And Out of the Blue I Begin to Eat
It comes over me without warning, like a massive wave suddenly crashing over a calm sea. And out of the blue I begin to eat. Oh not your average three meals a day kind of eating. Not even the kind of eating that comes from boredom, stress, or any other mental or emotional malady. No, it's the kind of eating that serves only one purpose, to get bigger.
I think of a bear preparing for hibernation or a pregnant body that instinctively knows it's eating for two. This deep primal urge that says eat, eat like your very life depends on it. And I do.
I'm never really aware of my own intentions at first. Oh, after a while I see all the signs. They were there, screaming at me, I just ignored them. My body tried to tell me. It began to bloat with the retention of fluid and the slowing of digestion. My libido tried to tell me as desire crept in and my nipples became persistently hard and demanding. And then of course there was the eating.
Looking back, I always know. I know my fetish has been denied too long and it will not be ignored. My urges to feed someone else, to run my hands over a their hard round belly, to hear them moan and belch as they struggle to be comfortable after gorging, those urges are too strong. And so my body decides for me, without a willing partner I will simply have to make do alone, with my body. And I eat.
I eat too fast, too much, for too long. By the the time I decide to consciously acknowledge what I've begun it's too late. I'm not able, or maybe willing, to stop. My belly is already bloated and bulging. My clothes are already way to tight. I'm already horny. Why stop now?
And so I don't. I spend a day, no usually way more, stuffing my already fat body. Secretly I eat five or six meals more than the normal daily three. I hide the evidence of my binging; wearing my largest and baggiest fat clothes, burying empty food containers under other trash, stashing take out and leftovers in the back of the refrigerator for later, eating boxes of pastry in a parking lot, going to two or three drive up restaurants in a row. All in the hopes of finding lustful satisfaction in a body made bigger than it's ever been. Massive, and stuffed, and bursting at the seams.
It's thrilling and so arousing, but also embarrassing and truly disturbing. And yet, once again, I document it. Maybe for some kind of vanity, so I can look back and say "see what you did". Or maybe, and more likely, it's all part of the obsession. Create this enormous, fat, moaning, stuffed pig and then use it for not only my own pleasure but that of other's. I mean I understand their desires after all, they are my desires too.
But sadly, when the waves subside and the water is still once more, it's just my body again. Not a sex toy, like some blow up doll I can over inflate at will when the urges grip me. And back in my right mind I'm left with guilt, remorse, regret. Not to mention the suffering and pain that days of gluttony do to a person. And of course a fat, round, swelled up body that is too old to recover the way it used to. So, I just get a bit fatter ever time.
Yeah, it's the most exciting fucking thing in the world when it's happening. But when it's over, ugh. Just ugh. I'm miserable and so ashamed. And then I swear it's the last time. I'll resist my desires all together. Or maybe just keep using my partner's fat body as a means of fulfilling my fetish through fantasy alone. My imagination is amazingly vivid and really quite limitless. I don't need all the bells and whistles, he's fat, that's enough. I don't need the real thing after all. Right?
Sure. Right. Play the imagination game. Watch some videos. Chat with some fellow sufferers. Imagine what you could be doing with your fat partner. It'll be enough.
Enough. That's kind of a funny word. At least for a gluttonous fat fetishist. ENOUGH. Good one. Especially since I've just realized I'm well on my way through a box of breakfast cereal as I write this.
Here we go again.
- getatmedog, Bellylover777, Jimmy.james501 and 5 others
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