epigstolary

[epigstolary]

Real Talk

TW: Medical fatphobia, health issues, fat shaming, toxic masculinity

Dude, you say you want me to help you, but you’re going to have to get serious if you really want to start losing weight. I’m a trainer, not a miracle worker. I mean, look at you; you know your body’s fucking disgusting, right? You let yourself get so huge that even your fat guy clothes can’t hide your belly anymore. Every inch of you is covered in blubber. Everywhere you look. And you have to push all that fat around every time you want to walk or move. It’s so gross watching you try to go anywhere. You’re just waddling around under hundreds of pounds of fat, wheezing like you just ran a marathon. Like… people aren’t supposed to get to the size that you have. And don’t give me that “health at any size” bullshit. You’ve got to have some serious problems to get this big and think it’s ok. Nobody your size is healthy. Your body’s a fucking disgrace, tubbo.

You gotta realize just how bad being this fat is for you, right? Think about it. All that fat’s wrapping around your organs. Either they work harder, or they just quit working. Your joints are getting annihilated having to move all that extra weight around. Your heart’s having to work so much harder just to do its thing because you’re so fucking big. Your body’s not supposed to work like that. It feels like it’s under attack 24/7 — because it is — so you’ve got anxiety, you’ve got inflammation, your hormones are all out of wack. Your body chemistry is basically fucked once you get fat. And fucking forget about it when you weigh as much as three normal people, like your flabby ass does.

Not that you seem to care, since you pay zero attention to your diet. It’s just fucking scary, bro. I’ve seen you pound an entire pizza or a bag of burgers and be ready for more. And that’s just, like, a regular lunch for you. There’s so much saturated fat and sugar in all the shit you eat for every meal, it blows my mind that you’re even able to function. Where do you think that shit goes after you cram it down your throat, meal after meal? It’s blowing up your body even fatter. It’s clogging up those arteries to make that overworked heart work even harder. It’s running through all the insulin your body tries to pump out so that it can deal with the abuse you put it through. I bet if I went through your kitchen right now, I couldn’t find one goddamn vegetable — all sweets, and takeout, and chips, and junk food, am I right? Yeah, you love kicking back on the sofa and working through a big pile of garbage like that, don’t you, fatass? I bet you sit there just belly out, crumbs and shit all over your tits, like a big fucking blob, huh?

Keep eating like that, and you don’t have a fucking chance. You’re just gonna keep blowing up until you finally have the fucking big one. That shit is so, SO bad for you. You want to not be a total embarrassment, fatty? You’re gonna have to throw the snack cakes in the garbage. You’re gonna have to cook stuff that’s not loaded with butter or grease or sugar. You’re gonna have to eat something green that grows in the ground every once in a while. And yeah, you’re probably going to feel like shit for a while because your body’s used to getting fed lard nonstop all the fucking time. But you gotta get a little self-control. The whole reason why you look like a fucking enormous cow, why you’ve got that belly packed full of fat fucking garbage, is that you’ve never had any.

I guess what I can’t figure out is, why the fuck did you do this to yourself? It’s so much harder to make it through life when you’re this fucking heavy. You can’t even go anywhere or do anything because you’re too fat to leave the house. Everyone you meet has to be shocked at what a lardass you are. Nobody who sees your disgustingly obese body is gonna want to fuck you, except the fucking weirdos who get off on that shit. Maybe that’s who you have to settle for, since there’s no way you’re reaching your dick with all that fat in the way. God, I can’t even imagine letting myself get too fat to be able to fuck. That’s so fucking gross, bro.

Like, look at me. Look at this rock-hard bicep next to that big flabby fucking water wing of an arm you have. Look at these abs next to you and that belly hanging down to your knees. It doesn’t even have a fucking shape. Look at these tight glutes next to that wide, wobbling, fat ass you’ve gotten from sitting in front of the tv stuffing your fat face for years. With a body like this, I can fuck anyone I want. How do you think that same hookup’s gonna go for you, huh? Nobody out there’s going home with a pile of jello like you You’re going home, alone, to try and figure out a way to get yourself off.

And dude, I’m not saying all this just to shit on you. I’m worried about you. It sucks to see my bro blow up into a fucking whale and get all mopey ‘cause he can’t get any ass. But you need someone to be real with you. Someone’s gotta tell you how much of a fatass you are, and how much of a fatass you’re gonna be until you get to the gym and shut this fast food and shit down. You can’t blame anyone but yourself for how you got this way. Keep complaining, and you’re going to keep being a gross fatty. You’re gonna have to go out, get some fucking exercise, and deal with being embarrassed at being the fattest guy at the gym until you’ve put in the work to fix it.

Trust me, bro, you’ll thank me later.

#feeder fiction #gainerfiction #ssbhm #weight gain fiction #wg fiction #extreme weight gain #wg story #gaining #gainer stories

[epigstolary]

Rebound

It has to hurt to see what you look like now. All the shapeless mounds of fat weighing you down, distorting what was, until fairly recently, an average figure. You were so close to getting back to a normal weight, too — years of struggling to come down from a size at which you couldn’t lumber more than a few feet before getting red-faced and breaking out in a sweat. And you did it; somehow, you got yourself small enough to be able to shop in regular clothing stores again, and to not even need to buy their biggest sizes. Everyone was so proud of you. Telling you how good you looked. How much healthier it was to be this size. How much happier you had to be, now that you could move around and be active again. You’d beaten obesity.

Except you hadn’t, had you? Because every diet fails eventually, and fat doesn’t go away. Fat cells shrink when you diet. They quiet down when you restrain your appetite. And then they wait, lurking in that slender body, disguised by loose skin. Waiting for their moment to come back with a vengeance.

You may not even remember what triggered it now — maybe it was a really rough couple of days at work, maybe a relationship disappointment, maybe drama with family or friends. But something made you take two cheat days in a row, just to treat yourself a little and make up for everything crappy you’d had to deal with lately. And that was all it took to wake the monster sleeping inside you.

A couple of cheat days turned into having snacks around that you hadn’t allowed yourself since you started losing weight — because you had things under control, right? Portion sizes started creeping upward again, and fattier, carbier foods started replacing the lean meats and fresh veggies that helped you shed the pounds in the first place — because you lost it before, so you can lose it again if you need to, right? You went easier on yourself, skipping morning walks and trips to the gym with increasing frequency, giving yourself fewer and fewer opportunities to burn all the excess calories you’d started dumping down your throat again — because you were always going to make up for the missed sessions at some point, right? At least, those were the ways you rationalized your backsliding to yourself.

You probably didn’t know this before, but regains are a bitch. Your body’s felt you starving for years — that’s all a diet is, as far as it’s concerned — and now the famine’s over. Food’s abundant again. Time to eat and try to get you ready for the next famine, which it has no way of knowing is never coming, unfortunately for you. Every calorie it can spare from keeping you alive gets absorbed into those fat cells that used to be dormant. The weight packs on faster than it ever went away. And almost before you realize it, your puffy belly is back, your ass is filling up more of your pants, and your thunder thighs and double chin are beginning to make their appearance.

I’m sure you tried to get things back under control once you realized what was happening. You tried to get back out there and exercise again once your girth started popping buttons and tearing the seat out of pants, and you had to pull your fat clothes out of storage. You tried to eat better and ignore the cravings for everything high in fat and sugar and everything bad for you when your love handles and bingo wings and thunder thighs started rubbing against chair arms and door frames in a way they hadn’t for a long time. And then, once all of that had failed, you tried to simply ignore what was happening — to pay no attention to how your body was ballooning up to fill even your fat clothes; how difficult it was to heave your hanging belly and plump ass up and haul it wherever you needed to go; how the face in the mirror wasn’t the thin, lean, angular one you’d gotten used to seeing, but the bloated, pinched, bulbous fat face set atop a cascade of double chins that you thought you’d never have to look at again. Just muddle through, you must have thought, and eventually you’ll get a handle on this.

How’d all that work out for you? Not great, judging by the way you look now. Those legs that look like pinched sacks of custard, almost too blobby and bulky to move, don’t exactly signal someone in control of their situation. Neither does the enormous, wobbling belly spreading out over your knee folds and across the bed, or the hips bulging out at either side like melting lumps of dough overflowing a mold. And the double chins, resting on two massive boobs each the size of a fat belly in their own right, squeezed by the fat of pillowy arms plopped uselessly at either side — well, all that hardly looks like someone keeping their weight in check with responsible diet and exercise. I’m gonna guess you’re not, are you?

That’s why you had to call me in. Trust me, I see people just like you all the time. Weight’s bounced around for years, they’ve tried to diet and exercise, sometimes it’s worked for a while; but eventually, it spirals out of control. Like this. Really, you probably would have been better off if you’d just accepted being sort of fat. Beats wrecking your metabolism with a crash diet and dealing with the rebound effect — getting really, really fat like this. And now you need someone to help with all the things that you’re much too big, much too heavy to do.

I’m also supposed to help you manage your diet, get some physical activity, see if we can keep what mobility you have and try to recover more. But… that’s not really my style. See, I’ve also been around enough people like you to know that there’s no real way of coming back from this. Sure, I could probably get you to lose some weight, get you down to a size where you can wedge your flab behind the wheel of a car or cram it into the seat of a mobility scooter, get you back into the world for a while. But we both know you can’t stick to that, don’t we? The same habits that got you into this situation to begin with are going to blow you right back up into the same helpless fatty again eventually, aren’t they? Matter of time. And just imagine what a second rebound like this one would do to you! You’re already most of the way to a half-ton; another yo-yo, and you’re down for the count, immobilized probably forever under more fat than even the two of us can hope to handle.

I’d hate to see that happen to you; no lie, I really would. So I’ll make you a deal. You give up on trying to slim down to a normal weight, and you accept that you’re going to be a housebound blob from here on out. Forget about the diet and exercises, and make your peace with filling out most of a king bed by yourself. Do all that, let me take the wheel, and I’ll make sure you have everything you might need — and I do mean everything. I think you’ll find it a lot more comfortable that way.

I take it that’s a no? Listen, there’s no need to be personally insulting. Remember, I’m not the one who fattened you up like a prize pig, too big to reach the bottom of your belly, too fat to move without totally exhausting yourself — that was all you. So fine; we’ll do it your way. Get you losing weight for a while. But remember how easy it is to gain weight back on the rebound. And remember who’s really controlling your diet and your activity. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when your belly’s down to your feet, your arms are too bloated to move, and you’re smothered under half a ton of lard.

Remember — regains are a bitch.

#feeder fiction #gainerfiction #ssbhm #weight gain fiction #wg fiction #extreme weight gain #wg story #gainer stories

[epigstolary]

The Middle of Nowhere, Part Two

I once said that my feeder didn’t have to do anything to keep me on his farm. That I was building my own prison there, bite by bite. And that’s still true — but only partly true. The farm may be a long way away from anything — town, other people, even the road that’s our only real connection to society — and it may as well be a desert island for someone too big to drive a car or walk further than the yard, but it isn’t my prison. Because my prison isn’t a place.

Things started to change when it got difficult even to go outside to our porch. I don’t mean they changed with my feeder; he was still as caring and doting as ever. He started bringing me my snacks once I got big enough that just shuffling out the front door took all my energy and attention. I had to watch where I placed every step of my bloated legs, laden with fat that looked like bags of cottage cheese, and hold on to the walls and the railing along the porch to keep my belly and chest fat from sloshing sideways and pulling me over. Even those few steps left me breathless and my heart pounding by the time I got settled on my bench; but it was worth it to have a plate of his biscuits and gravy or chicken and dumplings, under that big sky beyond our little farm, gilded with another sunset. And even when my bench finally gave way after one too many helpings of both, he dusted off his woodworking kit and put it back together, reinforced and better than new.

But by then, we both knew it was only a temporary fix. It wouldn’t be long before there’d be no way I could maneuver myself out there every day, and he could tell how being cooped up inside would drive me crazy after a while. If I was going to do anything other than sit mostly alone on the couch all day, we were going to have to find another way.

His first innovation was to invite people over for dinner — farmhands, friends, folks he knew from town that he could get to come to me even if I couldn’t go to them. And they were good company, in a lot of ways; they’d bring a taste of the outside world with them. They might talk about how the crops were doing, recount some recent anecdote from working out in the fields or going into town, opine on some petty local politics or gossip. And it was nice to hear about something other than what was going on within the confines of our little farm — an outside world that it was increasingly impossible for me to get to. But really, it was hard for the focus not to turn around to me. Nobody was ever rude the first time they met me; but it was rare not to see either a reaction of stifled surprise, or else a glassy look of unseeing, a conscious attempt not to notice the half-ton of fat flowing and bulging out of my ill-fitting clothes.

It didn’t help that, with me never leaving the farm, there weren’t many topics of conversation other than myself and food that our guests could engage with me about. When the conversation didn’t turn to recent meals or my favorite foods, which usually elicited at least warm agreement about the country staples forming much of my diet, it turned to how I spent most of my day. We’d do our usual face-saving song and dance about what I did to take care of the house while my partner was out working in the field — all of it lies, and increasingly transparent lies as my limited ability to even move became more obvious at higher weights — and how I was getting ready to start losing some weight. I’d talk about how I really wanted to get healthier, get out and about more often; and they’d smile and nod, giving tepid approval and encouragement.

The thing is, I really did mean it. I really did want to get down to a size where I could at least walk around outside again, maybe even drive a car into town and go to the little greasy spoon like I used to. It was becoming discouraging to have every step, every reach, every movement blocked or restrained by the fat smothering every inch of my body. But our guests knew full well I didn’t have a prayer of keeping to a diet or an exercise routine. It was even more obvious to those who’d visited before, and who saw me even more bloated, even more out of shape than the last time they were there.

The actual meals certainly made them think that, if they hadn’t before. My partner would serve a spread fit for a dozen people — something like a barbecue buffet, a whole turkey with all the fixings, a tray of lasagna — and I’d end up eating everything that was left after the others had their fill. Long after their places had been cleared away, I’d still be gobbling up the heaping plates my partner would keep bringing me until every scrap of food was gone. Since I couldn’t last very long at the dining table anymore, usually we’d sit around the living room, and they would basically watch me gorge myself — tits and chins wobbling as I’d chew, plate sitting on my enormous belly so my blubbery arms could rest on the sweep of my side rolls while I cut and speared each bite. It was obvious to everyone, I guess even to me, that I was never going to drop a pound if I couldn’t resist completely abandoning myself to food like that. By the end of the meal, I’d be stuffed full, taking up the entire couch and looking enormous, almost too drowsy from overeating to notice the expressions passing between our guests, their looks of amusement or disgust or astonishment at what was apparently a typical dinner for me. Sometimes they’d even whisper about it, thinking I was asleep. I wasn’t.

From the front window of the house, I could watch them drive away, taillights receding toward that distant road where proper civilization began again. Probably recapping the dinner and my obscene size and appetite with horrified amazement. They’d been merely passing through, tourists in my isolated bubble, visiting their friend’s or boss’s blob of a partner out of courtesy but with no real desire to bring me into the fold. They could make things more tolerable, but they’d never be any real help in connecting with the world again.

Then one day, my partner’s beat-up old pickup disappeared, and he pulled into the yard in a gleaming new one, looking unusually excited for him and expectantly at me. I was puzzled — by that point, I was already too big to heave myself up into the cab of any pickup. But then I saw the truck bed — more specifically, the crane and winch rising from the front corner. My stomach did a somersault at the sight of him rigging up a harness meant for lifting cows and pigs into the bed; it was a way to let me get off the farm, sure, but at a pretty steep price in dignity. It was as good as an admission that I’d eaten myself far too fat to rejoin the world like a normal person, probably for good.

But the temptation to be somewhere else, anywhere else, was too much. A day or two later, my partner was helping me waddle out the front door and down the steps toward the driveway. Months indoors had obscured just how much my body had changed in even that short amount of time. My legs had both bloated considerably and weakened since my last walk through the yard, making every step like having to lift heavy bags of molasses just to advance a few inches at a time. My belly hung lower and broader than I remembered, physically holding back my steps and making it harder to twist my upper body to steady my walk. My side rolls and bicep blubber fought one another for space, pushing my arms up and sending fat bunching around my neck and shoulders. I was an out-of-breath mess by the time I maneuvered myself around and collapsed into the harness.

The sensation of my weight being lifted slowly off the ground, suspended and moved by an object completely out of my control, sent a surreal thrill through me. My hundreds of pounds, cradled in the harness, wobbled and jiggled with its slow movements, and for the most part I had no choice but to be carried along with my body’s jostling inertia. Even more than usual, I was buried under my immense belly and tits, my bloated legs were lifted level with the rest of my body, and my flab-laden arms — if they’d even been strong enough to do anything — had nowhere to grasp to help stabilize my sloshing bulk. The crane and winch cracked and creaked as it labored to move my weight, lifted me over the sides and into position facing the tailgate, and lowered me onto some foam padding my partner had arranged into a kind of makeshift couch against the rear window. I didn’t fill the truck bed — but there wasn’t room to sit next to me, either.

I’ve never felt a mixture of emotions like I did on that first drive back into town. On the one hand, it felt so amazingly free — finding myself on that once impossibly-distant road, our farm receding into the distance as fields and hills sped by. Fresh air, and the wind in my hair. But then, as buildings grew closer together and we started rolling into downtown, my blood ran cold — I’m a half-ton blob taking up most of the back of a pickup truck, too fat to walk or move, coming to town like a circus attraction, I thought. People were going to react.

I’m sure a lot of it was in my mind. I’m sure I was self-conscious, reading intent into every glance and word and gesture, most of the time when it wasn’t there. But it felt like every last person in the town had turned out to stare at my huge form being paraded down main street. Me looking out over the expanse of lard occupying the truck bed and smothering my body. Blubber sloshing uncontrollably every time we turned a corner. Kids pointing at the enormous fatty passing by, their shouts being stifled by nervous and disgusted parents. Skinny people casting sideways glances at the pickup, stopped at a stoplight, as they muttered to each other amid broad grins.

And that was when I realized. It didn’t matter where I was — on the farm, in town, on stage with a million people watching. I had let myself get fattened past the point where I could exist in this world and connect with it ever again. Even when I was right in the middle of it, I was as far removed from these people as if I’d still been back on the farm. I’m never going to be walking around with them, shopping with them, just existing in the spaces they exist in. I literally don’t fit in, even if I could haul around all the blubber I’ve accumulated under my own power. And I’m just as alien to them — someone five times their weight, who can’t control their appetite any better than to get this big, someone they can deride or pity or judge with impunity.

On the drive back to the farm, under a starry indigo sky and with a backseat full of fast food from the town’s only chain, I had to wonder about my feeder. Whether he really was trying to get me out of the house. Or did he know? Had he already figured out that I was too big for it to matter where I was — that the thick rolls dominating my body and the sacks of fat hanging off my limbs would keep me his, even if I’d tried to get someone to help me leave? That this drive would do nothing more than to show me a world, a life, that my fat — his fat — would never let me go back to?

The thought lodged in the back of my mind as he gently helped hoist me, every inch wobbling and quivering, out of the truck bed. He led my bulk, step by exhausted step, back inside and to my usual divot on the couch. And as he got me comfortable, spreading the buffet of greasy, fatty food out before me, and as I bit into the first of ten thick double cheeseburgers, his too-kind smile and his gaze that lingered on my bulging gut for an instant too long told me everything I needed to know.

The farm isn’t my prison. My body is.

#extreme weight gain #weight gain fiction #ssbhm #feeder fiction #gainerfiction #gaining #gainer fiction #wg story #wg fiction #gainer stories

[epigstolary]

Something I always love is weight gain beyond your control. No matter how little you eat, how hard you exercise, the weight just keeps slowly creeping. Usually I see it in the form of a curse or some undiagnosed condition- but the thought of slow, irreversible, unstoppable weight gain slowly swallowing your body…

Look in the mirror. No, really, stop and take a long look. Really see that enormous belly hanging down in front of your crotch. The plump tits flowing out on top of that. The soft, pillowy upper arms crushing those wobbling rolls running down your sides. Turn, and see the bulging ass and cottage cheese thighs that make you waddle around everywhere. Let it sink in: you’re much, much fatter than most people will ever get, and you’re still the thinnest you’ll ever be.

You know something’s wrong. You know most people don’t put on weight like this. You know you don’t deserve the stares, the judgment, the whispered comments and stifled chuckling from the stick figures at the gym or the coffee shop. You eat like they do. You exercise like they do. And yet.

Every week, it’s a couple more pounds. A foregone conclusion that every scrap of clothing will be hopelessly tight a couple months from now. A certainty that the next year will see you in a totally different weight class — fatter, weaker, slower. Less and less able to exercise, less and less reason to resist blowing up the diet you hate. And that cold, chilly feeling in the back of your mind when you think about what a few more years of this will do to you…

#fatvignette #fatfictionlightninground

[epigstolary]

Gosh,, your stuff is always so intricate, and it makes me think about my favourite aspects,,

Fat hands becoming virtually useless, faces so puffy they're unrecognisable,, feet so bloated it's hardly apt to call them that... More like flippers than anything else, flippers on a fat, useless seal that helplessly grows more blubbery

Animalistic comparisons are such a blast,, cause, surely a normal human wouldn't be so fat, wouldn't GET so fat.... You're just something else...

Pig, hog, cow, elephant, whale… why does it seem like the only way to describe what you’ve done — are doing — to yourself is to compare you to an animal? Plenty of people get fat; they grow double chins and beer bellies and thunder thighs. Nothing unusual in that. Nothing that defies ordinary description.

But you’re different. What you’ve done is fundamentally transformative. You’ve let yourself get so fat that nobody who only knew you before your ballooning growth would be able to recognize the old you under those chipmunk cheeks and flabby jowls. Your frame is too laden with fat to walk upright; all you can do is wallow around wherever you last dumped yourself and let your pinched feet keep getting swallowed up by calf fat. With hands like a glove filled with pancake batter, you can’t even write or type or handle a tool even as simple as a fork without your fat getting in the way. You’re a different person than you were when you started gaining — if person can even still be used to describe you, when you’ve traded so much of your humanity for a half-ton of blubber and the tons of food needed to maintain it.

So we look to comparisons with animals you more closely appear to resemble to make sense of what’s happened to you. You lay around in decadent gluttony like your porcine cousin, eating and taking your ease. Your decadence turned to hoggish squalor once your size, and the obscene lard you’d accumulated, made the laying around compulsory. Then your indulgence took on a bovine quality as you started doing little other than graze constantly, your body filling out until your chest and belly and hips all swelled into a largely shapeless bulk, your fixation on chewing and swallowing dimming your senses. Finally, for sheer size, you reached a point where you could only be described as elephantine — too big, too bulky, too ungainly to ever make your way in a world built for humans. No choice but to retire from view, and keep consuming the massive amounts of food that got you this far.

The whale is about the only size up you have left. Fitting that in the end, you’d be compared to an animal known, and famous, for its blubber — immense, distant, unimaginably fat. Unfortunately for you, whales don’t do very well on land…

#fatvignette #fatfictionlightninground

[epigstolary]

Hi! 1) I love all your stories 2) I'm super happy to see that your asks are open because I've been thinking of a scenario lately

Someone who likes gaining but promised themselves they'd only gain a few pounds, just to try it out, see how they like it. Turns out they love it even more than they anticipated.

But as fun as rapid gaining is, it's starting to scare them how quickly the weight is piling on when they hit 100lbs gained after just a year. They promise themselves to slow down a bit now, but they no longer seem to be able to control their hunger.

If anything their gain speeds up.

Itchy, red stretch marks cover their ever larger belly. And if they weren't already in enough trouble, their mobility is starting to take a nose dive.

At first they'd just get out of breath a bit easier and maybe they'd find their legs were a bit stiff after a day lots of walking. The distances that would happen at got shorter and shorter. Within a scarily short time going up just one flight of stairs left them panting. Then needing to take a break just half-way up.

Other things got more difficult too. Finding clothes that fit, replacing furniture that didn't stand a chance against their increasing weight. 'The couch was ten years old,' they tell themselves, 'the frame had to crack eventually.'

Embarrassingly even masturbating has gotten harder. Not only has their belly grown so much as to cover their thighs, no there's also a thick fat pad, that's buried the very parts they're trying to reach.

And worst of all? It turns them on more and more with every passing day.

Love’s not really love unless it scares you a little, right? That’s been my experience in relationships, anyway. And the same goes for hobbies too. I love food. And… I even love getting fatter. But I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t getting a little scary.

I’m probably being silly, though. There’s no reason to be scared just because you’re the fattest person in your friend group, right? Even if it’s by a lot? No reason to be worried that you’ve outgrown all your clothes, twice over now. In about a year. It’s really common to not be able to exercise like you used to, too — nothing to be worried about. Even when you can’t make it upstairs all in one go. Or to the fridge and back without breathing heavily. Everyone’s broken a chair or a couch sometime, right? Isn’t that a silly thing to be concerned about?

It’d be different if I were one of those really fat people — then I’d need to be worried. If I had such a big belly I couldn’t reach the bottom of it. But I still can, if I bend this way and reach… see? Even if there is more fat in the way than there used to be. Or if I needed something to help me carry my weight around. But I don’t; and I’ve only fallen and needed help getting up once or twice. When I look at those really overweight people now, though… they don’t seem to look that much bigger anymore for some reason.

But I’m sure my gains will level off before I get that size. Won’t they? What am I saying, of course they will. Even if I can’t get over how afraid I am they won’t stop.

…or how much I love what I’m afraid of.

#fatvignette #fatfictionlightninground

[epigstolary]

I like the idea of a tailor helping a customer who's getting progressively larger each time they visit for new clothes. Setting the trousers over the belly to deal with an uncomfortable buckle, suspenders instead of a belt, offering easier to slip on shoes to deal with mobility issues, personally delighting with each larger waist measurement...

Every time you’ve stepped through the door of my shop, there’s been more of you to try to cover. And every time, I’ve dutifully found a solution. I’ve measured your belly as it widens and droops, making sure the buttons of your shirt won’t strain when you sit and your girth shifts. I’ve made extra room in your pants for your burgeoning fatpad, then for the belly hanging too low for your waistband to handle any longer. I’ve widened your sleeves and pant legs to make room for the growing rolls of fat hanging off your arms and thighs, following your instruction to make sure they’re not too tight so your new weight isn’t obvious. I’ve let out your collars and waists and the seat of your pants more times than I can count, until there’s no give left and the pressure of your ever-increasing blubber is leaving the seams screaming. And I’ve hidden my excitement at seeing the new pounds pile on, handling your fresh lard as we figure out what your expanded dimension are.

But the most exciting visit is the one where you don’t step through my door at all. I’ve never tried to measure someone too fat to get out of a power chair before. But as you roll inside, a wobbling blob that your clothes can barely contain, I know today is going to be a very fun session.

#fatvignette #fatfictionlightninground

[epigstolary]

Kinda want to try something different after not being super motivated to write lately. Anon asks are open — if anyone wants to send a prompt they’re interested in, I’ll take a look and see if I can come up with a paragraph or two to riff on it. No promises, though…

#fatvignette #fatfictionlightninground

[epigstolary]

Hey! Love your stories, originally found you from an audio reading on the sirens lair YouTube channel. The way you set the scene and describe detail is easy to read while also being descriptive. I was just wondering why you don’t add the ‘read more’ button your posts? I like to reblog your stories to read later but I also wanna find the other stuff I reblogged faster

Thanks so much! Glad you’re enjoying them 😊 The incredibly dumb answer is that when I’ve looked for it before, for some reason, I couldn’t find it. I don’t know if it was harder to find in older versions of the site, or I just missed it hiding in plain sight; but having now found it after looking again thanks to your ask, and hating those wall-of-text long stories, every longer post now has a “read more” button to make them more manageable.

[epigstolary]

Lecture

TW: References to medical fatphobia and health conditions.

Your eyes dart nervously back and forth, from one side of the lecture hall to another. Surely they’re not going to see you like this and just sit there? Surely someone is going to step in and help?

But your hopes are disappointed. You’re met, to the extent the audience looks you in the eyes at all, with blank or half-bored stares. The uncaring look of people who see you and the half-ton of lard filling your body as a technical exercise, and little more. The lecture drones on next to you, and after a few minutes, you’re finally able to focus on what’s being said.

“…recall that yesterday’s subject exhibited signs of severe morbid obesity with excessive deposits of adipose tissue almost exclusively at the anterior abdomen. Today’s subject, by contrast—” at this, you feel the lecturer’s gloved hand grasp one of your bulging love handles, squeeze a solid handful, and lift as he continues “—supplements this distribution with deposits throughout the inguinal, gluteal, and posterior thigh regions, and to a lesser extent, in the pectoral and inframammary regions.” You feel one of your tits being lifted as the lecturer holds it in the palm of their hand, pointing out further details with the other. “So as you see, adipose distribution can vary significantly, based on a number of factors…”

The audience continues listening and taking notes. Occasionally, you see two of its white-coated members whisper to each other, gesturing at some point or other on your expansive body. Your mind wanders from the lecture again, and you begin to look around the room, to the extent the restraints on your bariatric exam chair allow. Despite the audience’s lack of direct attention to you, you’re keenly aware of how exposed and on display you are.

The angle of the chair allows your wide, doughy belly to spill down your lap and between your knees. It spreads your lumpy, shapeless legs into a split that leaves the bulging sacs of fat on your thighs and calves in full view. Likewise, because of the backward tilt of the seat, your head is also tilted back, bringing your chin level with your triple chins and emphasizing them along with your wobbly cheeks and jowls. Restraints tie your arms against padded extensions on either side of the main chair, holding them in a T-pose that causes the flab on your forearms to hang down in puckered globs and the bulk on your upper arms to pool around your shoulders, further squeezing the fat around your face. It’s a position in which, if there were any doubt, you’re shown off as the thoroughly, completely, and probably irrevocably fattened blob you are.

Eventually, the display screens on either side of the hall catch your eye — specifically, the unfamiliar shape appearing next to some inscrutable pixelated numbers in black and white. Then, suddenly, something in the lecture strikes you and the image clicks into stark comprehension.

“…86% body fat, with the result that additional strain on the musculoskeletal structure produces the characteristic bend in the vertebral column to compensate…”

The ill-defined shape on the screen, viewed through the lens of an MRI machine, is a person — is you. You knew you were huge, of course, but your breath catches in your throat to see your gluttony presented in this way — the cross-section showing the muscles and organs and skeleton of a normal person, but floating, buried, smothered in a sea of white-yellow tissue, spreading out shapeless in all directions. Hundreds of pounds of fat, dominating your body, captured with the indisputable precision of medical imaging. You are an anomaly. A curiosity. A pathology. A disease, needing to be treated.

You barely have time to process all of this before you feel two attendants beginning to undo the restraints holding back your arms and legs. You feel your feet spring forward slightly, no longer held down and now pushed out by the bulk of the fat hanging off your calves and thighs. Your arms fall immediately to your sides — or, at least, as close to your sides as the tremendous piles of rolls fighting your bingo wings and forearm flab for space will allow. You slide down from the tilted half-chair/half-gurney to a standing position, and feel a hot ache radiate through you, your body crying out at your full weight being put on your frame for the first time in a long time.

“We’ll see if we can get a demonstration of mobility. Clearly, physical activity isn’t this subject’s strong suit.” A stifled but derisive laugh ripples through the audience at this first flush of color commentary from the lecturer. You turn to look at the lecturer, standing at the lectern, and they gesture to the far side of the hall. A set of double doors, wide enough for you to go through, with a bright “Exit” sign above them, stand about thirty yards away.

Is this it? Are you free to go? After being fattened and poked and prodded for so long, are they finally going to let you just walk out?

You have to try. Slowly, deliberately, and with a shock of pain at every step, you lift your blubber-laden legs one at a time, putting your bare foot down with a wet-sounding plop, as you work your way closer to the door. You look around from the door to the audience to the attendants, eyes widened almost to the point of panic. You see all the audience now paying close attention to you, many of them looking back with genuine surprise, apparently somewhat impressed to see a person as fat as a small cow able to walk at all. But seeing nobody move to stop you as you continue your degrading waddle forward, you try to pick up the pace. Your flabby arms swing in a wide circle, trying to counterbalance the movement of the vast bulk hanging off your midsection, the belly and tits and side rolls wobbling chaotically with each step forward.

“As you can see, mobility is diminished as a result not just of the added weight, but also the severe limitations on range of motion caused by the excess adipose tissue.”

Barely halfway toward the door, you can hear the sound of your heart beating over the drone of the lecture, pounding as if it’s about to burst out of your chest. Sweat dims your eyes, and the heat radiating from your body — but, it feels like, especially from your florid face — makes you realize how fatigued you already are from walking just this limited distance. Walking this distance — but with an extra eight hundred pounds or so more than you’re used to, you think to yourself.

“Note, too, the compounding effect of the excessive weight and the lack of resiliency in the subject’s cardiovascular and respiratory systems due to a prolonged deficit in physical activity. Blood pressure and body temperature rise precipitously, stamina diminishes, breathing becomes labored, blood oxygen plummets. Hence, the elevated risk of cerebrovascular accident, embolism, myocardial infarction…”

You barely have the energy to feel angry at the lecturer’s patronizing indifference by the time you reach the door. Breathing ragged, soaked with sweat, barely able to concentrate and on the verge of collapse, you stumble into a lean against the door frame, desperate to catch your breath so you can finish your escape. It’s right there — you can reach out and touch the push bar, hear what sounds like street noise outside — but your body won’t let you. Your clouded mind won’t focus, your bloated legs won’t lift, your wobbling arms hang limp by your heaving, flabby chest. Exhaustion and despair rise within you in equal measure as you hear the gurney chair being rolled across the room, feel your body being jiggled and manhandled back into a sitting position, and see the exit doors and all hope of help receding as you’re rolled back to center stage, defeated.

Numb and indifferent now, you offer no resistance, sensing the tube and mask being fitted into your mouth as if watching it happening to someone else from a distance. You utter little more than an involuntary groan of complaint or protest — it doesn’t concern you, any more than does the flow of something cold you can feel pooling in your stomach.

“…typical example has a maximum capacity of barely two to four liters. However, consistent overfeeding with a diet that includes a sufficient volume of fiber at appropriate intervals has demonstrated the ability to reliably expand stomach volume to a maximum capacity of 14-16 liters, with p of .05 in our internal studies…”

The sound of the lecture flows past you, mixing with the buzz of the pump filling you with more and more of the chilly slop, and the low creak of the gurney as it takes the added weight. Your eyelids droop, drowsy with the food and your exertions; and you drift away to sleep, the gaze of the audience trained on the slow, relentless expansion of your tumescent belly the last thing you see before your tired eyes close shut.

Credit to the incomparable Mairari/@hyenaddict for the original post that inspired this story

#feeder fiction #gainerfiction #gaining #ssbhm #weight gain fiction #wg fiction #extreme weight gain #wg story #gainer stories #weight gain story

[epigstolary]

Deaf Ears

The half-eaten burger is still sitting on top of its wrapper, right where you left it on your nightstand. Three patties, six slices of cheese, smothered in grilled onions and special sauce. Each one easily over 1,000 calories. This was the third one you’d had today.

I tried to warn you about what would happen if you kept gaining at the rate you were going. I’d hoped that one of the many red flags about what you were doing to yourself would get your attention. That you might stop and take stock of what was happening when you got too fat to fit in the driver’s seat of your car. Or the passenger seat. Or when you started needing the cane to walk because your legs couldn’t handle the weight. Or when you moved on to the bariatric walker. Or when you needed the hoists and handles just to get out of bed.

But no, none of that made any impression. If anything, as your body grew and swelled and ballooned with new fat, you relished it. You spent more and more of your time just fondling the widening sweep of your belly, the plumper and fuller curve of your chest, the multiplying peaks and valleys of your side rolls. I could tell you enjoyed the bounce and wobble of your increasingly full, heavy, pendulous ass and hips on the increasingly brief occasions when you got up to walk anywhere. Having to lumber around, lugging the weight of your burgeoning thighs and blobby calves, both increasingly shapeless and unidentifiable, was a constant reminder of just how much your fat was taking over your body.

It shouldn’t have been any surprise, then, that you let the gains accelerate — wanted them to. For every time I suggested you try to at least gain clean, you insisted on getting whatever the most fattening, sugary, greasy, caloric option might be ten times over. You kept me busy making sure you were never without something you could be guzzling down, never in any danger of not being completely full, let alone hungry. The truly embarrassing amount of food in our kitchen, all of which would get dumped down your throat in a matter of days and replaced by the next batch, never fazed you. If anything, on the rare occasions you stopped and realized how much garbage you were putting away, your pudgy face would beam with obscene pride, any hint of shame at your condition — if you even felt it — buried by lust for the next family-size serving or tray of junk food coming your way.

But today was the day you stopped being able to ignore the consequences of indulging your worst habits. Nobody but you was surprised that an 800 (900? 1,000? We’ve been flying blind since you crushed the scale) pound hog is unsteady on their feet. You were making your usual stumbling shuffle from the bed to the couch and, too eager to have your morning box of coffee cakes, sent all your fat wobbling the wrong direction. At your size the walker wasn’t any help as you twisted, heard a snap, and went down in a blubbery heap. There was no way I could get you up from there, even if your fall hadn’t broken something.

Maybe the trip with the paramedics — having to let your enormously bloated body be manhandled onto a bariatric stretcher and bundled into an ambulance — will humble you a little from here on out. Maybe you’ll ease up on the gaining, and the constant eating. Or, probably more likely, being stuck in bed while you recover and the stress of trying to rehab a broken bone at your size will just drive you to gorge yourself to oblivion.

I’m not sure you could even stop if you tried, at this point. You and your body are too used to the constant flood of calories, sugar, endorphins to give that up, or even reduce it by much. You’re probably looking at some pretty steep gains, at a time when you’re least able to compensate for them, unless you do something drastic. And like usual, you’re probably going to insist that I keep a steady flow of garbage coming to you while you’re at the hospital — which definitely won’t make it any easier for you to maintain your weight. We’ll be lucky if you’re still small enough to get you back home once your treatment is done. More likely, you’ll end up ballooning too big for any ambulance to be able to cram all your lard inside. Too big to measure in pounds anymore, but instead how much of your hospital bed you take up — or overflow. Someone the staff talk about in hushed whispers as they watch you eat yourself out of the last few things your shapeless blob body is still barely able to do.

I tried to warn you, and you didn’t listen. This is your last chance to turn things around and save yourself from spending the rest of your life like this. But the text you just sent me asking to bring another slew of burgers to the hospital tells me you’re probably not going to take it. That you’re probably ending up inhumanly fat, immobile, and helplessly buried in your own bulk, no matter how much you may eventually come to regret it.

Guess that means I get to see just how much bulk we can make in the time you have left.

#feeder fiction #gainerfiction #gaining #ssbhm #weight gain fiction #extreme weight gain #gainer stories #wg story #wg fiction

[epigstolary]

Step by Step

“I’m starting to get a little too fat. I ought to try to lose some weight.”

You hear something small clatter to the ground, and look down to see a spinning button slowly coming to rest at your feet. Your puffy potbelly sags through the gap in the waistband of your now-buttonless pants. You try to pull your shirt down to cover the gap, but your belly is hanging too low and it keeps riding up to your bellybutton. The friends you’re with see your face turn beet red, and try to stifle a snicker.

“I’m getting a little too fat. I ought to try to lose some weight.”

You bend over to tie your shoes, and the sudden constriction of your too-tight t-shirt takes your breath away. You can feel your sumptuous belly and flabby tits, bulging outward, straining against the fabric. You do your best to suck in and hold your breath long enough to finish your knot, then straighten up and take a loud, noisy breath. It takes more effort than you remember to get to your feet.

“I’ve gotten a little too fat. I ought to lose some weight.”

The walk to the corner store seems a lot longer than it used to. Then you realize it’s because the extra resistance of your thickening thighs rubbing together, your ass cheeks being pushed up and dropped with every step, and the jiggle of extra fat in myriad unfamiliar places all over your body is what’s slowing you down. You stealthily pull the zipper halfway down your hoodie to let out some of the heat building up from your exertion.

“I’ve gotten too fat. I ought to lose some weight.”

Your friends look at you, then nervously at each other, as you load your fourth plate at the group potluck. Distracted by your craving for another helping, you don’t notice how pronounced your waddle is as you plod across the room. You also don’t pay much attention when you sit down on the couch, until your wide hips spread across the cushion, your belly pushes you back into the seat — and the couch lets out a loud CRACK beneath you. Everyone in the room looks your direction, and then tries to pretend they were looking at anything but your embarrassed chubby face.

“I’ve gotten too fat. I need to lose some weight.”

You sit behind the wheel of your car, in your driveway, the frustration and bafflement growing in your mind. You check, and yes, the seat’s all the way back; wheel’s still making a dent into the pudge of your belly, but there’s at least enough room. The belt’s at its usual shoulder height. You lift your side rolls, flowing over the armrest; and the clip is positioned where it’s supposed to be. So why, you ask yourself, won’t the buckle reach? You pull again, the strap pulling on and cutting into your flab as you strain to get it just that half an inch further… before giving up with a frustrated sigh. You drum your pudgy fingers on your stack of side rolls. Maybe an extender would be a good investment after all.

“I’ve gotten way too fat. I have to lose some weight.”

You try to focus on the smell of the cooking food as you stand over the stove, but all you can think about is the roaring ache in your back and legs. You lean against the kitchen counter, feeling your belly hanging and pulling against your back muscles, painfully aware of the whole weight of your thickening body resting on your flabby legs. All this, you think, from standing ten minutes making a pot of macaroni? With a last burst of energy, you grasp the pile of lard at your midsection, your fingers sinking into it, and heave it onto the counter. It groans under the mass, but the pressure releases from your spine and knees as the weight settles. It’s clear this isn’t going to work much longer. You figure it’s time to get a stool and start sitting when you have to cook.

“I’ve gotten way too fat. I really have to lose some weight.”

You never realized how many different kinds of brushes there were until you had to scroll through the hundreds listed for sale to find one you can use in the shower. You still feel the embarrassment from this morning’s discovery that, even sitting on your shower stool, there’s too much blubber surrounding your arms, love handles, and thighs for you to reach everywhere you need to wash with just your soapy loofah. You find one with a long handle and soft bristles that looks like it will fit perfectly under your sagging belly and between your billowing rolls. You add a case of those hard-to-find jelly-filled cakes you love to the order and select the expedited shipping option.

“I’ve gotten way too fat. I really have to lose some weight.”

The blubber encasing your body, hanging between your knees and over the sides of your mobility scooter seat, wobbles as you whir along down the frozen foods aisle. Your basket is already filled with chips, cookies, snack cakes, sugar cereal, pasta, ready-to-eat processed meals — your usual fare for the week — but you need a couple gallons of ice cream to get you through the weekend. As you reach for a carton of double chocolate fudge, you feel something give way in the scooter underneath you, which now makes a sickly buzzing noise when you try to operate the unresponsive controls. It takes all your strength to heave your bulk up from the seat, lumber your hundreds of pounds up to the customer service desk, and lean against the counter to catch your breath and try to ask for help. All the bewildered clerk and other customers can do is stare as you pant and cough, too winded and overheated to talk, your fat undulating with your labored breaths.

“I’ve gotten wayyy too fat. I really have to at least stop gaining weight.”

You wake, still groggy, realizing you fell asleep and spent the night on the couch again. You gather the blanket on top of the wide mound of belly in front of you, fold it, and set it aside before collecting the snack wrappers and soda bottles left sitting next to you from the night before. You’re still a little tired, so you’re not that surprised when you grab the arm rest and push up, letting your belly roll forward over your knees, rise a few inches off the couch, stall, and plop back into your spot, the broad cheeks of your ass spreading to fill the indent covering two of the three cushions. What does surprise you, after you’ve woken up fully and collected yourself, is that your second and third attempts go little better. Somewhat alarmed, adrenaline pumping, you finally get over the hump and lift your tremendous bulk into a standing position. A chill of worry ripples down your spine, as the thought of having to call the fire department to get you off your own couch flashes through your mind. You step slowly, deliberately toward the front door; and if you weren’t so distracted at the thought of the grocery delivery waiting for you, you’d notice the jiggle and pull of the thick layers of fat covering every inch of your body, dominating your motions and shifting with every step you try to take.

“I’ve gotten wayyy too fat. And now… I don’t think there’s anything I can do about it.”

#feeder fiction #gainerfiction #gaining #ssbhm #weight gain fiction #wg fiction #extreme weight gain #wg story #weight gain story #gainer stories

[epigstolary]

So I’m considering putting my work up someplace else like DA, as much as anything to have a redundant copy of stuff. Not planning to leave Tumblr, but having seen the porn purge back in the day and the ongoing dumpster fire over at the blue birdie website, it feels like a backup wouldn’t be a bad idea. Any suggestions?

[epigstolary]

Big Deal

TW: Medical treatment and discussion of health issues.

Look, I get that you think I need to lose weight. I’m not oblivious. I’ve seen the worried looks you think you’re hiding when I ask you to bring me a fourth portion, or when you have to tell me you couldn’t find the shirt I wanted in a 9xl. I get it. But I really do think you’re making way too big a deal out of it.

Especially when you’re the one who helped me get to this size. I remember a lot of messages from you, back when I was still under 300, about how big you were going to make me, how you didn’t have any limits, how you’d love to see me get immobile and have nothing to do but eat and get even fatter. You pushed more than your fair share of cookies and doughnuts down my throat while you were fondling my growing belly; and you were perfectly happy to explore the rolls and folds spreading over my lap while you were making sure I had chips and soda and plenty of empty calories within reach to grow them even more.

And I’m sure you’ll remember, you certainly didn’t seem to worry about me or my health during my early gains. Where were your objections to me picking up the gainer shake habit, lounging on the couch drinking a two liter of the stuff for an entire weekend? I definitely don’t recall any. In fact, all I remember is how horny you were to see me starting to struggle under my new weight, carrying around a paunch that was hanging lower down my bulging thighs by the day, hauling around a growing ass that was straining my jeans more and more as time went on. I think you even told me how sexy it was when I started getting red-faced doing minor chores around the house, how your chubby little piggy didn’t need to worry about getting out of breath — that all it meant was I’d been doing my job of eating and resting very well.

But I could tell you were getting worried once my hips and thighs were too wide, the fat covering them too thick and bulbous, to fit in the passenger side of your car anymore. Once it started to become genuinely hard to find any clothes I could literally fit into, let alone look good in. Suddenly, there was a lot less food around a lot more of the time, and a lot less talk about how wonderful I’d be as an immobile blob. Instead, you started talking about going on walks together — walks! As if you were actually interested in my fitness all of a sudden. And as if there’s any chance of me hauling these hundreds of pounds of blubber and cellulite, this belly hanging down to my knees and crowned with two plump tits, any further than the driveway. We both know I’m not walking anywhere — waddling, more like — unless there’s a buffet at the end of the trip. Someplace I can settle down on a couple chairs, pull down my elastic waistband to give my belly overhang some desperately needed relief, and have you bring me about ten plates of food so I’ll have the energy to haul all this thickness back to the car.

And yeah, I know what the doctor said. I need to exercise more and eat way less. “All the weight puts you at high risk. Heart attack and stroke is only a matter of time. Blah, blah, blah.” He’s been saying all that since I was 250 and he wanted me to get a gastric bypass to cure my sinus infection. You know these doctors are all fatphobic and won’t even think about anything else once someone’s the least bit overweight. You never hear him talking about how my bad cholesterol hasn’t gone up hardly at all since I broke 400, or how my blood sugar is still barely prediabetic, do you? Nah, he just can’t stand to see a fat person prove him wrong by not being on the verge of having a coronary. He’s probably disappointed that I’m still able to get around at this size, instead of stuck in a hospital bed getting lectured by someone like him about my poor choices every day.

What’s the matter, are you uncomfortable now that you have to deal with the reality of a partner who’s over 700 pounds? Now that you have to grasp my forearm flab and heave backward to help me get up any time I need to get out of bed or off the couch? Does it make you self-conscious that whenever I walk or move or stand, I can’t help but breathe in raspy heaves with the effort of maneuvering more bulk than most people could ever hope to carry? That I’m going to make us the center of attention wherever we go? That the same people judging me for going out in public with fat hanging out of the biggest clothes I can find are probably judging you too for allowing it to happen? If I can handle strangers staring at me and whispering to each other about how a person like me can “let themselves go” so badly, you can sure as hell suck it up and help me get around.

So skip the lectures, the hand-wringing, and the bullshit about being concerned about my health that’s probably in the back of your mind. This is what you signed up for. You wanted a fuckable lardpile of your very own to keep blowing up, and that’s exactly what you got. Sorry it’s not the consequence-free orgy that I guess you were expecting, but it takes a little work to maintain a body like mine. And anyway, deep down under whatever angst you have about our situation, I know you still want me ballooning over a half-ton. Splayed out in bed, arms and legs too swollen with fat to move, belly flowing out past my knees, anchored in place by a massive ass with nothing to do but gorge and try to keep myself entertained. You can’t help wanting it, can you? Whatever worries you may have about where things are going with me — I can see your eyes light up just at the thought of it.

Now, how about you clean up those McDonald’s wrappers, get me a refill of my Coke, and pop a couple of those frozen pizzas in the oven so I can get started on lunch. Sound good? And bring me a couple aspirin, too — I think I pulled the muscle in my shoulder again…

#feeder fiction #gainerfiction #gaining #ssbhm #weight gain fiction #wg fiction #extreme weight gain #wg story #weight gain story #gainer stories

[epigstolary]

The Makings of a Glutton

They say that you are what you eat. And since there’s obviously a lot of you… it’s pretty clear what you eat. But I’m the lucky one who knows just what went into all the meals that made you this way.

Those smotheringly chubby cheeks and those triple chins were barbecue. The piles of pulled pork drowned in sugary sauce, the globs of steakhouse macaroni and cheese, the mountains of creamy potato salad, the tubs of greasy baked beans — you choked them all down voraciously, going back for seconds, thirds, fourths, more. You gorged yourself on pig, and it returned the favor by making you resemble the meals you loved so much. Now your fat pushes your cheeks and jowls out, pinches your nose and eyes, and gives you a porcine look to all the world.

Your love of dessert and sugary confections made those arms. You’ve never hesitated to eat an entire cheesecake slice by slice, eschewing plate and fork in favor of holding each thick wedge in your pudgy grasp and going in like a normal person would eat an apple. You’ll shovel in chocolate mousse cake, fat arms jiggling as you chase every last drop of saccharine, syrupy chocolate around your plate. Your love of all things sweet has left you with arms as velvety as ice cream and as jiggly as custard — your luscious bingo wings cascading down your side rolls, your forearms growing thick enough to wobble with every movement and grasp for your next bite.

Years of chugging sugary soda gave you those massive sacks of flab on your chest. You down thousands of calories of the stuff every day like you’re drinking water, making it your beverage of choice at every meal. Between using it for a caffeine boost from the exhausting effort of just existing under your tremendous bulk, or cooling down from your most recent trip to the kitchen, it’s rare not to see a bottle in your hand. And once you got a machine to make your own soda — letting you overload it with syrup to the point that it could still be called soda only out of courtesy — you’d basically set up an uninterrupted flow of pure sugar. Your tits bulged in proportion, swelling and sagging as you guzzled those empty calories to keep them growing, coming to resemble the industrial bags of drink mix you were finishing at an alarming rate and leaving your lungs underneath feeling like they, too, were drowning in syrup.

Your legs, I bet, we could blame entirely on pizza. Calling them thunder thighs would be a gross understatement. They look every bit like the calories from the thousands — tens of thousands — of slices of pizza you’ve gobbled up have gone straight there. You’ve enjoyed dumping gobs and gobs of pizza — those cheesy, greasy, doughy piles of saturated fat on a plate — into your body; and they’ve transformed into piles of jiggling grease, hanging off your legs in pendulous, shapeless blobs having to be hauled around, step by labored step, on those infrequent occasions when you can be bothered to stand.

Your couch-sized ass is a monument to all the years spent sitting on it and choking down junk food. You just can’t stop stuffing your face with empty calories, as if you don’t have so much junk in your trunk already that you can barely fit through doorways. You like the kitchen well-stocked with chips, pretzels, crackers, cheese puffs, cookies, candy bars — everything that’s been strategically designed to taste good, leave you completely unsatisfied, and make you crave more. All those calories flowing into you between meals has left you with two enormous, wobbling globes of fat on your rear, which either rise and fall behind you with every pitiful waddling step, or else spread out underneath you like huge lumps of dough when you sit. They’re the last thing to leave any seat you take, and their combined couple hundred pounds usually make sure you don’t leave wherever you’ve plopped down for as long as possible. All the better to sit back, gobble up more junk food, and feed them even bigger.

But the biggest, most obvious part of you, has to be that unbelievable belly of yours, though; and nothing could be responsible for that but good, old fashioned fast food. The thousands of bags of fatty burgers you’ve put away, loaded with grease and cheese and bacon; the countless french fries, those carb-laden grease sponges that are the closest thing to a vegetable you get; and the fried chicken nuggets covered in some sugary sauce or other — those have basically been the base of your personal food pyramid since either of us can remember. Add to that the occasional family-size fried chicken meal smothered in sausage gravy, or the pile of takeout burritos loaded with sour cream and cheese, and it’s no surprise where that belly came from. It’s no surprise either that it takes up your entire lap and waterfalls over your knees, burying your body under the weight of its shapeless, blobby mass. A constant reminder, hanging out of your shirt in plain sight, of just how much fattening drive-thru garbage you’ve stuffed down your throat and let turn to fat. An un-hideable, unapologetic, inexcusable sign of your willingness to put your cravings for food ahead of anything else.

And the rest of you — by which I mean, all the hundreds of pounds I’m going to grow on your already pathetically blubbery body — that’s all going to be what’s in this barrel. Mostly cooking lard and corn syrup, but if you’re good I’ll add some flavoring now and again. I’m sure you can imagine some of the ways that could manifest on your body — and that panicked look on your face tells me you don’t have any trouble envisioning where this is going. After we start draining these into your fat gut on the regular, well…

Like I said, you are what you eat. Very soon, you’re going to be eating much more — and I bet there’ll be much, MUCH more of you to feed.

#feeder fiction #gainerfiction #gaining #ssbhm #weight gain fiction #wg fiction #extreme weight gain #wg story #weight gain story #gainer stories

[epigstolary]

Will you write more stories? Your immobile hog blob struggles description just turns me on anytime! I'm willing to pay any one of your online stories on onlyfans/justfor/patreon/etc if you have one.

I definitely have a few new ones in the works! Nothing that’s quite ready to post yet, but they’re coming. And I’m glad those have been something you’ve enjoyed 😉 I haven’t really looked into doing a Patreon or anything on a platform like that, but I could if it’s something people would be interested in.

[epigstolary]

Too Much of a Good Thing

When you said I’d never have to lift a finger if I didn’t want to, it turned out you meant it literally. And now, I almost can’t manage even that much. In all the years we’ve been together, you’ve always been the sweetest, kindest, most attentive partner anyone could ask for. You’ve indulged, even anticipated, my every whim. The hundreds of pounds of blubber I’m buried under are visible proof of that. But I don’t know how much more of your love my body can take.

When we met, I was comparatively skinny. Not fat; barely chubby, even. It didn’t take long for that to stop being true. You doted on me with regular boxes of chocolate, romantic dinners out, late nights staying at the ice cream parlor near my apartment until closing, homemade baked goods and other treats delivered before our dates. I was so taken by all your affection and how much I was enjoying all the treats that I barely noticed what it was doing to my waistline. The new (bigger) clothes you consistently brought me helped with that, too; but there was a part of me that was enjoying it so much that I didn’t want to notice, either.

I won’t say things changed, but they definitely accelerated once we moved in together. With basically a 24/7 opportunity to see me, your flow of affection turned into a torrent. Now, instead of only getting spoiled when we were going on a date or hanging out together, I was the beneficiary of your generosity almost constantly. It went from being a little pastry with my coffee break or a special second dessert, to having something new to eat or drink every couple of hours or less. It started taking conscious effort to finish one treat before you appeared, smiling, with another. I hated to be ungrateful, didn’t want you to think I didn’t appreciate what you were doing for me, and so… I just kept eating.

Eventually, I got used to it. It became a habit to accept your regular round of indulgences without question. And I started looking like someone who was used to it. My belly got too big to fit into our compact car, even doing everything I could to press its pendulous weight down between my legs. My rump and love handles thickened and widened until the armchairs in our living room became impractical, comfortable traps that my girth would fill and overflow and be completely stuck in without help. My elbows and wrists disappeared under puffy sleeves of chub that I could feel wobbling with each swing of my now-weightier arms, trying to counterbalance the movement of my body from walking. I say walking; it quickly came to look more like I was barely picking up each of my blubbery, shapeless legs and putting it down a little ahead of where it had been before repeating the process with the other. Once you told me I’d run out of plus-sizes at our favorite clothing store, and I saw no signs that my ballooning would be slowing down anytime soon, I knew I had to say something

It’s hard to describe the few times I tried to rein you in as anything other than a disaster. Try as I might, I just couldn’t make you understand that wanting to slow down on all the special snacks and desserts and goodies had nothing to do with how I felt about our relationship. You said you did, of course, and tried to put on a good show; but eventually you started to mope and seem listless and look absolutely miserable. You hardly ate anything yourself. And for my part, having gotten used to the constant flow of calories and the dopamine hit with every new treat, there wasn’t much willpower left when I saw how hard it was hitting you. It never took long for me to give in, see the joy return to your face when you got to start filling me up with lavish indulgences again, and go along with it when you made a point of outdoing your past spoiling to make up for lost time.

Now that it’s so hard to move, it’s only gotten worse. You know I can barely get out of bed, and how tired I get those few times a day when I do. You’re always ready to make sure I have what I need so I, literally, never have to lift a finger or even ask for something I might want. It seems like every couple of minutes, you bring me some new treat, something else to snack on, another drink, another meal, another candy. There’s always more, right at hand, to keep shoveling in.

And there’s nowhere to go. These days, I can’t even reach around all the fat on my body. It just about fills the bed that used to be big enough for the both of us. If I could manage to waddle all the way to the front door, I’m not even sure I’d fit through it anymore. I can’t get away; so whatever you bring me, I eat it. And drink it. And chew it. And swallow it.

And enjoy it. And dread it. And crave it. And fear it.

I wish you could see with clear eyes what you’re doing to me and what I really need. I wish you could see that I’m way, way too fat for my own good. That you should be making me move and exercise instead of sit and eat. That I need you to make me diet instead of make me indulge. That every treat is a temptation, every snack a sap to my willpower, every meal a means to make it that much harder to ever go back. You’re loving me to death, and every new pound proves just how completely, thoroughly, smotheringly you love me.

It takes my breath away.

#feeder fiction #gainerfiction #gaining #ssbhm #weight gain fiction #wg fiction #extreme weight gain #wg story #weight gain story #gainer stories