The Unethical Feeder (Patreon)

Note: Not quite a story, but an unhinged rambling you still might find erotic as a writing warm-up. I wrote this in a weird spiral getting out my feelings, grappling with how terrible of a person I am sometimes because of this fetish. I also know I can’t stop myself so expect more dark content. Who can relate? 😈

The Unethical Feeder

I’m an unethical feeder. I have no self-control, just like I know you don’t have self-control. Logically, you’re a human being too. You deserve love, respect, and autonomy. I get that. I truly do. But sabotaging someone is hot as hell. I don’t know why I can’t control myself around you specifically. I'm itching to be reckless.

Why does your belly tease me? I know you want to lose weight desperately, so you feel better and fit into the clothes you poured a lot of money into that made you happy. I want you to live a long and healthy life and perhaps even make me your personal pig when you’re fit and healthy. I try to stay out of your business as a courtesy to you, but damn, every time you tell me you could easily drink a 2 liter of coke and how much cheese you want on your pasta, it sends me over the edge into feeder mode.

Ultimately, you make your own choices. God damn, why did your choices have to be so bad over the past few months? It unleashes my darkness, the non-logical side of me. I put temptation in your way because it’s so easy to make you bend until you break and eat everything I ask. It makes me feel guilty, and I tell myself I shouldn’t. I mean, isn’t it ultimately your fault you ate something you weren’t supposed to eat? Maybe I’m just too dark and unethical, but as I said, it’s not like I’m shoving pies into your mouth for you. You’re doing that all on your own. All you’re doing is speeding up the inevitable. You may hate the effect, but you love shoveling cake and cookies into your mouth. You’re double fisting bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits as I write this, and it gives you euphoric bliss. I encourage you to eat as many as you can because it’s going to get the pleasure center of your brain fired up. Eating is going to feel orgasmic.

You talk a big game about not being able to lose weight. It’s almost heartbreaking to hear how sad it makes you, but some fucked up part of me gets hard. The likelihood of losing weight with a food addiction? Well, let’s be for real.  You are already going to eat thousands and thousands of calories over your recommended daily value anyway. I’ve injected pigs with pure lard in the past. I’m not doing that to you. Letting you know what I’m doing is no good. It’s more insidious than that. I’m letting you eat yourself to the grave with a spoon naturally. No appetite enhancers, no gainer shakes, nothing. At the end of the day, it’s all your fault.

Your pathetic attempts to lose weight are cute to me. It’s so hot watching you

jiggling your body on a treadmill to give up within two minutes. You tried. Your reward is glazed donuts off daddy’s cock. You’ve earned it, fatty. I congratulate you for only eating 10,000 calories, which is much ‘better’ than yesterday. I praise you for consuming less because I know that even though it’s less, 10,000 calories will still make you pack on weight and crave more tomorrow. You notice your belly hangs lower and lower toward the floor when standing up. I tell you you’re doing good on your weight loss journey and that it must be loose skin. In reality, it is just more fat pressing against your knees.

Seriously! I usually unethically lure pigs into a feeding trap with a trail of scrumptious cakes. I trap them like little rabbits with carrots, except I encourage them to eat themselves to death on junk. I get them to the point you’re at Now. That is to say, you’re to the point that if I let you escape, you'd come crawling back to me; You wouldn’t make it far. It’s inconvenient for you to try to escape.

Together we’ve made you so fat and dependent that it's much more comfortable to stay and keep getting fatter than escape daddy. I mean, just try. Your shallow breathing would make you worried you’d have a heart attack. Come back to me, baby boy, and let me feed you pastries. Pastries make everything better. One day it will be impossible for you to escape your king bed.

The sad part is I don’t think there are many ways to stop me or to save your life at this point. I think maybe I need a sadistic, unethical feeder. Then, perhaps I’ll stop hurting you so much. I’ll stop killing you with food. Perhaps I need someone making me too big to function from my own addiction. That would probably be the only way you survive this...unless you’re too far gone.