#and not letting your feedees habits rub off....

[bigolbadblog]

uhhh i'm back on my bullshit

thinking bout. stuffing mr. the duke

okay first off. the capacity on that man? absolutely unbelievable. you can fit SO MUCH good food in that bad boy

he loves eating for pleasure. naturally. but most of the time he's eating for mouth-pleasure more than belly-pleasure, if that makes sense. the flavors, the mouthfeel, even the aromas. he also enjoys the heavy, warm, slightly achy feeling of a true stuffing; it's just that he can put away so much food without even beginning to feel it, so much so that reaching that state of feeling overfilled takes WORK. a feast that would leave you stuffed to the gills is just about enough to bring him to "comfortably full." which is really the most he has time for, on a typical day. what with travelling all over and running a small business and all, he's a pretty busy guy.

but when he does get the chance to fully and i mean fully indulge his appetites.... oh boy. Oh Man. oh boy oh boy oh boy

most of the time i imagine him more as a feeder or a self-feedee. (as a side note, yes he does find an element of vicarious pleasure as a feeder in seeing his partners / playmates get utterly stuffed on a fraction of the food it'd take for him. it's not the same as experiencing it for himself, but it's still lovely to hear them panting and burping and moaning, as well as getting to rub their poor little bellies. plus, it's kind of adorable to him. aw, that's all it takes to get you so full you can't even think straight, much less get out of your chair? how sweet.)

when he wants to get stuffed, though, he gladly welcomes assistance. like i said, it's a big job. if you're cooking for him, prep will take you days. if you're with him at a restaurant or a banquet, it's gonna be your job to make sure his plate is never bare and his glass is never empty.

he's a man of taste. he likes variety in what he eats. he's not a snob- if it's good, he has no issue with polishing off an entire roast ham or a cook-off sized cauldron of chili, repetitive though it may be- but if you truly want to win his heart, offer him multiple courses of many different foods. it's the best way to keep his interest piqued and his palate entertained.

either way, it's gonna. take. hours.

he will notice how flustered you're getting as you bring him plate after plate. and he WILL tease you about it.

you couldn't possibly keep up with him, and you're too busy to try, but there will be several points where you do need to sit down and eat with him. all your meals and all the space in between them go by while he's still eating continuously.

he's a pretty chatty guy, but while he eats, he likes to focus on eating. he's surprisingly quiet, except to praise the food (and tease you, of course).

maybe about seven or eight courses in, you start to notice he's resting his free hand (that is to say, the hand that isn't constantly ferrying more food and drink to his mouth) on the curve of his belly. but he still keeps up the pace as he eats.

because he's so big, he doesn't show the bloat of a stuffing as obviously as smaller people would. which contributes to the impression that all this food is genuinely going into a bottomless pit. but sometime after you lose count of how much food you've brought him, you look at him and notice subtle changes in his silhouette. the curve of his belly gets perkier, with more bulk higher up, and he leans slightly further back in his chair to give himself room to breathe. and still he keeps eating

he's a very civilized eater. cuts his food into dainty bites, chews thoroughly, takes delicate sips of his drink, etc. because of those habits, he doesn't get super gassy super fast. but even so, with the amount of food he's packing away, yeah, there's going to be some air that'll need to get worked out as all that begins to digest.

civilized burper, too. surprisingly quiet, yet a true baritone. at first, he favors letting out several smaller burps rather than singular long belches. he covers his mouth with his napkin each time- at least, he does until he gets so full that a belch surprises him in the middle of a sentence.

at that point, he does take a break from eating to have a cup of hot green tea and let his stomach settle. if you ask nicely, he'll let you rub it. it takes you a while to find the sweet spots amid all that bulk, but you will absolutely know when you get it right. a few more longer, louder burps, but more than that, the sighs that man lets out when you rub him right... 🥵

and then dessert, of course! he'll let you hand-feed him at this point, as it's getting difficult for him to sit forward and reach the food. but he absolutely expects you to keep to his own standards of civil dining. no mess, no rush, no oversized bites. that black forest gateau is so lovely - it would be a shame for any of it to go to waste.

when the feasting is finally concluded, his face is flushed, his breathing heavy, his already massive belly pert and swollen. like any classy gentleman, he likes to finish his meals with another cup of tea or coffee, a cigar, and conversation. (this next part is for those of y'all who like some recognizable sex activities in your feedism:) but you've been so attentive and eager, and he knows how badly you've been wanting him this whole time, so while the water is heating up for that drink (and okay, you set the heat so low that it's gonna take a while), he'll give you your dessert. you might have to get a little creative with positions, though, because...

that man is not getting up when this is done. wherever you are, he's made his seating space comfortable (or instructed you on how to do so) ahead of time. cuz he's gonna be there for a while. after you share a post-meal drink, smoke, and conversation, he drifts off into a food coma right where he is.

just. a truly delightful time to be had by all.

[chubbology]

The Munchies

prompt: a stoner feedee's girlfriend uses him to test out new edibles and deals with his munchies

Remmy returned home from visiting relatives on the last day of December, and he was very glad to be back. They’d fed him well and his pants were tight, but all the small talk and bad vibes had been as much of a drag as usual.

He opened the door to his apartment and breathed in a familiar, potent scent.

“Baby!” Brianna ran from the kitchen and tackled him.

“Happy almost New Year! Wanna hear my resolution? Baking and getting baked. Check it out.”

She brought him over to the counter, where she was almost done filling up three containers of what Remmy had no doubt were various edibles. He ignored the kitchen mess.

“I’m liking what I see,” Remmy laughed.

She preened and then pinched his love handle. “I bet you do."

"These aren’t your typical brownies, though," she said. "This is gourmet.” She kissed her fingertips in a muah.

The first container was full of moist shortbread, the second with a kind of apple crumble dish that looked divine. Last but not least, the third had a jumble of what like peanut butter cups.

“Try something!” Brianna gushed. She seemed to be a little floaty already. “You’re gonna be my new taste tester. I think I could really be good at this. Make some cash, too.”

So Remmy tried one of the peanut butter cups. His eyes widened, and he smiled. “Bri, these are incredible.” He ate another.

“Take it easy. Two should get you stoned. So says the recipe anyway.” Brianna rubbed his pudgy forearm as he eyed the rest in the container, biting the inside of his lip. “Hey. If you’re just hungry, I can fix that. You wanna eat?”

“I’m starving,” Remmy said. A lie, since he’d had a big lunch before driving back. But he could eat.

“Okay, I’ll get you something! Pay day was Monday. Let’s splurge. What do you want?”

McDonalds, Remmy’s mind supplied easily, in an almost salacious tone. His relatives thought they were too good for McDonalds, and now his body thrummed with the desire to just get a truckload of those greasy combos and revel in the guilt and satisfaction of eating every last unhealthy bite.

Then again. Brianna probably wasn’t okay to drive right now, he didn’t feel like getting back in the car, and the scale told him he’d hit 240 recently, “Let’s just order in.”

“Sounds good to me.”

That night, as they ignored the idiots on television bringing in the New Year, the two of them picked at the apple crumble - which tasted as brilliant as Remmy had suspected - and lounged around, enjoying their high. Brianna barely touched her Chinese takeout, and Remmy ate all of his. Then hers. Then he started grazing the kitchen for more food.

Over the course of the next week, the two of them finished off the rest of what she made, plus some more recipes that turned out delicious. Brianna got a pleasant high every time, and Remmy enjoyed the edibles, too, although his experience was slightly different. It was just—

He just—

He got hungry. Munchies but on unholy overdrive. Cranked to eleven and a half. With every high, Remmy became a little more overwhelmed by the sheer amount of food he felt compelled to pack away, savory and sweet. Takeout and fast food and quarts of ice cream. Nuts and fruits, too. Jar of peanut butter here. Tub of icing there. He’d never been very active, so it came as no surprise when his clothes began stretching over his chest and belly and thighs and ass. He popped a button getting dressed one morning and couldn’t stop thinking about it the rest of the day. He hadn’t realized it would happen so quickly, his body converting all the calories into flab. Flab that padded him out chubbier than he already was, and then more on top of that. In the mirror, he started to look big.

Brianna seemed unfazed by her boyfriend’s growing girth. She took to her baking resolution with as much gusto as she did anything that interested her, and even into March, April, and May, she was selling the edibles well and raked in money that almost made her day job obsolete. Remmy was constantly praised for being “the bestest taste tester ever” and enjoyed a steady stream of free highs to balance out the lows of spending most of his time working his IT job from home.

Working, gaming, watching old movies. Remmy already stayed sitting most of the day, but as he gained weight, gained a lot, filling out his desk chair to its limits, crumbs becoming his constant companion, he felt even less like standing up. His weight climbed to 280, 290, 300.

June, July, and August passed uneventfully, and pretty happily, too. Brianna stopped asking him what food he wanted from the grocery store and just bought him things. Bought him things she knew he’d eat when he got high, things that made his ass spread wider on the couch, his arms round out like sausages, his pudgy chest start to really droop. The scale said 320, 330, 340.

Remmy gave up trying to gain control of the new appetite Brianna’s heavenly edibles seemed to install in him irrevocably. When he craved, he ate, and he ate. And like a dam breaking, his body surged with so much excess fat he began spilling out of even his newest clothes.

He was a little ashamed, sure. But quite a few of his relatives were fat, so they couldn't talk, and it felt like sweet revenge to embarrass his irritating parents by becoming so overweight. As for everyday life, well, he just moved around from room to room slower, wore the same stretchy clothes a lot, and that was it. Remmy did mention his weight in passing sometimes to gauge Brianna’s feelings about it, but Brianna only ever giggled, called him cute, and passed him her venti sugary monstrosity of a coffee concoction, which he thoughtlessly sucked down to the dregs, ingesting a thousand-plus calories just like that. This made her eyes sparkle, huge and utterly endeared.

“Like a piggy,” she said, thumbing his fat cheek. “Always willing to eat.”

In bed, she made it clear she liked him the way he was, and was becoming. And it wasn’t long before Remmy realized he was into how big he was becoming, too.

They continued like this. Getting high together and watching movies and making out and snacking. Well, Brianna snacked. Remmy feasted. Gorged himself, to put it precisely, with Brianna’s enthusiastic help. “You look good soft,” she’d tell him, playing with belly fat that his stretchiest t-shirts couldn’t cover anymore.

Remmy would swallow another bite of a snickers and spread his huge thighs a little, with effort. “You call it soft, but I’m the one who gets tired moving from the office to the kitchen.” I’m so heavy, he wanted to say. God, I’m so heavy.

“Just move your computer to the kitchen then,” she said. “Duh.”

It was a seed planted that came to fruition a month later - when Remmy’s food cravings became unmanageable and his weight climbed past 360 - that he felt he would simply be more productive during his day job if his breaks to get food from the kitchen were shorter.

By November, whether he was high or not, Remmy was grazing all day, everyday. What Brianna got from the store became insufficient, and he started a habit of ordering take out most days. In big portions. His scale creaked at 375. When Brianna wasn’t home, he sometimes ate takeout on the scale to see if the number would rise.

On Remmy’s birthday in early December, Brianna made a fresh batch of his favorites again: the peanut butter cup edibles. After ordering pizza for delivery, she got in the shower, and Remmy scarfed down three of the big cups as soon as they cooled. Then he waited, leaning against the counter, scrolling on his phone, belly hanging, feet hurting. He didn’t want to go to the effort of sitting on the couch and getting back up again when he could just stay in the kitchen, where he knew he’d end up anyway.

He scratched his supple underbelly. Found a pack of Twizzlers and started eating those.

Soon enough, his breathing slowed as he felt the high slowly come over him. And, as expected, his whole body immediately began to tingle for satiation. Fattening food sung to him from the pantry and fridge and freezer all at once, and it was all going to make him so huge and heavy he wouldn’t be able to stand on his own wide feet, but he wanted it anyway.

He didn’t care if he was pushing 390 now. He’d blown up, yeah. Inflated from a thick guy to obese and waddling. At this point, he was so pumped so big with blubber that he couldn’t twitch without jiggling, but so what? He was hungry. Being high made him want to consume, and so he did. He couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to.

Remmy opened the fridge and took out his birthday cake, which Brianna must have stuck in there after getting home from work. He couldn’t wait to eat it properly. There was no way he could wait until after the pizza came. Besides, it was his birthday. Remmy took off the plastic lid of the round, triple chocolate cake and felt his nerves light up with anticipation. He was going to eat it all, and there was no stopping him.

He found a knife and cut himself a slice three times the size any reasonable person would take. Desperate to get the goodness into his mouth without delay, he skipped a fork and bit right into the gooey, dense cake and mouse and fudge. God, Brianna was so perfect for getting him the unhealthiest cake imaginable. She knew he didn’t care if he was ten pounds heavier tomorrow, if his fat ass ripped his sweatpants open, if he ate so much he couldn’t haul himself to bed—she knew he needed this.

He ate slice after slice, and it was mostly gone when Brianna got out of the shower, looking sexier than usual in her matching purple lingerie. She’d gotten chubbier with so much junk food in the apartment, and fat clung to her in all the right places. But her pudge was a far cry from his angry-red stretch marks and neck rolls. Hell, his moobs had grown bigger than her tits.

She found him in the kitchen, eating and holding his drooping belly, and she rubbed his back, cooing at him when he apologized.

“It’s okay. I figured you wouldn’t be able to wait all night. How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Remmy said, but all he could think about was getting his next bite. As she watched him, he tried to hold out. Tried to prove he could stop eating for two seconds. Three seconds, four - his resolve broke and he crammed the rest of a slice into his mouth and chewed, choking back a moan.

“You get the munchies so bad, don’t you?” Brianna grinned and leaned against his belly, patting and cupping his weighty breasts in the way she knew pleased him. “Let’s get you sat down. I’ll bring you what you need. Just sit and relax and watch whatever you want.” They moved to the couch and Remmy sat, the cushions wheezing, his thighs and belly quivering. Brianna tucked the remainder of the cake into his pudgy hands. “Don’t worry about a mess. It’s your birthday. And there’s more where that came from.” She winked. “I just needed to keep this cake refrigerated because it’s fancy. There’s a whole sheet cake on top of the fridge that’s cheap and huge. Covered in icing. Perfect for munchies.”

Remmy could only feel a wave of relief at this news. There would be more cake. And after that, there’d still be more junk in the cabinets. There was pizza coming. His high was just right. Brianna turned on the television to his favorite show and he settled further back into the cushions, feeling his second chin swell out and engulf his first. Everything was just right. He was lucky to have Brianna and food. So much food.

A year later, around the same time, Remmy skipped his usual trip to see his relatives for the holidays. At 520 pounds, it was simply too much effort to move.

*

Thank you to the reader who commissioned this work!

I'd love to write more. Check me out <3 etsy.com/shop/Chubbology

[thatgirlsnotrightinthebrain]

Questions 40-50

40. Cutest feederism fantasy?

I think I answered this one... But maybe from a feeder perspective instead of a feedee perspective this time... (switch energy, ha) 

We’ve been going out a while. When we met, he was in decent shape - no 6 pack abs, but strong, and fit. A regular at the gym.  

Now, after about 6 months of being official, he has totally let himself go. He has an appetite and feeds it. Healthy, protein packed, nutrient-rich meals have given way to fast food feasts, whole pizzas in one sitting, and entire jars of Nutella. He hasn’t moved from the sofa for anything outside of getting more to eat and hygiene purposes. (He’s not a slob.) He claims he hasn’t been to the gym in months because he was “feeling sick.” Or his “bum knee.” At least that’s I heard him tell his trainer anyway. I say nothing. I wait to see what happens without my influence. 

After a few more months of his bad habits catching up with him, none of his clothes are fitting properly. His once large shirts barely button around his belly. His pants can barely get over his butt, let alone zip. He can no longer pull them to his belly button, so his gut is hanging over his waistband, accentuating his love handles that have only gotten more generous with time. Because the “bum knee” he has started waddling. He can’t be on his feet too long.

One day, when he gets home from work, two large Whopper meals (one for me, one for him) with two additional whoppers (”They had a bogo deal, I thought they’d be good for lunch tomorrow.”), he waddles himself to the sofa and his shirt betrays him - not one, but *two* buttons fly off his shirt. He is shocked. I come over and let him know it’s okay. That it was pretty sexy, actually. That it was all his overeating that did him in... I begin to feed him his fries while grabbing his gut, and he doesn’t object. He finishes them no problem. I feed him a burger. He demolishes it and pats his blubbery belly. It growls. Still embarrassed about his popped buttons, he looks sheepish about his appetite for the first time ever. “It’s okay, babe. I know those extra Whoppers were never for ‘lunch.’ You have too much room left.” I unwrap another burger and feed it to him, stroking his thigh. He is turned on. I see the evidence through his too-tight pants. He reaches for the last burger. I rub his belly, though he doesn’t seem to be struggling. He repositions himself and to our surprise another *pop* - his pants are no longer suffocating him, and his excitement is more visible. “Oh, my big boy is excited.” I tease. “I still feel room in your belly. I want you stuffed. Only then can you cum.” I grab a box of donuts from the kitchen. “Finish them.” He eats, as I remove his pants, his shirt, and then pay attention to where all the chub has gone on his chonky body. Delicious. “Hey babe?” I ask as he works on his fourth donut. “Mmm” he replies. “You enjoy eating like this, right?” Eyes closed in pure bliss, he nods. He reaches for donut number five, and is starting to slow down. “Well, I think it’s incredibly sexy to see you eat like this. Outgrow your clothes. Watch you get fat... fatter... Would you like to maybe keep this pattern going? With a little more help from me?” He chews as he speaks, “Are you kidding me? Mmph, Now that I know you’re not upset with me for becoming a total fatass, that you’re actually into it, I’m going to let loose *all* the time.” “Can I push you to your limits on a regular basis?” “Of course, honey.” I pick up another another donut and eat it myself, deep in thought. He goes for donut number six, relishing the taste. When he’s done, I straddle him, pick up the last donut and hold it to his mouth, he bites into it, while looking at me. I look him in the eyes, and warn him “I’m going to make you absolutely *huge.*” “I count on it, hun... Do we have any more donuts?”

41. Current weight?

260 lbs.

42. Height?

5′ 2″

43. Dating someone?

Kind of? We had one official “date.” We’re still talking, but it’s been over a month... so... not exclusively?

44. Favorite food to use sexually?

I feel like whipped cream and donuts could be fun. 

45. Favorite chubby pet name?

For someone else? Tubby. CHONKY BOY. 46. Where does most of your weight go?

It seems to be fairly distributed between my boobs, hips, butt, thighs, and belly, but recently it’s been going more to my belly than anywhere else. (Much to my displeasure... my belly was already big enough, it didn’t need to get *bigger.*)

47. What’s your dress size?

Between a 20 - 22 US sizes.

48. What’s your pants size?

Between a 20 - 22 US sizes... (Though probably closer to 22 at this point. I live in leggings. 🤷🏽‍♀️)

49. What’s your bra size?

44 DDD

50. Anything else you’d like to be asked?

I’m open to almost anything, as long as it isn’t creepy.