your hand cool against the taut, warm surface of my belly. Gently working away the fullness while looking so deeply pleased with yourself. Whether I beat your challenge or not you always won. You had me in the palm of your hand, seemingly growing fatter by the day. Thats when you leaned in and whispered, "Look how big you are and we haven't even gotten dessert yet"

A trip through the driveway later and we've pulled up in a more secluded corner of a parking lot. A large milkshake balanced on my now dome of a gut as you push me to finish it. Your hands trace my fattened sides towards my underbelly, then further downward, it's all the motivation I need. The button on my pants never made it home.

[queercoshon]

I truly won't be satisfied until I you get stuck in something because of how much you have grown in such a short amount of time.

Until you've misjudged your new proportions, the realization taking over that it's really happening and you look at me in frustration while all you see in my face is excitement and glee.

Maybe it will be in a doorway. As you tried to waddle to the kitchen for yet another snack. Your love handles refusing to let you indulge. Trapping you until I can successfully help you suck-in enough to get you free and onto more treats.

Maybe it will be in your car. Belly having grown in the drive thru just enough to finally encompass the steering wheel. I'll be in the passenger seat poking your belly lovingly and giggling as you struggle to free yourself, in shock at how incredibly plump we've (I've) managed to swell you.

Maybe it will be in a chair. In front of the TV where I've fed you meal after meal after meal (even though it's barely lunch 🤭). You try and get up to use the bathroom, realizing you are completely wedged in.

Maybe then we decide the only solution is to make you heavy enough to break it entirely...

[queercoshon]

secret feeder friend who always gets me just a little too high, high enough that I can never refuse the snacks they keep insisting I enjoy 🐷💦

[queercoshon]

Really craving having someone pack me bong hit after bong hit, getting me super stoned, and then ordering an insane amount of pizza and feeding it to me until I can't eat anymore. And after that, packing more bong hits until the munchies take over, and then bringing me a cheesecake. And then more bong hits after that....rinse and repeat...

[queercoshon]

Pasta salad is also the best for using up old ingredients!

My ideal pasta salad:

Dressing (in ratios, do the measuring with your heart)

Equal parts of olive oil, lemon juice, and a vinegar (I usually mix balsamic and apple cider vinegar, or wine vinegar)

Half tsp ish of granulated sugar (can also use honey)

All seasonings to taste: oregano, basil, thyme (I use dried because I let dressing sit in fridge for a few hrs. Try and use fresh for immediate consumption), pepper, salt. Sometimes I just throw in some premix Mediterranean seasoning.

Fixings

Elbow macaroni, diced red onion, red pepper, cucumber, halved cherry tomatoes, 1 can rinsed chickpeas, small cubes tofu, bigger cubes of feta.

I need y'all's favorite pasta salad recipes. I forgot how much I love it and now it's the food of the summer for me

[queercoshon]

So here's the same story, but with some feedism bits thrown in. Hope it's integrated well enough to feel different, and not just like an afterthought.

Friday night is when you can revert back to your true nature.

And that is a drunk hedon.

You spend all week primmed up and put together, managing the responsibilities of a job, a household, a social life. You're relied on to make decisions, to follow them through, and subsequently handle any consequences that may arise.

But after your first toke and shot of the weekend, none of it is your problem. You feel the tension unwind from your shoulders, your back slouch a little more into the couch, and your pinned up smile melt into a real one. Now you can let go.

You could put on the tv, or listen to music and make art, or just scroll the internet, and let your desires take over.

You take a hit of your joint, sipping your first drink of the night between inhales. The smell of smoke wafts away along with the day's worries. The drink is chugged back to time it with the last embers burning out.

The high starts to screw your smile sideways, and you quickly take down another drink. Now is when the fun challenge of the weekend begins; get fucked up as quickly as possible but delay passing out as long as possible. And of course, gorge with reckless abandon.

You feel the alcohol start to spread warmth from your stomach up to your cheeks, but it's not working fast enough, so naturally you need a shot. And maybe another, just in case.

You set up your space with easy access to your bong, edibles, a case of cans (24 pack; you've learned a 6 pack won't get you to 8pm), the still mostly-full bottle of vodka, enough food to feed a whole family (a pizza, garlic knots, cauliflowerbites, and a brownie dessert pizza), and water.

You set up your movie and pull up its drinking game rules, crack another can, and quickly start on the pizza.

You drink more than the rules dictate, and open another one fifteen minutes in. An edible ends up in your mouth. That'll be a nice surprise in about half an hour.

You were genuinely hungry when you started your pizza, but now the influence of weed is doing most of the heavy lifting. The artificial hunger is almost more compelling than the genuine one, as you don't stop to think about what you're shoving in your mouth.

As you watch you feel your mind start to get fuzzy. The lights of the tv are a little softer, the jokes a little funnier, the couch a little comfier. High energy thoughts can't even enter your brain, so they can't nag at the back of your mind and dampen this evening.

You've been bouncing between cauliflower bites and garlic knots for a while now; obeying the munchies but also feeling your bloated gut start to gurgle in protest. Spending every weekend like this has stretched your capacity massively, but you still have struggles. Until the edible hits. Now those last two slices of pizza sound like a great idea. You rub your plush middle between bites and will your stomach to keep stretching.

Close to the end of the movie your first bout of hiccups wracks your body, making you hold your bouncing belly and giggle. You've made a tradition now where as soon as the first hiccups stop, you take another shot. This "shot" is you chugging from the vodka bottle, going until the burn in your throat is too much.

Finding the remote to put the next movie on is hard (it was on your thigh, completely covered by your gut), and so is operating the buttons, but you have lots of practice now and get it with little issue.

There's a drinking game for this movie too, but it's a lot harder to remember the rules and sometimes remember that you're playing. Don't worry, you're still drinking at a steady pace. Such a steady pace that halfway through the second movie you start to question what the hell is happening (you've seen this movie a few times already.) You giggle as you try to follow the plot, and you giggle as your body fights gravity trying to reach the bong. The fight gets harder and harder every weekend as you add pounds to your rapidly expanding frame, working against the weight as well as your bulging gut that's getting difficult to reach around.

Several rips later you lay melted into the couch, red eyes staring at the flickering tv. You think your mouth is dry from cottonmouth, but you've also been sitting there slack jawed and drooling just a bit. Alternating between your water and beer is remedying it, but it's also blurring your vision and sending heat to every extremity.

How long has the movie been finished? The screen has been recommending what to watch next for a while, but you've just clued in on that. Time to move on to something else.

The cans littered on the couch clank as you shift your body to get up, rocking up and nearly tumbling onto the coffee table. You feel your stomach shift, and several deep belches roar out of you, all that movement releasing the trapped air.

Whoaaa, everything is swaying, like being on a cruise ship in choppy water. Miraculously, you bend over and pick up the half empty beer case without ending up on the floor. Bending over like that is getting increasingly difficult, you belly got awful squished just now.You put the vodka bottle in the box as well, having enough mind to keep one hand free to catch your falls. Too bad, the brownie pizza will have to wait until tomorrow.

One step, two steps, a little stumble to the side and back. The bedroom feels so far away. A particularly dangerous wobble makes you hug the hallway wall, using your shoulder to guide your melting body.

You make a quick stop to the bathroom and as you wash your hands you get a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your eyes are bloodshot, but it's hard to see that as your eyelids droop, adding to the doped up look of your screwed smile. Your mirage sways because you do, the act of standing still far too complicated a task to manage. Your belly domes out in front of you, the bottom still soft and jiggly, while the rest is stuffed solid.

Walking isn't any easier, but you make it to your bedroom without incident. You turn on some fairy lights and some music and lay next to the beer case in bed. Everything swaying gives the comforting inertia of laying in a hammock being rocked by the breeze. Breathing is a bit of a struggle between the weight of your chest and the pressure your stomach is putting on your diaphragm.

You want more. So you sit up just enough not to choke as you drink and brink the vodka to your lips. That burns feels like pleasure now, and the shudders that traverse your body when you finish spur you on to drink more.

You scroll online lazily and admire everyone else getting wrecked tonight. A bold competitiveness rises up in you, determined to stay ahead of the others. You sit up more so you can feel the effects of the alcohol more, and it doesn't take long before you start to careen sideways, booze zapping all ability to stay upright.

Someone challenges you to walk to the other side of your room and back, and to chug vodka halfway through, if you make it that far.

Your legs tangle as you try to roll off the bed, but you manage to land on your feet. And then your butt as you fall back onto the bed, which creaks ominously. Attempt two gets you up, but you nearly topple over when you lean to pick up the bottle.

The world is a tilting balancing beam, and you're sure you're going slide off sizeways. You stumble sideways, back and forth, so much that you easily double the amount of steps it would have taken to get there in a straight line.

The wall meets your shoulder unceremoniously, and you lean on it like your life depends on it. Your balance certainly does; there's no way you're freestanding anymore.

The burn of vodka is triumphant, as is the spittle connecting between the neck of the bottle and your poisoned lips, as is your first step back towards the bed.

The second step is where you falter. No longer do you have the support of the wall, so your body quickly accepts help from the floor. Luckily you don't buy good vodka in glass, so the plastic bottle bounces harmlessly away.

Crumpled and dumb, you lay there giggling and wiggling, the pleasure of being so drunk and out of control brushing over your skin, especially over your still expanding belly, taut and erect in the air. Reaching for the bottle takes a few tries between your compromised folded position and your heavy disobeying arm, but you manage and tip it back, getting most in your mouth, but a good amount dribbles down your cheek and chin.

Hic! Your body jerks from the sudden spasm, limbs following through with the last of the twitch. Hic! Urrp.

You try to roll over, but you you're completely beached on your back by the weight of your belly. You can't even move you head and keep your eyes open at the same time. Gravity pins your shoulders back, forbidding enough momentum to get to your side.

So you just lay there, an entire bottle of vodka and countless beers pulsing through your veins, an entire pizza and two shareable appetizers fighting against the beer for space in your stretchmarked middle, and the power of joints, edibles, and the bong clouding your stalling brain. You don't need to think, you just need to feel.

You feel your head loll side to side, giggling as the world shifts. You feel your diaphragm hitch with every pesky hiccup and the contents of your stomach slosh with every involuntary movement. Most of all, you feel heat wash over your body in crashing waves, soaking your mind in nothing but pleasure, sending sensitive tingles down your spine, and a lusting desire for more.

Your beer is on the bed, and your toys are in the drawer beside it. Getting there might actually be impossible. For now, at least.

Conciousness starts to slip away from you, and you make a promise to yourself to move once you come to. You'll still be drunk as a skunk and unable to walk, but you might be able to crawl by then. Then you can get a head start on your Saturday activities.

You're so out of control that you're passing out on your floor, unable to move the few feet to your bed. Hedonistically sloshed for pleasure, but so fucked up that you can't do anything after the build up. Moans spill out of you as you try to squirm, just making yourself frustratingly more turned on.

But those moans quickly silence, because your debauchery has finally completely taken you over, leaving you passed out on the hard floor, drool dripping from your gaping mouth, eyes rolled back, and despite your state, arm reaching towards what should have been your next drink. What will be your next drink. When you're sober enough to move, but not enough to think.

There's no need to think.

[queercoshon]

Getting so stuffed you can barely keep it all down. Afraid to speak because everything might come up, only separating your lips slightly to let out a small burp every few minutes or so. So full that anything larger than the smallest of breaths threatens to rupture your entire being. Unable to move due to the pain of your skin stretched so thinly over your swollen stomach. Your heart racing and your junk hotly pulsating from being simultaneously turned on and afraid for your wellbeing. Doing everything within your weakened state to force your body to keep it all in. Sweating... panting... immobile... And then your feeder comes up to you with the next meal. They lift the first bite to your lips and as much as your body is telling you you shouldn't, you shakily open your mouth to accept. You chew feebly, then swallow, feeling the food sliding down into your overly packed gut. You grimace in searing pain as your belly ever so slightly swells some more from the latest addition. This could be it, the final bit of gorging that does you in. But when your feeder offers you the next bite, you can't help but take that as well, and then the one after that, and then the next, stomach creaking as it continues to be pushed well past its limit. You don't know how much longer your body can keep it together, but you are going to savor the experience right down to the last crumb...

[queercoshon]

So here's the same story, but with some feedism bits thrown in. Hope it's integrated well enough to feel different, and not just like an afterthought.

Friday night is when you can revert back to your true nature.

And that is a drunk hedon.

You spend all week primmed up and put together, managing the responsibilities of a job, a household, a social life. You're relied on to make decisions, to follow them through, and subsequently handle any consequences that may arise.

But after your first toke and shot of the weekend, none of it is your problem. You feel the tension unwind from your shoulders, your back slouch a little more into the couch, and your pinned up smile melt into a real one. Now you can let go.

You could put on the tv, or listen to music and make art, or just scroll the internet, and let your desires take over.

You take a hit of your joint, sipping your first drink of the night between inhales. The smell of smoke wafts away along with the day's worries. The drink is chugged back to time it with the last embers burning out.

The high starts to screw your smile sideways, and you quickly take down another drink. Now is when the fun challenge of the weekend begins; get fucked up as quickly as possible but delay passing out as long as possible. And of course, gorge with reckless abandon.

You feel the alcohol start to spread warmth from your stomach up to your cheeks, but it's not working fast enough, so naturally you need a shot. And maybe another, just in case.

You set up your space with easy access to your bong, edibles, a case of cans (24 pack; you've learned a 6 pack won't get you to 8pm), the still mostly-full bottle of vodka, enough food to feed a whole family (a pizza, garlic knots, cauliflowerbites, and a brownie dessert pizza), and water.

You set up your movie and pull up its drinking game rules, crack another can, and quickly start on the pizza.

You drink more than the rules dictate, and open another one fifteen minutes in. An edible ends up in your mouth. That'll be a nice surprise in about half an hour.

You were genuinely hungry when you started your pizza, but now the influence of weed is doing most of the heavy lifting. The artificial hunger is almost more compelling than the genuine one, as you don't stop to think about what you're shoving in your mouth.

As you watch you feel your mind start to get fuzzy. The lights of the tv are a little softer, the jokes a little funnier, the couch a little comfier. High energy thoughts can't even enter your brain, so they can't nag at the back of your mind and dampen this evening.

You've been bouncing between cauliflower bites and garlic knots for a while now; obeying the munchies but also feeling your bloated gut start to gurgle in protest. Spending every weekend like this has stretched your capacity massively, but you still have struggles. Until the edible hits. Now those last two slices of pizza sound like a great idea. You rub your plush middle between bites and will your stomach to keep stretching.

Close to the end of the movie your first bout of hiccups wracks your body, making you hold your bouncing belly and giggle. You've made a tradition now where as soon as the first hiccups stop, you take another shot. This "shot" is you chugging from the vodka bottle, going until the burn in your throat is too much.

Finding the remote to put the next movie on is hard (it was on your thigh, completely covered by your gut), and so is operating the buttons, but you have lots of practice now and get it with little issue.

There's a drinking game for this movie too, but it's a lot harder to remember the rules and sometimes remember that you're playing. Don't worry, you're still drinking at a steady pace. Such a steady pace that halfway through the second movie you start to question what the hell is happening (you've seen this movie a few times already.) You giggle as you try to follow the plot, and you giggle as your body fights gravity trying to reach the bong. The fight gets harder and harder every weekend as you add pounds to your rapidly expanding frame, working against the weight as well as your bulging gut that's getting difficult to reach around.

Several rips later you lay melted into the couch, red eyes staring at the flickering tv. You think your mouth is dry from cottonmouth, but you've also been sitting there slack jawed and drooling just a bit. Alternating between your water and beer is remedying it, but it's also blurring your vision and sending heat to every extremity.

How long has the movie been finished? The screen has been recommending what to watch next for a while, but you've just clued in on that. Time to move on to something else.

The cans littered on the couch clank as you shift your body to get up, rocking up and nearly tumbling onto the coffee table. You feel your stomach shift, and several deep belches roar out of you, all that movement releasing the trapped air.

Whoaaa, everything is swaying, like being on a cruise ship in choppy water. Miraculously, you bend over and pick up the half empty beer case without ending up on the floor. Bending over like that is getting increasingly difficult, you belly got awful squished just now.You put the vodka bottle in the box as well, having enough mind to keep one hand free to catch your falls. Too bad, the brownie pizza will have to wait until tomorrow.

One step, two steps, a little stumble to the side and back. The bedroom feels so far away. A particularly dangerous wobble makes you hug the hallway wall, using your shoulder to guide your melting body.

You make a quick stop to the bathroom and as you wash your hands you get a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your eyes are bloodshot, but it's hard to see that as your eyelids droop, adding to the doped up look of your screwed smile. Your mirage sways because you do, the act of standing still far too complicated a task to manage. Your belly domes out in front of you, the bottom still soft and jiggly, while the rest is stuffed solid.

Walking isn't any easier, but you make it to your bedroom without incident. You turn on some fairy lights and some music and lay next to the beer case in bed. Everything swaying gives the comforting inertia of laying in a hammock being rocked by the breeze. Breathing is a bit of a struggle between the weight of your chest and the pressure your stomach is putting on your diaphragm.

You want more. So you sit up just enough not to choke as you drink and brink the vodka to your lips. That burns feels like pleasure now, and the shudders that traverse your body when you finish spur you on to drink more.

You scroll online lazily and admire everyone else getting wrecked tonight. A bold competitiveness rises up in you, determined to stay ahead of the others. You sit up more so you can feel the effects of the alcohol more, and it doesn't take long before you start to careen sideways, booze zapping all ability to stay upright.

Someone challenges you to walk to the other side of your room and back, and to chug vodka halfway through, if you make it that far.

Your legs tangle as you try to roll off the bed, but you manage to land on your feet. And then your butt as you fall back onto the bed, which creaks ominously. Attempt two gets you up, but you nearly topple over when you lean to pick up the bottle.

The world is a tilting balancing beam, and you're sure you're going slide off sizeways. You stumble sideways, back and forth, so much that you easily double the amount of steps it would have taken to get there in a straight line.

The wall meets your shoulder unceremoniously, and you lean on it like your life depends on it. Your balance certainly does; there's no way you're freestanding anymore.

The burn of vodka is triumphant, as is the spittle connecting between the neck of the bottle and your poisoned lips, as is your first step back towards the bed.

The second step is where you falter. No longer do you have the support of the wall, so your body quickly accepts help from the floor. Luckily you don't buy good vodka in glass, so the plastic bottle bounces harmlessly away.

Crumpled and dumb, you lay there giggling and wiggling, the pleasure of being so drunk and out of control brushing over your skin, especially over your still expanding belly, taut and erect in the air. Reaching for the bottle takes a few tries between your compromised folded position and your heavy disobeying arm, but you manage and tip it back, getting most in your mouth, but a good amount dribbles down your cheek and chin.

Hic! Your body jerks from the sudden spasm, limbs following through with the last of the twitch. Hic! Urrp.

You try to roll over, but you you're completely beached on your back by the weight of your belly. You can't even move you head and keep your eyes open at the same time. Gravity pins your shoulders back, forbidding enough momentum to get to your side.

So you just lay there, an entire bottle of vodka and countless beers pulsing through your veins, an entire pizza and two shareable appetizers fighting against the beer for space in your stretchmarked middle, and the power of joints, edibles, and the bong clouding your stalling brain. You don't need to think, you just need to feel.

You feel your head loll side to side, giggling as the world shifts. You feel your diaphragm hitch with every pesky hiccup and the contents of your stomach slosh with every involuntary movement. Most of all, you feel heat wash over your body in crashing waves, soaking your mind in nothing but pleasure, sending sensitive tingles down your spine, and a lusting desire for more.

Your beer is on the bed, and your toys are in the drawer beside it. Getting there might actually be impossible. For now, at least.

Conciousness starts to slip away from you, and you make a promise to yourself to move once you come to. You'll still be drunk as a skunk and unable to walk, but you might be able to crawl by then. Then you can get a head start on your Saturday activities.

You're so out of control that you're passing out on your floor, unable to move the few feet to your bed. Hedonistically sloshed for pleasure, but so fucked up that you can't do anything after the build up. Moans spill out of you as you try to squirm, just making yourself frustratingly more turned on.

But those moans quickly silence, because your debauchery has finally completely taken you over, leaving you passed out on the hard floor, drool dripping from your gaping mouth, eyes rolled back, and despite your state, arm reaching towards what should have been your next drink. What will be your next drink. When you're sober enough to move, but not enough to think.

There's no need to think.