Binge (Patreon)

[Content Warning: Force feedings, messy eating and pig play, immobility and health issues talk]

Binge

The weight piled on and on. I never stopped to notice why. I mean, of course, I know you spent more time eating and less time exercising. You always were a fat fuck. “Perhaps It’s a glandular problem,” I vouched for you in my mind after noticing a 70 pound gain in one year after moving into the apartment. It just didn’t seem possible, but I let it go because it didn’t matter to me. You always paid your rent on time and, before now, respected boundaries. Now I know the truth about how you got the money for rent and why you’ve blown up like a balloon to 602 pounds. Let’s review the evidence, replay what happened from the beginning, shall we?

*~*~*~*~*~*

All 602 pounds of you, naked, sit on your knees on the kitchen floor. The refrigerator door hangs open carelessly. The kitchen fills with faint sounds of your labored breathing and the humming refrigerator attempting to keep the food cold. It’s overworking itself to keep going, a fitting metaphor for the damage your obesity is doing to your organs. Your heart, lungs, and kidneys work harder by the day against your rapidly rising blood pressure, cholesterol, and blood sugar, oh, especially your blood sugar. You’re a ticking diabetic time bomb with a fantasy of eating nothing but desserts. However, the execution of it is based in reality these days. 

The phone is just out of reach, propped up with books in a chair to capture the freak show you call yourself on camera. It won’t create the best quality video, but you know any video of your binging will make a lot of money if circulated on all the right websites. That’s why you’ve been doing this for over fifteen minutes now. It started with your face down in a container of whipped cream. The low hang of your belly fell down your frame and grazed the floor. No shame, right? You lapped up the sweet, fluffy cloud of sugar with just your tongue. Occasionally, you oinked and grunted like a famished piglet. You licked the container clean and moved on to the next treat.

  That was only just the beginning. You could have stopped. No one had to know; indeed, I didn’t need to know, but you got greedy.  Your eyes glanced at the camera, and you noticed from that angle, you looked insanely obese. After all, you are insanely obese, but the camera added at least 20 pounds from the manipulated frame. You’re a master at this. “Why stop?” you think to yourself, so you decide your fun doesn’t have to end. 

There is plenty left to eat and plenty left to film. You use your hands like you never developed excellent motor skills, reaching for every sweet delicacy you can find in the fridge from an awkward angle. You want to make sure everything is visible on the camera. Containers and Tupperware crash onto the ground for your consumption: two bottles of milk, chocolate syrup, and a giant stash of chocolate pudding. Fortunately, none of it bursts out of the containers; wasted food on the ground is a real tragedy you’d not even wish on your worse enemy. 

The shift in your weight from your knees to your ass causes the ground to shake. The vibration makes the wine glasses in the cabinet clink. You sit, feeling your body take up a massive amount of space. It’s not enough for you, so the solution is to take up more space by spreading your legs out to keep your thighs from pushing together. Your belly needs a significant amount of space between your legs as it piles on the ground. Finally, you’re comfortable enough to continue your binge. 

The bottle of chocolate sauce is the closest item in reach. Naturally, you’re pulled to the sticky, sweet syrup. You twist open the nozzle, throw your head back, and hold the bottle upside down. A quick squeeze causes the bottle to drizzle chocolate sauce down your throat. You squeeze more, the flow speeding up. It’s almost like you’re chugging the syrup. Glug. Glug. Glug. You drink from the top easily like it is a glass of water hydrating you on a summer day. The amount of syrup you’re consuming would make the average person nauseous. 

A few minutes pass by as you swallow the thick chocolate syrup. The dense mix fills your mouth repeatedly. You consume the thick substance, but your lips stain brown with residual chocolate. Once you’ve emptied the container, you throw it across the room and belch. You notice the bottle of whole milk and open it. Hopefully, it’ll be enough to neutralize your bloated, glucose filled stomach so you can keep gorging. You flip the top off and start guzzling the milk. It’s much easier to get down. An entire bottle later, you’re ready for the Tupperware bowl full of chocolate pudding.

The container sits in front of you on the kitchen floor.  For a brief moment, you feel guilty, knowing I made the pudding from scratch. “Perhaps I shouldn’t eat that,” you tell yourself. The violent rumble of your tummy changes your mind. You’re willing to potentially commit suicide by food to make a pig out of yourself. You forego a spoon or other utensils to grab cold handfuls of pudding with your fists. The cool substance feels terrific on your hands. You est the slop with your bare hands, licking them clean before grabbing another handful. You continue in this fashion.

Most of the pudding finds its way to your mouth, but you’re also a tease, so you make sure it drips onto your belly. Pudding rains onto your cleavage and stomach from your double chin. The cold dessert makes your nipples hard. ”Urrrrrrrp, ” you expel a belch. Then, you message your wobbling belly and droopy tits, chocolate moving through your folds. Your body is a disgusting mess, but you continue with your binge. Heavy breathing permeates throughout your body as you reach the bottom of the container. 

One look at yourself in the camera forces you to vocalize your aspirations. ”I'm a pig. I'm an enormous fat fucking pig. Oink! I just keep getting fatter for you. I can't stop. I need more. I need so much more of this. I'll never be able to lose all this.” You shake your belly for the camera.

The sweets binge makes you lightheaded and horny. You’re inherently high on sugar, but it won’t stop you. You can't see your dick, but you feel it pulse between your fupa and underbelly. You've worked yourself up so much. You're desperate to cum. There's no doubt your heart and lungs are struggling to keep up with your hedonism. Your chest heaves up and down as you desperately reach under your belly, still covered in chocolate goop, to tease your shrinking nub. Being so obese sometimes makes it hard to fight erectile dysfunction. That won’t stop you either. You build yourself up slowly with each stroke, using the pudding remains as lube. ”I force myself to gorge on ridiculous amounts of food. I want to step on the scale every single day and see a new pound of fat. I want to look in the mirror and see more fat accumulate on my body. I'm just a horny pig meant for you to fatten until I win a Blue Ribbon. I'm just getting fatter and fatter. So much fucking fatter,” you pant. The time it takes to keep a steady pump feels like an eternity, but self-degradation keeps you going.

The slutty fat talk continues. “My biggest fantasy is gaining weight until I'm immobile. I need an evil feeder willing to take this too far, watching an industrial scale move through the 800’s, pass the 900’s, and climb over 1,000 pounds. I want to be helpless. I want my feeder to have no regard for my mobility or health. I'll destroy myself for you.” flees from your mouth. 

The monologue leaves you winded as you come closer to the edge of no return, ready to release. Right when you think you’re going to cum, you hear a key to the apartment’s front door turn. Fuck! Shit! Guess who is still a horny mess. You. Guess who is home early. Me. That’s exactly how it happened, huh fat boy? Did I get it right? That's precisely why I'm standing in the door, looking at you with disgust and anger.

*~*~*~*~*~*

I appear in the doorway, surrounded by the darkness of the hallway, with a large pink box in my hands. “What the fuck,” I gasp, seeing you naked, covered in slop.

“I can explain,” you panic.

“There is no fucking excuse in the world to be on my kitchen floor, completely naked with pudding smeared on your fucking tits,” I shout at you. 

I walk over to the table and sit down the box on the kitchen table. Then, I walk closer to the discarded trash on the floor around you and pick up the bottle of chocolate syrup. “Oh my God, you ate everything in the fridge, even ingredients I need to make a surprise birthday dessert for my sister!”

“You said I could use the chocolate syrup to make chocolate milk or to eat some of the pudding if I wanted a snack.”

My arms fold on top of each other and make their way to my chest. “You’re right! I told you that you could have some, but not all. You weren’t supposed to eat the entire container of pudding and drain the bottle of syrup dry!” I feel my blood boiling.

Full. Bloated. Uncomfortable. It doesn’t matter because nothing stopped you. The digestion from all of the slop you’ve shoveled inside yourself causes a churning sound to come from your belly. You try to tell me that you didn’t mean to do it, and you just lost control in your just desserts binge. “I’m s-UUUUURRRRP!! Mmph. Full.”

“You’re a pathetic pig. A fucking-“ I poke you hard in your enormous gut, but stop speaking as you let out a moan like you’re close to cumming.

“You like it, don’t you?” That’s when I notice your phone recording your binge. “You’re getting off on eating yourself into a diabetic coma. No wonder you’re a mess. It all makes sense. You can’t even deny it anymore. This is what you want, why you’ve gained so much weight. We both know getting this obese doesn’t happen overnight. You’ve abused your body for years, accumulating tons of calories, and multiple health concerns. It’s undeniable, especially being caught red-handed like a kid’s hand in a cookie jar, or should I say like a pig covered in pudding?”

“P-please...don’t be mad. I’ll pay you...back,” you grunt.

“You’ve made a mess of yourself. No shame ran through your mind when you were making a glutton of yourself on camera. What a disgusting pig, yet I feel like a wolf watching you struggle on the floor. Good God. No self-control. This is vile. I should kick you the curb.”

“Please, no, this is the only place I have to go!” you cry out. 

“Shut the fuck up!” I shout. Then, I have a devious idea to teach you a lesson. ”You want to be a pig? I’ll treat you like a fat fucking pig, fattening up for the slaughter. You’re going to do exactly as I say from here on out,” I grin deviously. The smile strikes fear into your soul. 

“You’re not going to get away that easily. Let’s give these sick fucks what they want. Get to your bedroom,” I demand after verbally abusing you. I bet your cock is throbbing deep in your fatpad. 

The massive naked flesh before me, swaying side by side, trying to get up, is mesmerizing despite my temper and diabolical plan for you. The color in your face changes to a shade of red I’ve never witnessed before. The sheer amount of flesh pressing against your thighs makes it harder to navigate the building of momentum.  “I’m struggling to get up,” you wheeze.

Still, I encourage you onward. “You can do it, tubby tits.” You’ve done this plenty of times. I can tell by the rehearsed actions: leaning backward and rocking yourself forward like a worn-out rocking chair. The joints in your body uncomfortably pop with the wear and tear of your weight. Eventually, you realize you’re too weak for the method you’ve come accustom to doing. Instead, you lay on your side and roll onto your stomach. 

Slowly, you bring yourself up with your belly touching the ground. You move your knee forward to find your footing on the ground. You reach for the counter for balance before pulling yourself up and placing your other foot on the floor. For a moment, I wonder if you've stopped breathing from the exercise. The amount of time passed in the ordeal should be embarrassing, but it's evident to me that you have no shame. 

When you're finally standing, a sharp pain radiates in your head. You grunt in pain and terror. For a brief moment, you believe I struck you with my fist. Then, you realize that it’s just your body telling you it can’t take any more sugar or physical exertion. You need to make it to the bed as soon as possible. 

You take your first step forward, causing you to teeter like a child learning to walk. A gasp escapes your mouth, attempting to pull more air into your tight, burning lungs. The steps continue forward. I follow behind you to your room after taking the box from the kitchen table. Pain builds up in your shins and feet, a feeling that is regular to you but still triggers agony. 

I almost feel sorry for you while watching you suffer, but it's the price you pay for obesity. It's disgusting to notice your dimpled belly slamming against your kneecaps. I walk slow enough to match your pathetic pace. I only imagine the consequences of your thighs rubbing together as you huff and puff moving closer toward your room. Two gargantuan thighs push together, struggling to budge forward. I knew the fatty deposits on your inner legs were big, but they are much bigger than I could ever imagine. You grab the door frame once you're close enough for support. You keep telling yourself it's almost over. That's only true until the real fun begins. The bed is only a few feet away. Everything hurts, sore and swollen, but soon you'll be able to give up in your sagging mattress held up by a weakened bed frame.

“Look at all that cellulite, all those stretch marks, all that lard.”

You plop down on the bed, naked and exhausted. I follow behind you, placing the pink cardboard box on the nightstand. You’re still a mess from your binge. Getting your bedsheets dirty is a risk I’m willing to take to teach you a lesson. After all, I’m not the one that has to roll around in them like a pig. “You look like Augustus Gloop after he fell in the chocolate river,” I laugh, less angry, or at least thrilled for my revenge.

“P-please...don’t say that,” you blush with embarrassment.

“I don’t know why you’re embarrassed over a silly character when you guzzled down sweets. Do you know what comes from getting terribly fat? Diabetes. You get diabetes from being terribly fat, pig. Now sit still. I have something from Halloween for you,” I taunt before I go to my dresser in my bedroom. The dresser drawer flies open with force. I pull out a headband with pig ears and a pig snout to bring back to your room. 

“What are those?” you huff.

I walk over to you, putting the headband on you first, and then the snout. “I’m completing the look.”

I pick up the box from the nightstand. “What do you have in the box?” you ask me nervously.

“You’re full of questions, but you’re the one who fucked up. I don't owe you any answers, but if you must know it’s the perfect snack for you,” I respond as I put the box on the bed and prop the phone up on the nightstand to record the whole scene. Then, I open the box to reveal a red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting. “It was supposed to be an after-dinner treat for both of us, but you clearly need it right now and all to yourself.”

I put my finger in the cake and then up to your mouth. You immediately suck on it as if the situation is normal. “Taste good, Piggy?” I ask, but you only moan in response as you suck cream cheese frosting off my finger. After you clean my finger, I breathe my question into your ear, “are you ready to eat this entire cake?”

“It tastes good, but...huff...Please... no more! I-urrrrrp... really can't eat it,” you try to weasel your way out of my clutches. 

“Sorry. It doesn’t work that way. I told you that if you like being a pig so much, I’ll make sure you’re a fucking pig. You’re going to eat every bite. No exceptions. Now get hungry and hard for me, chubs,” I command. You’re left breathless in my bed. The worst part is you love it and crave it.  I can tell you’re that you’re hard as a rock under all that lard. “Oops! I seem to have forgotten the fork. Shouldn’t be a problem for you, though, porker.”