To Be Filled

By Hedonistic Purity

"I can't...stop." She had to pause for breath, just long enough for another hunk of cake to gently push its way past her lips.

"I know."

"Help me stop...it's...too much." Again, only a few words before the weight of everything, before the accumulation of years spent with her lover, years of giving in, forced her to breath instead of talk. It was barely enough to catch her breath before another big piece of cake was slowly pushed to the back of her throat. Before she could close her mouth, another one pushed it's way into. It was a dense but soft and moist cake; she didn't have to chew, she could just swallow as he pushed more into her mouth, gently forcing a column of cake down her throat. Like the cake was being pushed directly into her stomach, stretching her like a balloon. She had been too weak to close her lips without making a conscious effort to, so a few more hunks of cake pushed inside of her before she managed to close her mouth long enough to swallow everything in it. As helpless as she was, it wasn't really forced, was it? She did this to herself. She had given in, knowing it would happen. But it still scared her a little, to be so completely helpless, so she begged him when the last piece of cake in front of her did its part in filling the emptiness within the taught, aching bulge at her center. With her arm not quite resting, but pushed against the slant of her hip and gut so she could hold it there while instinctively kneading at the heavy pressure inside her--even though her arm was pushed too far out to her side for her pudgy hands to make a difference--she managed to weakly breath: "Please..."

"Shhhh." He gently caressed the smallest portion of a distant roll on her hip, and then the outer curve of her gut. It felt so separated, so apart from her, yet more sensitive than any part of her had been years ago. Every inch of her was like that now. Foreign, yet stimulating. It all pulled at her, pinned her, bound her. Her body was stuck, her form motionless, but there was always some part of her in motion. The table he used had two levels, only one that she could see out of the corner of her eye. He brought up another cake. He kissed her gently on the lips, and lovingly rolled the fat in her upper belly over the hard ball of sugar, fat, and dough protruding beneath it, which slowly imprisoned her more as she digested it. half out of exhaustion, half out of defeat, her hand fell back as the weight from her upper arm pulled it back down past her side. The fat which billowed out from where a bicep might be, and the small bunched up rolls that had managed to form there slowly forced her to almost straighten her arms until she was once again splayed out. There was no point in using her arms for now, she was out of breath just from reaching for her stomach. There was no point in wasting her breath talking either, she was resigned to being filled, pushed apart. Even if she could resist she knew he would eventually push the cake inside her...on the rare occasions when her senses and the sensually unbearable heaviness got the better of her, she had only ever made weak attempts to push the food away. She gave in. Always. "You're so good to me." She stared up at the ceiling, helpless, scared, happy, as it entered her. "That's why I have to make you happy. Free you." He pushed harder.

It wasn't the first time she'd been filled so much, but sometimes when he had less time to prepare, or less money after accommodating a purchase for her accommodations, she would have a break for a few days, or even a week. She could munch on chocolate and sweets all day, drink something thick and creamy through a long straw, and for meals he would fill her more, until she reached the constant, dull ache she craved as much as she was frightened by it. She needed it to feel somewhat satisfied, but after a short while she was numb to the pain. She had to eat more, stretch herself a little more, to feel the pain, the fullness. She needed to be filled. Food was her happiness, it filled the emptiness within her. Not a depression, or a lack of love, sex, or a lack of anything else. She was not depressed, even if she was worried, she was loved, she was always aroused, and she needed nothing else. Nothing but to be filled. She liked the act of swallowing and feeling the food enter her even more than the taste, not that her tastes weren't discerning. The longer she maintained that state of blissful suffering, the more content and aroused she became. But the longer she drew it out, the more addicting it became and the faster the fat filled her body to unreasonable proportions. The last cake had pushed her past numb, past a dull ache, past a constant pain. Now every swallow strengthened the sensation of being split apart, of being on the verge of the ultimate meal. Throbbing pangs of pressure-induced pain. The fat beneath her skin stretching over a straining, dense sack of food. It pushed against everything within her. It was pure, unbearable happiness beneath real tears, whimpers, and moans if she had the breath. Even though the pain and pressure made her incapable of putting another bite in her mouth, she wanted to swallow one more time, and he gave it to her. If she had the power she would beg to stop. If she had the strength again, she would feebly attempt to push it away. But every swallow was a rush, an expectation followed by a wave of satisfaction. Then her uncontrollable desire would be rewarded by more pain. She wanted the pain to stop, wanted to escape from it so bad that she almost wished she would pop so it would end, but...it was the pain that gave her the most intense waves of pleasure. It got her off. It was sex incarnate. And the weight of it all, the fat that filled her every day, forcing her into the bed like her lovers hands, wrapped around her wrists, had done when they had first begun sleeping together. It was all she wanted.

But she didn't. It was all so much. Too much. That is what her mind told her. She had to say something, move a little in protest, or she was guilty of this decent into hedonism. It couldn't be OK to live this way. She gently bent her arm, as if to move her hand to her side. The effort to move hurt her turgid center, and it took work, so she didn't try very hard--she wasn't going to torture herself. She breathed a little heavier, looked desperately at him, her lips quivered just a bit...

“I would stop feeding you, but you have no self control, and I can't bare to see you in pain” he whispered. He brushed her breast with his hand before he gently rolled it between the bend in the fold of her hip fat, below her burdened gut. Just the proximity to her hidden cunt paralyzed her with a hot wave of blood pressure in her head. His fingers spread wide at the edge of her turgid stomach, he firmly pushed in and squeezed her stomach as he pushed more cake into her throat. The pain overtook her, her pupils widened, and everything went limp as she accepted her position: she was alive to be filled. She panted through her nose between swallows, which came fast as he pushed a constant column of the moist, fattening substance down into her stomach. It was too much. It was everything. “You're being so good for me”, he intoned while pushing more inside her with one hand, and rolling food stretched stomach in her gut over her useless and splayed thighs. It was wonderful agony. The motion was out of sink with the sagging, encumbered flesh that covered her roll embedded knees, and filled the space between her feet. That part of her soft heavy belly flesh grazed the thick roll of flesh on each calf right where rolls began to fold around her ankles to cover half of each foot, forcing her toes to point away from her. She was consumed by the orgasm, by satisfaction, happiness, and a yearning for more. Only a split moment after it gripped her, the yearning sparked the briefest tinge of a thought that would always tarnish the purity of this experience. A hint of fear, and a remnant of guilt. she passed out. “You're so good to me.”

“You're being so good for me.” He had whispered it in her ear with a warm breath that spawned heavy breathing, and then he stared into her with a spark in his eyes. Some murky combination of adoration, lust, mischief, and love. While she stood there, her hand found comfort cupping the upper bulge of her somewhat uncomfortably full stomach. Her eyes glanced wearily at a bag of rectangular boxes, a blindfold sitting on his bed. She hadn't agreed to anything specific, she had just said “ok” when he asked her if she wanted dessert. This was all so strange, the whole night was such a blur. She was embarrassed and terrified, but she hadn't said no once. She didn't understand how she had been able to roll with it. It must have been him. She had fallen for him so quickly. She wanted what he wanted as long as he wanted her...but that wasn't right was it? She has dated before, and she wasn't a virgin either. She had fallen for a man who wanted to change her, and she just couldn't bring herself to do it.

“But I haven't really done anything, we only met last night.” 

Last night she had been eating by herself at a lonely buffet during off hours, and now she was in a room with someone she just met who had broken all of her barriers with hardly a protest from her, almost as if she was watching her life unfold in front of her from a theater seat. A couple of years ago she would have been at that buffet only once a week, which even then was more often than it should have been, but it felt rewarding after studying for school. It was OK to let her appetite take control just once a week, but sometime shortly before she graduated it became a weekend treat, which soon included Fridays, and eventually Mondays. Four days in a row she would spend over and hour filling herself. She would end up quite full, but it wasn't ever the fullness that stopped her from reaching a point of discomfort, or even pain, it was guilt. Overeating didn't make her feel sick, she would eat the worst food, and she had been gaining weight since puberty. She was obese at 15. Morbidly so at 17. A year into her affair with the buffet and she was almost 400 lbs. She was more than out of shape, running was impossible, and she had to breath heavily when walking for more than a couple of minutes. The heavier she became, the more hopeless it felt. She couldn't understand why, but that hopelessness would drive her to the buffet. It would push her shuffling, lumbering young body across the parking lot. As she felt her body taking over her movements, she began to see it as an excuse. Yes, she was loosing control, she couldn't stop it, and that's why it was OK. OK to fill herself. But that loss of control over herself is how she found herself in this room.

“You are here, being you, and to me that is wonderful. Besides, I could have scared you away, but you came here, and stayed, and you're still here.”

When she met him, she was near 500lbs, and a hot mess. Torn between guilt and the comfort of a body that told her she had to eat, that it was too hard to do anything else. Relishing and regretting those rare occasions when she gave in completely until she was full, stretching a little and in pain, but satisfied. She had stopped searching desperately for interesting clothes, and settled into stretchy pants and long shirts. She had a big, round, billowy ass about four feet wide that managed somehow to stick out far behind her, and remained a symmetrical, lumpy round shape, but not firm from any muscle. It was almost sloppy, but held in place by the shear tension of skin that had been filled with too much fat too fast to make room for it. Her belly had a similar quality. One big gut met all the way out to her wide hip folds and then hung all the way down to her knees. Soft and weighty, sloppy, but bulging out in the center line from her chubby chest down to where the skin above her belly button was pulled taught enough to face it forward. You could see a perfect outline of her soft, heavy, sagging gut pressing against her thighs, and you could see it right through her shirt and stretch pants, and even more so as each leg shuffled forward to lift each side of her gut. It was truly a struggle to get up stairs. With all the weight pushing down on each leg, she would have to rest several times, and would almost pass out from breathing so hard. Just walking from the car to the buffet entrance left her huffing and puffing. Her thighs and calves were both very thick, creased, and stretched tight by too much fat. Her arms were pushed out by the rolls on the sides of her fat-covered chest, by her hips, and by the dimply rolls of her fat “biceps”. Her blushing upper arms billowed past her elbows considerably. She'd never be able to let her arms fall by her sides again, they had to rest on top of her sides as if someone was lifting her up a bit by straps under her armpits. Her breasts were more like fat rolls, meeting with more fat rolls on her sides and with fat that pushed out from her chest. She was enveloped, swaddled in heavy, soft, wobbling fat. Because of how far your legs were pushed apart by her fat thighs, how hard it was for her to lift her gut on her thigh, the stiffness of her knees, and the weakness of her legs from lack of activity, her locomotion was such that she couldn't consistently lift each foot, bend her kneed to bring it forward, set it down in front of her, and repeat. No, it was easier to lean to one side and shift her weight to that leg, which would allow her to barely raise her rear foot off the ground while she would turn one whole side of her body, using its momentum to help her pull her leg forward and out as it rolled around her other leg. It was hard to pull her leg all the way back in because of her thighs, so she would fall forward and to the side heavy on her foot with each step. She didn't have to concentrate much to accommodate her size as she shuffled forward but the slow, jarring, teeter totter ballet of the process left her winded and keenly aware of the furthering loss of control she had over her body, as her limbs were pushed further apart from it, each meal packing more fat around her stiffly encumbered joints.

He sat at her table abruptly while she was eating, and asked her out on a date, at the same buffet for the next night. She didn't understand. He said she was perfect. She wasn't sure. He had to go. 

She found him sitting at a table the next night, for some reason she sat down. They chatted a bit, he asked her what she wanted and got it for her. She was embarrassed, still, but it didn't occur to her to do anything about it. She ate, they talked more. They talked about everything of any interest to either of them and soon found they were quite fond of each other intellectually, romantically, sexually (or at least, she knew she liked him), and with regards to all the crap that isn't really important but is fun to talk about with someone you like. At some point she was full, which meant that she had eaten a lot in front of him, an idea that caused her to start fidgeting nervously. He had already filled another plate to its edges before she had finished the last one, and replaced her empty plate the moment the last bite morsel passed her lips. She sheepishly declined.

He moved his seat right next to her and put his hand on her gut, pressing just firmly enough to force her to lean back while he gently made small circles right where the food was pushing her belly out from underneath her ribs. She was completely embarrassed, ashamed, frightened, and overtaken by lustful heat all at once. It didn't occur to her that she should say anything to make him stop. He kissed her softly, and her breathing became heavy. He stabbed a couple of things with a fork, and brought it up toward her lips.

She breathed, “I'm full,” feebly half-raising her arm as if to push the fork away.

“But you're not really full are you? You can fit more...” He wiggled one of her looser, softer, and vulnerable side rolls with his fingertips, which caused the surrounding fat on that whole side of her body to shimmy and shake. He then showed her how even a small side roll was long and heavy enough to heft right through her shirt, and let slap down on her side. She should have been mortified or hurt, and maybe she was, but she was also helpless. She was so fat, she couldn't just get up, get away. It would be even harder because she was full. She was so fat. She couldn't hide her fat. So much of it stuck out so far from her, that she couldn't stop him from grabbing her melting mounds of protruding fat and teasing them however he wanted. She just had to sit there, fat and helpless. As the food on the fork just touched the tip of her bottom lip he whispered “...for me.”

She was trapped by the fat sagging rolls that weighed her down onto the seat, by her lust, by years of binging fueled by hopeless acceptance. Her arms and legs pulled limp as any vestige of self control left her, and he gently pushed forkful after forkful into her lips. He was help prisoner, immobilized by him. Or at least that's what she had to tell herself to accept the pure gratification of swallowing another bite, of acquiescing her desire--no, her need--to fill the emptiness. It wasn't her doing this to herself, it was him. She was helpless. For once it was ok for her to feel content, happy, satisfied by every bite that was forced into a girl whose morbidly obese body rendered her this man's prisoner. As a slave to someone's whim, she had her first taste of freedom . 

After he fed her the whole plate, she was too full. It was too much. She was breathing heavier, her expression both compliant and pained. “No more, I just can't. It hurts.”

Unrepentantly, he pulled her shirt out of her stretch pants, and then pulled her pants below her gut, which required him to pull them so far down that if someone had been looking under the table, it would have looked like he was starting to take them off. He reached all the way around to her opposite hip fold, and brushed his hand underneath her sagging belly until it was below her stretched sinkhole of a belly button. He lifted the loose and heavy sack of fat, causing her aching stomach a good deal of pain, and let it slap against her knees. While tracing angry red stretch marks on top of old striations he stared into her eyes and told her, “has that always stopped you before? I went to your high school, when I was a senior and you were a freshman, I know where all this came from.” He shook another exposed roll. “Look what you've done to yourself.” He pinched her elbow fat, and leaned in close. “You can't stop can you?” She shook her head. Her whole body was shaky, both from embarrassment and sexual frustration. “I don't want you to stop. Do you want to make me happy?” 

She had to nod, or else she'd feel horrible. She had only just met him and his happiness was already important to her. That was why she had no choice. Why it was ok that every forkful from the next plate stretched her stomach to the point of constant, dull, aching pain. Why it was ok that reaching this state of gluttonous nirvana ensured she'd have to eat a little more tomorrow just to keep from feeling starved. There was nothing she could do. It was a little easier to accept her position as the fullness brought her closer to a true feeling of satisfaction, yet disconcerting that as it became more painful her sexual frustration grew immensely. It didn't help that this man toyed with her flesh lovingly, encouragingly, lecherously, as she came closer to finishing. She hadn't realized yet that the pain was just as much at fault as his hands were.

“Will you join me at home for...dessert?” He was staring into her. Her plate was inexplicably empty, and breathing was a little difficult. Occasionally a moan would escape. 

“OK.” 

When she wasn't looking into his eyes, her eyes were distant. It was a long shuffle over to his van and she had to rest once. He kept his hands around her hips so she could balance, or so he could cop a feel; she was appreciative either way. However, he barely supported her weight, if at all. It was almost as if...he reveled in her struggle. But struggling so much, she felt like this was her only path, the only one open to her. She needed a him to drive, so she would have to join him for...dessert. She exhibited this kind of resignation as she slowly pulled herself into the back of the van. She was aware that he caught her expression, and when she looked at him there faces were shortly pressed together, making out vigorously while she lay limp against the side of the door, half in the van. Occasionally she would let out small burps and half heartedly lift her hands out of embarrassment...which he would pull right down to her sides, making their kisses even more passionate. Before long they both realized they needed to finish somewhere else. She slowly pulled herself in, slid close the door, and off they went.

“You are here, being you, and to me that is wonderful. Besides, I could have scared you away, but you came here, and stayed, and you're still here.” 

He had her standing in the middle of his room, exposed and vulnerable. Her stomach ached and she hadn't sat down yet since she walked from the van into his apartment, so her breathing was labored. He reached for the bottom edge of her shirt, and promptly pulled it over her head. Whatever thoughts she had about whether it was a good idea or not were drowned out by how horny she was, and how helpless her predicament. She was too obese to run if she wanted to.

“I want you to be happy from now on.” He up-ended the bag and out fell 4 boxes of snack cakes. She already hurt, but she could feel the craving, the desire to push more down her throat, to chew and swallow, and it scared her. 

“But you make me happy. I really like you.”

“I know that. But you could be happy every moment of every day if you accepted who you are. These...”, he picked up a box and gently pressed it into her exposed, burgeoning gut before tossing it back on the bed, “...they ARE your happiness.” He slapped the bottom fold on her stomach, causing it to shake. “Food. Is your happiness.” He turned her ass around and pushed her back near the edge of his bed, crouched down to where her knees should have been, hefted her stomach in his arms, and then let it slap down against the rolls which encroached upon those knees. When it slapped down the weight of it kicked her back and forced her to sit, or plop, down on the bed. He unwrapped a snack cake, kissed her softly, pulled away slow, and while gently pushing the cake into her mouth he whispered into her ear, “this is your life now.”

She inhaled sharply through her nose, and overtaken by more feelings than she could possibly interpret she ate faster. He worked his way behind her and softly pulled the blindfold over her eyes. She didn't know what it was for. She didn't know if she was being readied to be kidnapped, to be chained to a wall, to be tortured, or worse, she just knew that this was her life now. There was nothing else shed could do. She heard a lot of unwrapping--it went on for a few minutes. She already hurt, and she was scared of what was coming. “What is the blindfold for?”

“Well...”, she felt a cake push its way past her lips before she was led to one side of the bed, and guided to lean back against a pile of pillows, “I don't want you to worry about how much you have to eat. The only thing that should matter is the next bite. You'll chew, and swallow, and feel it push its way down your throat and into your gut and fill you, and that will be the only thing on your mind. Don't keep count. Don't think about how many are left or how much more you think you can eat. Just know that you'll keep eating until I think you're done and trust that I won't hurt you. I won't stop, because I know you don't want me to. This is who you are...”, and another cake was pushing its way into her stomach.

She did loose track. She never started counting. But the pain became hard to ignore. It was becoming sharp. She felt like she might rip in two. But he kept pushing. “I cant.”

“You can't stop yourself, you're stomach controls you.” More food pushed into her.

“It's too...much.” It was hard to talk and breath at this point, and he exploited that by only giving her a short moment to catch her breath before feeding her more.

“It's too much, you're too fat to ever be able to stop yourself. This is your life. You've eaten yourself to this point and I won't ever let you deny yourself.” He slowly worked her fat, all of her loose and disconnected weight, around in circles over her compact and distended stomach. It hurt as much as it helped. “That's right, keep giving in. Your life is giving in. There are parts of your body you won't be able to reach soon because of what you're doing to yourself.” He grabbed the very bottom of her gut fat and shook it for emphasis. This aroused her as much as it embarrassed her, it made her limbs heavier and more useless, rendering her all the more helpless. It made her breath sharply as she looked at him with hungry eyes and a hurt expression.

It did hurt...so much, and she couldn't stop what was happening to her. He was feeling every inch, teasing every roll, showing her how vulnerable and fat she was, and she couldn't take it. She needed him to take her. “FUCK ME! I NEED...*breath*...YOU TO...FILL ME! I can't stop...myself, I...can't stop eating...and getting fatter, I...keep loosing more...*mmmph*...CONTROL...over my body. Fuck me! I need it to be...OK. I need...”, two cakes were shoved forcefully into her mouth to quiet her pleas. She almost gagged, but had time to breath through her nose when he turned her on her side, forcefully and aggressively, half burying her head in pillows.

“If I fuck you, then this never ends. You eat.” He wrenched the heavy bulk of fat mass at her center in one powerful hand. “Watching me fill your skin with more lard every day while you feel it push you into this bed, while this bed becomes your life. It's what you live for from now on.” Menacingly wielding a snack cake in front of her barely open mouth. “If you eat this, then you want that life, you want me to ignore your fears. You want me.”

The heat between her legs and in her face was overwhelming her. She was in tears, a look of longing mingled with fear and defeat. She wanted to say no, to give herself a chance at turning back and stopping herself, but everything that she was wouldn't let her. She whimpered as her head dragged against the pillow and pushed it's way meekly toward his hand. She started to cry as she nodded. She expected him to shove the snack cake in her face but he only brought it to her lips. It was her that greedily forced her mouth toward his hand, then around his fingers; it was the first time she had eaten something in front of him in such a desperately gluttonous way. There was a cathartic release as she realized the deed was done, and her life was now out of her hands. Now she was watching her life happen to her.

He lifted her leg and pushed his cock hard inside of her while she laid there inside her body, a fat and helpless sack of lard, heavily spread out on the bed, shaking back and forth while he worked her. In spite of the pained look of desperation in her eyes, he kept pushing more cake into her face while they fucked. She was screaming, and crying, and moaning, almost all at once. Her idea of a normal life had been shattered. As she bounced and rolled on her side, putting pressure on her belly with every movement, the feelings of immense pleasure and agony were amplified as she was stretched more and more. As every jolt brought her closer to orgasm, both conflicting and arousing feelings of anguish and joy, of fear and contentment, washed over her. Just as she came she yelled out, “what am I doing...to...myself. Oh God...how could...I let THIS OH...GOD...I LOVE Y...” She could barely breath. He shoved another cake in her mouth and wrenched her loose fat in his hands before he hit inside her harder, and harder, and harder, until she screamed “STOP ME-OH! OH! ME STOP...MEEEE!”, through her orgasm. While they both clenched, he pushed one last cake all the way to the back of her throat with his fingers, and she forced it down in one swallow. She was consumed by the orgasm, by satisfaction, happiness, and a yearning for more. Only a split moment after it gripped her, that yearning sparked the briefest flash of a thought that would always tarnish the purity of this experience. A tinge of fear, and a remnant of guilt. Before she passed out, she heard him whisper, “now that you're mine, I will free you.”

After that night, she did not find herself chained to the wall, or locked in the room. She wasn't kidnapped. She had confined herself, imprisoned by joy and lust. He wasn't holding her against her will, but she never really left his room much after that night. She got some things from her place and moved in. Her mind was screaming at her, telling her how it didn't make any sense, but she was helpless to watch herself pack up her things and move in with him. He didn't ask her to, they both just knew.

Her life became what he had promised it would. For the first few months there were buffets, or movies on occasion, always ending with a big push to reach complete satisfaction, but by the end of the first year she has stopped going out at all. There really was no point==there was nothing for her outside and he encouraged her to stay at home and focus on her only passion. He would always bring enough food to keep her in a state of pleasant discomfort and having to get up and walk was cruel when she was so full, so she easily gave in to his encouragement. She always gave in. Body spread out, eyes forward and unfocused, her mouth ready to be filled. If she began to feel uneasy about her sedentary nature and let it slip (she always let it slip) that she should get up and start moving around, he would coax her into eating, or fucking, or both, until she was too full or too tired, or both, to ever think about exercise. If he left, he'd leave more food lying around to eat than she could finish, making sure to tease her about her lack of control and severe obesity before he left. The hopeless complacency that arose from his taunts, the feeling that she was too morbidly obese to stop eating even if she wanted to, it drove her to keep eating the food, which in turn drove her to become aroused, which again drove her to binge. Every night he would feed and fuck away her concerns. The two of them became one common goal, one mechanism for her expansion. Then, at the end of the night, she would realize what she had done and the enormity of a choice she couldn't take back would drive her into another sexual and emotionally conflicting frenzy. She would be stuck in this loop until she passed out. When she'd wake, their love for each other would always lift her from her doubts and renew her love of life, and of him. But, as her first year with him drew to a close, she started to become anxious. 

She was somewhere over 650 lbs. She hadn't left the house in months. She had been going out only once every few weeks and her clothes had gotten tighter and tighter, until after one especially restricted night out she complained to her lover. He only ignored her, peeled off her dress, pushed her down on the bed, lifted her leg up, put his cock in her, and very slowly rocked while he peeled the wrappers off of 3 dozen snack cakes. She was terrified after having lost herself at the buffet, and she could already feel a hard ball in her stomach, but there was nothing she could do. She was exposed, naked on his bed, anchored by his knee and calf resting on the lower part of her gut, and the weight that deprived her of any choice in the matter. He pointed out the stretch marks that spread out across her entire stomach and chest, and the ones which were especially angry and red near her shoulders, tightly packed elbows and knees. “You're filling your skin with so much fucking fat that you're splitting apart.” He methodically pushed each long, cream filled snack cake into her mouth with one finger, and then a second to push the first into her throat before cupping his hand tightly over her mouth so she was forced to swallow quickly or gag. Her eyes would widen and she would whine in fear, but he never showed concern. With her calf on his shoulder, her thigh pooled onto her belly and covered his chest and stomach. Every two bites he would grab that extra loose and jiggly thigh roll on her stomach and dig his nails in while he slowly pushed into her a few times. Then more cake. Only when the whining turned into desperate crying and her widened eyes were filling with tears would he wrench her massive belly fold and shake it back and forth violently, upsetting her agonizingly distended gut and sending waves of motion through her chubby breasts, that were more like sagging rolls on her fat filled chest, her flapping folds of back fat, and the pancaked pool of sagging gut flesh that spilled beyond her reach across the bed. While barely inside her, he spent a whole minute slapping the side of her gut fold against the base of his cock, while he mischievously and excitedly called her a “morbidly obese, lazy, helpless, fat FUCK.” Her face was so flushed she thought it might burst into flames. He was taking complete advantage of her debilitated state of obesity and it was the most turned on she had been in her life, but it was more than being aroused—she was being properly fucked. After slamming her gut fold into their groins so hard it pushed the bed back a whole two inches, he reached for the snack cakes, and quickly pushed two into her mouth, and when she closed her eyes expecting his hand he shoved in the third and last cake, hard. Her cheeks were bulged all the way out, and she had to swallow a big ball of snack cake and pinch it off and swallow it without even chewing. It was a long hard swallow and she almost ran out of breath before she could push it down. While she strained, he had wrapped one arm around her thigh and gripped as hard as he could while thrusting and holding he cock deep and tight inside of her. As the lump of food painfully mashed it's way down her throat just in time to let her breath in sharply through her nose without suffocating it was like a bomb went off in her stomach and her uterus at the same time. Her scream was muffled by his hand as she shuddered and twitched in a simultaneous cascade of orgasms and pangs of sharp jarring pain in her midsection. Her head was laying sideways, so she was able to breath as remaining chunks of cake tumbled out of her exhausted mouth when he took his hand away. Overwhelmed, she passed out. 

After that, he insisted that she only get out of bed with his help. If she started to sit up or reached for her underwear drawer, he would gently “shh-shh” her back down onto the bed. He lovingly placed a towel between her belly fold and her thighs after he would help her lumber back to bed, even though she knew could slowly manage to amble back on her own, but there was no blanket to cover her. She would lay exposed and naked on her back for the world to see all day. After three weeks of this, she asked him if he wanted to go out to the buffet. He smirked and told her that if she was dressed when he came back, then of course they would go out. She could here him cooking shortly after he left. It took her 20 minutes to rock her body to the edge of the bed, and putting her feet down on the floor it took her several tries and a lot of sweat to get standing. She took one heavy step and had to lean against the dresser on the side of her bed to catch her breath. After a few minutes she braced herself against the top of the dresser and shuffled sideways to the drawers with her clothes in them, using the momentum of her swaying gut to carry her a couple inches at a time. Leaning heavy on one arm she opened the top drawer, the only drawer she'd be able to reach while keeping her balance. It had one dress. The same one she had spent an hour stretching over herself three weeks ago. Taking a moment to survery her body for the first time in weeks, she could feel his influence, and her complacency. Her arms were forced up and out a little further by her pinched side rolls, she could tell. She could feel her arm rolls were spread out further against her chest fat. Her gut just barely, just slightly touched the very top of her shins. This was new. She could just feel how she was bigger, further spread out, how more of her flesh was touching in more places. She new it was pointless to try. Clothes were no longer a part of her life. The world outside the house was no longer part of her life. The sagging, uncontrollably swaying bag of lard in front of her was her gatekeeper. 

It had been a month since she had done more than walk to the bathroom. “I tried to get out of bed on my own, without your help yesterday.” Her arms and legs were spread eagle, her chest fat pushed her chin back. Her fat shoulders were right up against her neck. She was motionless, complacent, and resigned. “I couldn't. I couldn't get up without your help. Today I'm not even going to try. It would be pointless. I'm too fat to take care of myself. To do anything for myself. I've sat here knowing that I was eating and eating myself closer to a point where I'd be bedridden. All I live for is food and now I'm almost too fat for anything else. It's my fault. For the same reason it turns me on to tell you all this. Turns me on to feel you play with my body and tell me what I'm doing to myself. To watch while you take advantage of me when I'm too full or tired to stop you. At the same time I bury my fears in food while I constantly open my mouth in anticipation of another debilitating handful of weight to enter me, and satisfy me, I hate that I could have stopped if I really wanted to . I could stop eating but I don't. I could move around more...but I don't.” 

“It's not your fault. You're so obese, it's so hard for you to do anything. And your stomach controls you. You have no self control. Why fight it? Why fight what makes you happy?”

“It is my fault! I could move! I could something! It's not right to live this way. To let this happen to yourself. I'm so weak. That I let this happen, it's eating ME.”

“It's ok, my helpless lover. All of this,” he gently cupped a dimpled fold that she lacked the ability to touch, “is our love. You live for more than food and pleasure. You live for me. My love for you fills your body with weight because I know your happiness lies in being filled.” He was filling her with another cookie.

“I eat for you”, she intoned, internalizing the words.

“You eat until I'm satisfied, and only then will I help you up again.”

“Please, no”, she whimpered while giving no resistance. Each bite he stretched her with further released her from the grip of choice. With desire and eagerness she begged, “Stop. I can't. I can't get up anymore. I”, *mmph*, “oh. No. Please.” It was done. 

He looked kindly at his dependent lover, “I do love you. That's why you eat.”

“Tell me I make you happy, like this.” She was breathing hard, flushed, splayed out, and gut distended. Her thighs were squirming below it with only the slight movement they were still fit for—applying futile pressure to pouting vaginal lips buried within the mound of fat pinched between those thighs .

Her chest heaved and her face flooded with heat and pressure as she gagged on whatever he sought fit to force into her throat while whispering in her ear, “you do.”

There was no longer futility in those subtle movements.

Over the next week, he was relentless. She was in tears for most of the day, barely able to stay awake for the rest. He would help her up while she was so full that the movement was torture. It was a process for her to slowly rock and shift her mass toward the edge of the bed. Once her feet, half hidden in reddish calf fat, were on the floor he would rock her back and forth and pull her further forward each time, for a couple minutes, until the tip of her blushing, dimpled fat sack rolled over and between her thighs enough to pull her hips forward. It was a wavering struggle to extend her legs completely. Every shuffle or two, of heaving her dangling, sloppy, wobbling mound of fleshy stomach from side to side over her spread out legs, she'd have to rest on a rail that ran the length of the room to the toilet. While she rested, he would shove cake in her mouth. Not just one slice, but several, while she struggled to catch her breath. There was no stopping him, there was no where she could go, no way to escape, no way to stop the food from entering her while she panted. Then she would shuffle a few more steps and the process would start again. It was customary for her to both cry and cum in these moments of shear helplessness. She would need an hour on the toilet to rest before she was helped back up. As she grew tighter, heavier, and fuller, each step back toward the bed was more difficult. At the end of it she'd find a funnel pushing it's way between her lips, filling her cheeks with cream and rum until she had enough breath to swallow and make room for more. She would beg him not to do it before she laid back down, but she was too tired too even move her arms enough to push him away. She was almost always painfully stretched, and she soon learned she didn't need him inside her to orgasm anymore. It was just so much. So much food. So much helplessness. Any hope of ever turning back, of living a normal life, was stripped away from her with every single step, as he forced more fat into her body. She could feel her last step coming, and knew when she had taken it. Her last step of freedom freed her. 

He rolled her over and fitted her with a colostomy and catheter system. In less than two years after she met him, she was permanently pinned to his bed by her gluttony.

Now she could be truly happy. She had absolutely no control. He would feed her, and she couldn't stop him. So she had no choice but to open her mouth, swallow, and live the rest of her life filling herself, feeling her body pull her harder onto the bed...or so she thought. She soon found her anxiety rearing its ugly head. For a while she was content to stare up at the ceiling and feel the food push its way into her. To have no control over her life, over the pain, over how heavy and massive her body would get. She let it sink in how helpless and dependent she was, how she could do nothing for herself, nothing to stop herself. She had no say. The heaviness, the pressure under her skin was her life. Until a day when the pain was particularly unbearable, and she found herself half-heartedly pushing away her lover's hand. That action sparked a moment of realization, and the feeling crept up on her: she still wasn't powerless to stop. She could still move her arms. She could resist him if she wanted to, she could move her arms to loose weight. All of her flesh was the embodiment of their love for each other. She ate for him, and pound by pound filled herself with his love, but a tiny voice could still tell her that it's possible she could stop being a freak and live a normal life. The tiny voice told her that being such a massive fat-sack that her sagging arm folds pinned them to her sides was a damning and frightening proposition. She'd be completely at his mercy. He wouldn't know, wouldn't act faster, if she didn't protest.

She opened her eyes. She had been good. She knew she had to make him happy. Existing for her appetite, and for him. Her protest, just reaching for her stomach, it had pushed him to inundate her with fat and carbs. 

She woke up one day with a pressure on her chest and shoulders. A somewhat heavy metal object was resting on her. It was on a tray that spread the weight out enough not to make breathing much more of a struggle, and she had been on oxygen for some time now anyway. Her mouth was open, not pried open, but not able to close either. What was keeping it open was a firm yet spongy rubber tube, maybe an inch or so wide. She briefly considered turning her head or pushing at it with her tongue, but the last thing she became aware of was the slight pressure on her cheeks and the back of her head. The tube was strapped in. It wasn't tight, but it didn't take much, she couldn't turn her head much to begin with while lying this far back. She could see herself. There was a mirror on the ceiling—how did he even get that up there without waking her up? She chuckled thinking about how careful he would have been just to surprise her. It was cute. Her arms were useless. The tray pushed on her shoulders, but there was something else. Her wrists, there was more weight than usual. Her wrists were simply pinned inside the nooks of two 10 lb weights (or were they 5 pounders? was she really that weak?) She wriggled a little to test them. She could only manage if she focused on one at a time. After a few minutes she became determined and after a little wheezing her left wrist was just starting to roll free when her lover gingerly nestled her wrist back into the nook of the weight. She was worn out just from that, and she knew that if she even managed to free one wrist, her arm wouldn't be able to do much before he pinned it back down. She was breathing heavier.

The weight on her chest. It was not a very mysterious object at second glance: it was a meat grinder. She's seen him use it. Where ground sausage would be pushed through a tube and into a sausage skin, there was her mouth instead. She was flushed already.

Her eyes looked up toward the ceiling, unfocused, ready. Her hands clenching slightly in anticipation. It began unceremoniously. Mashed potatoes. Slowly meandering their way into her mouth. She didn't have to swallow right away, so she didn't. She had to protest if it was to be pure. It wasn't long because her cheeks were full, heavy, and aching. She could see it in the mirror, how they bulged, not in an exaggerated way, but the natural strain of slow forced expansion. The reality of what was coming was starting to hit her. The enormity of her situation, of her life, of what she had become, and what she was becoming, it was building all at once as the pressure pushed her lips against the mask holding the food in her mouth, and the first morsels of fattening starch were backing up into her throat. On the verge of gagging she began to meekly turn her head back and forth, not out of protest, but out of desperation, with an escalating whine reverberation from the back of her throat and out her nose until...the solid, forceful gulp that began her final step past the point of no return. She began to cry. It wasn't sadness, but a mixture of fear, acceptance, happiness, and lust. It wasn't so much a particular emotion that made her cry, just that there were so many of them, and she had no control over them. So entwined was their love, their sexuality, and their friendship, that while he showed only a satisfied smile in place of any hint of empathy, he was keenly aware of every feeling responsible for her tears. She knew he knew. They were in this together. 

Three hours. Her eyes were rolling back in her head. Her shoulders shifting and straining, actually trying to escape or move something that might offer any relief. It was slow, but steady. It wasn't that she wasn't accustomed to being stretched more than she had ever been, pushed a little bit further every time, that's how she could eat so much. Needed to eat so much just to keep from starving. Needed to eat so much every day that her complete immobility was inevitable without the continued force. The agony was in the duration, the constant swallowing with no hope of rest. She wasn't stretched significantly further than usual, or there was a real danger her stomach would rip. The oppressive reality was that her most cherished and reserved moment of blissful torture was maintained. Food was working it's way into her intestines as more was forced into her mouth.

Her stomach was massaged for an hour, and then it was pizza, which was both tasty and gross at the same time. It was also a step further in agony as the bread expanded a little in side her and...and...the grease. Three. Hours. Slow. Torture. She was covered in sweat, fingers twitching, wet messy hair in her eyes, limbs wriggling. Her stomach wasn't stretched more than normal, but her insides were. All the fat covering her, it made no room for her spreading intestines. It was like she was being blown apart. She had cum several times, but the pressure around her clit was still building, unsatisfiable. The torture, the unrelenting pain and pressure, inescapable. There was no calming down, no slow release, no dulling, no expectation of a future in comfort, just constant agony, and unbearable pleasure. 

More than an hour of rest, but not much more. Cleaning, drying, massaging, the occasional prod which would make her scream inside of the tube and drip in the small crevice between her thigh, ass, gut, and cunt folds. There was no more movement in her hands, head, or limbs, any movement was pain. Then it was cake. She knew how long it would go on, but she couldn't fathom it. It felt like the loosely connected fat in her belly was tearing apart to make room for her guts as food forced it's way through every corridor in her body. They were bigger and stretchier than normal intestines from constant eating and binging, but never was there such a constant, solid wall of food pushing through every twist and turn in her bowels for such a long period of time. She could actually feel the weight of it in her center. She was sobbing, but incapable of even pleading for leniency. There was no movement she was capable of to signal the unique shock of her agony. It was the purest bliss she had experienced in her life. It was taken further beyond what most human beings are even remotely aware of. He was forcing her very being to spread apart, and truly feeling her. She wanted it to end, and never end. Breathing was hard now, but the length of her normally loose and hanging gut allowed her stomach to sag further down her sternum, and her intestines were further down still. It was a struggle, but as long as she was fed slow enough not to burst this could go on. He didn't touch her for two hours. It was like sharps electric fingers were working there way under her skin the entire time, still stretching every part of her, even though no more food was entering her. So turgid, so filled was her body that there was no adapting to the pain, it was new every moment. He gently touched her cheek, lovingly rolling the excess of fat in his fingers to show her how freakish they were. He kissed her on her forehead. And there was cream. She couldn't scream, she couldn't sob. Any effort to do anything at all was felt dangerous. Her pupils widened, her eyes resigned and desperate at the same time. She was truly, finally, filled. The sustenance began it's journey out the other end, out the tubes that allowed her sanitary conditions. Only then was there relief on the horizon. But it wouldn't be for hours, and even then it would be a dulled but constant pain.

He removed the object from her chest, but left the tube in her mouth. She could see her entire body in the mirror. She was just as fat, of course. But her middle, it was visibly distended. At her size, that meant something. She could see that the middle of her body was tight. She could see the ball of food pressing her layers of fat together under her skin. Her lower belly was still a loose, sloppy, sagging sack of fat starting to touch her upper shins, pooling between her legs, firmer toward her belly button where the skin tension kept it bulky. But her center, it actually pushed higher than the fat sack. A visible dome. Taking herself in, her blood pressure was building up in every vain. Her lover removed the weights. Her arms still weren't too heavy to move, but moving them now was impossible. He ever so gently lifted where her belly fold still sagged lazily onto the edge of her ass and let it slap down. She screamed a voiceless scream. Just a couple tiny squeaks could escape. She was wracked by orgasm, and pain. He hefted a breast/chest roll, faltered just long enough to fill her with an eternity of terrifying anticipation, and let it fall heavily down on her chest, and the top of her center. She was releasing a sustained moan. It was pure desperation. And her mind wouldn't tell her cunt to stop telling her much it was being pain-fucked. It was constant.

He smiled at her. “You're mine now. You'll never stop. You'll never leave. This is what you are, forever. Filled with fat until the end. I love you.” He slapped her gut with his open hand. It didn't have to be very hard, but it was loud, and it was like being struck by lightning. Everywhere. Her brain simply shut her down. She was left hanging, in a limbo of pure joy. Sexual and emotional. Unaware of reality, just joy. A white wash of it, that slowly faded to normal colors as she regained conciousness the next day.

It happened 6 more times. 

Then it was less intense, but his control was unrestricted. She was allowed to talk. “No. No. No. Nooooo.” But always more. Always yes. She had stopped trying to move at all. Hadn't attempted in some time. It was a while, she had no concept of how long, time meant nothing in her life anymore, but the tiniest bit of anxiety crept up on her one day. She should try to move.

She could not. She fell into herself. She was swallowing. She was the weight. She was the pain, the pleasure, the joy. She could actually smile. The anxiety was gone. Every fold and roll and sack of fat that she couldn't touch was perfect. Everything he did to her was perfect. She could enjoy every moment of the rest of her life now, because she was truly free. The fat was forced in her, and she was happy. It didn't matter how long it would last. This was all she wanted in life, and every moment of it was precious. It was the only life she wanted, it was special, and it was perfect. 

She tried to bend her wrist and she couldn't. She moaned as she came. Her moan was stifled by cake.