# The Feeder's Paradise

Marla stood in the doorway of the hospital room, watching the rise and fall of Marc's chest beneath the sterile white sheets. His once-muscular frame had been whittled down to something skeletal, a cruel mockery of the man she had married. But the doctors had assured her the wasting disease was gone. His body would recover. His mind, however, was another matter entirely.

The neurologist had been gentle but firm. "The damage to his hippocampus is extensive," he'd explained. "Marc can form short-term memories, but they'll be gone within hours. He'll remember his childhood, perhaps fragments of his early adulthood, but the last few months of his illness? Those are his permanent reality now. In his mind, he's still dying, still terrified of wasting away."

For any other wife, this would have been a tragedy. For Marla, it was a divine gift.

Her fingers trembled as she approached the bed. This was it. The moment she had dreamed of for years, twisted into a more perfect reality than she could have engineered herself. Marc, her beautiful, stubborn Marc, would finally be hers to mold, to shape, to expand into the immobile monument to her desires that she had always craved.

She leaned over and brushed a kiss against his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, clouded with confusion and a deep, primal fear.

"Marla?" he whispered, his voice a dry rasp.

"I'm here, darling," she cooed, stroking his cheek. "I'm going to take such good care of you."

---

The first day of Marc's "recovery" began with a feast. Marla had prepared his favorite foods, but in quantities that would have daunted a sumo wrestler. Pancakes drowning in syrup, bacon glistening with grease, scrambled eggs swimming in butter, and a tall glass of whole milk mixed with heavy cream.

Marc sat at the kitchen table, his hospital-issued pajamas hanging loosely on his frame. He looked around the room, his brow furrowed.

"I don't understand," he said, for perhaps the fifth time that morning. "The doctors said... they said I was..."

"They said you were getting better, sweetheart," Marla interrupted smoothly, placing the heaping plate in front of him. "And you are. But you need to eat. You need to regain your strength."

Marc looked down at the mountain of food, then back up at Marla, his eyes wide with the terror that now lived permanently in his gaze.

"I can't," he whispered. "I'll... I'll get sick."

"Nonsense," Marla said, her voice dropping to a low, commanding purr. She straddled the chair next to him, leaning in close. "You're starving, remember? Your body needs this. It's craving it."

She picked up a fork, loaded it with a syrupy bite of pancake, and held it to his lips.

"Open up, darling," she murmured. "For me."

Marc hesitated, but the fear in his eyes was slowly being replaced by something else: a desperate, animalistic hunger. His body, despite his mind's protests, recognized the need for sustenance. His lips parted, and he accepted the bite.

Marla watched, mesmerized, as he chewed and swallowed. A small, satisfied smile played on her lips.

"See?" she said. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

She fed him another bite, and another, her movements slow and deliberate. Marc ate with a growing urgency, his initial reluctance giving way to a frantic, almost panicked consumption.

"Slow down, darling," Marla laughed, but she didn't stop feeding him. "There's plenty more where this came from."

By the time the plate was clean, Marc was leaning back in his chair, his stomach visibly distended beneath his pajama top. He looked dazed, overwhelmed.

"I... I can't believe I ate all that," he mumbled, his eyelids drooping.

"And you'll eat more at lunch," Marla said, standing up and clearing the plate. "And dinner. And a midnight snack."

Marc's eyes widened again. "But... I'm not hungry anymore."

"You will be," Marla said, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Your body is a furnace now, darling. It needs constant fuel. And I'm going to make sure it gets it."

She walked behind him, running her hands over his shoulders and down his chest, feeling the bones that would soon be buried beneath layers of fat.

"You're going to be so big," she whispered in his ear. "So soft. So... helpless. You'll never be hungry again. I promise."

Marc shivered, but whether from fear or the beginnings of arousal, Marla couldn't tell. It didn't matter. Soon, the two would be one and the same for him.

The game had begun. And Marla intended to play for keeps.

Marc's hand pressed against his distended stomach, a grimace of pain etched onto his gaunt face. "Marla... I... I feel so empty. Like I haven't eaten in days."

Marla, who had been watching him with a predatory patience from the kitchen doorway, smiled. This was the moment she had been waiting for. The beautiful, tragic irony of his condition.

"I know, darling," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy as she approached him. "Your poor body is so confused. It thinks it's still wasting away."

She knelt in front of him, taking his face in her hands. His eyes, clouded with confusion and the ever-present terror, searched hers for answers.

"But I'm here to fix that," she whispered, brushing a kiss against his forehead. "I'm going to fill you up until you can't possibly feel empty ever again."

"But... the pain..." he whimpered.

"That's not pain, sweetheart," Marla corrected him gently, helping him to his feet. "That's hunger. A hunger so deep it feels like an ache. Come with me. Let's make it go away."

She led him to the kitchen, where she had already prepared the next feast. A massive bowl of macaroni and cheese, thick with cream and melted cheddar, sat on the table. Beside it was a platter of fried chicken, its skin crackling with grease, and a dish of mashed potatoes swimming in gravy.

Marc's eyes widened at the sight, but not with the revulsion one might expect. Instead, a desperate, almost feral hunger flickered in their depths. His body, overwhelmed and confused, was sending all the wrong signals, and his fractured mind was interpreting the discomfort of being overfull as the pangs of starvation.

"See?" Marla said, pulling out a chair for him. "I told you I'd take care of you."

She sat him down and immediately began loading a plate. The macaroni and cheese was piled high, three pieces of chicken were placed on top, and the mashed potatoes were dolloped on the side, the gravy running down to mix with the cheese.

"Eat, my love," she commanded, pushing the plate toward him.

Marc hesitated for only a moment before the hunger—real or imagined—overtook him. He picked up the fork and began to shovel the food into his mouth with a frantic urgency. Marla watched, entranced, as his cheeks bulged with each bite, as gravy dribbled down his chin, as his stomach, already distended, began to stretch even further.

"Good boy," she murmured, stroking his hair as he ate. "Such a good boy. Eat it all up for me."

He did. He ate until his breathing became labored, until sweat beaded on his forehead, until he let out a soft whimper with each swallow. But still, Marla urged him on.

"Just a little more," she said, pushing the plate of chicken closer. "You need your strength."

Tears welled in Marc's eyes as he forced down another bite, then another. His stomach was a hard, painful ball beneath his ribs, but the hunger in his mind was insatiable. He was trapped in a prison of his own body's making, and Marla held the only key.

Finally, with a choked gasp, he pushed the plate away. "I... I can't..." he managed to whisper before his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped forward, unconscious.

Marla caught him, gently easing his limp body back into the chair. She ran a hand over his bloated stomach, feeling the taut skin. A smile of pure, unadulterated satisfaction spread across her face.

"Sleep well, my darling," she whispered, pressing a kiss to his greasy lips. "When you wake up, you'll be hungry all over again."

---

Hours later, Marc's eyes fluttered open. He was in bed, the room dim. He felt groggy, disoriented, and... ravenous. His stomach felt hollow, empty, as if he hadn't eaten in weeks.

He sat up, his head swimming, and looked around the unfamiliar room. Where was he? What had happened? The last thing he remembered was... was being in the hospital, terrified that he was wasting away.

"Marla?" he called out, his voice weak.

The bedroom door opened, and Marla stepped in, a vision of domestic perfection in a simple sundress.

"You're awake," she said, a warm smile on her face. "How are you feeling?"

Marc's brow furrowed as he tried to piece together his fragmented thoughts. "I... I don't know. I feel... hungry. So hungry."

Marla's smile widened. "Of course you do, sweetheart. Your body is still recovering. It needs constant fuel."

She sat on the edge of the bed, taking his hand. "You had a bit of a relapse earlier. You fainted from hunger. But don't worry. I'm going to make you a big, hearty dinner. Something that will really stick to your ribs."

Marc looked at her, his eyes filled with a desperate, childlike trust. "Thank you," he whispered. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'll never have to find out," Marla said, her voice a soft promise as she leaned in to kiss him. "Now, just rest. I'll be back with your food before you know it."

As she left the room, Marc leaned back against the pillows, his stomach rumbling with a hunger that felt all-consuming. He had no memory of the feasts he had already consumed, no recollection of the pain he had endured. All he knew was the gnawing emptiness in his belly and the promise that his loving wife would soon fill it.

The vicious circle was complete. And Marla was its undisputed queen.

Days blurred together in a haze of eating and sleeping. Marc's body, initially rebelling against the onslaught of calories, had begun to adapt. His stomach, once a taut, concave hollow, was now a soft, rounded mound that never seemed to flatten, no matter how long he slept. His frame was slowly disappearing beneath a layer of new flesh, soft and yielding to the touch.

Marla watched these changes with a growing sense of triumph. She was a sculptor, and Marc was her clay.

"I don't understand," Marc said one morning, looking down at his stomach as he sat at the breakfast table. "I feel so... heavy. But I'm still so hungry."

"That's because you're getting better, darling," Marla explained, placing a platter of French toast, bacon, and sausages in front of him. "Your body is finally starting to hold onto the weight. It's a good sign."

Marc looked at the mountain of food, then back at his stomach. "Are you sure? It feels... wrong. Like I'm too full."

"Nonsense," Marla said firmly, pouring him a large glass of orange juice mixed with heavy cream. "That feeling of fullness? That's just your body telling you it's finally getting the nourishment it needs. It's been so long since you felt properly fed, your mind is confusing it with pain. But it's not pain, sweetheart. It's healing."

She sat down next to him, picking up a fork and loading it with a syrupy bite of French toast.

"Now, open up," she commanded, her voice soft but leaving no room for argument. "You need to keep your strength up."

Marc hesitated for only a moment before obeying. As he chewed, Marla watched the familiar transformation take place. The initial hesitation gave way to a desperate, frantic hunger. The fear in his eyes was slowly being replaced by a single-minded focus on consumption. He was learning to associate the discomfort of overeating with the satisfaction of survival.

"See?" Marla murmured, feeding him another bite. "Doesn't that feel better?"

Marc nodded, his mouth already full. "Mmm-hmm," he managed, reaching for the glass of juice and draining half of it in one go.

Marla smiled, her eyes gleaming with a dark excitement. She was pushing the envelope, and Marc was adapting beautifully. His body was becoming a furnace, burning through the calories she fed him, but not fast enough to prevent the steady accumulation of fat.

By lunchtime, Marc was complaining of hunger again, despite having consumed over 3,000 calories at breakfast. Marla had prepared a massive pot of beef stew, thick with potatoes, carrots, and chunks of meat, served with a loaf of crusty bread.

"I can't believe how hungry I am," Marc said, dipping the bread into the stew and taking a large bite. "It's like I haven't eaten in days."

"Your body is a miracle, isn't it?" Marla said, ladling more stew into his bowl. "It knows exactly what it needs. And what it needs is more food."

Marc ate with a focused intensity, his spoon moving mechanically from bowl to mouth. Marla watched, mesmerized, as his stomach stretched to accommodate the influx of food. He was eating more than she had ever seen him eat, more than any person should reasonably be able to consume in one sitting. And yet, he showed no signs of slowing down.

"I'm so full," he groaned, pushing the bowl away after his third helping. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Shh, it's okay," Marla soothed, rubbing his back. "That's just your body adjusting. Remember what I told you? That feeling of fullness is your body telling you it's healing. It's a good thing."

She picked up the bowl and held it to his lips. "Just a few more bites. For me."

Marc looked at her, his eyes glazed with pain and confusion. But the trust was still there, the desperate need to please the one person who had promised to save him from wasting away. He opened his mouth and allowed her to feed him the rest of the stew.

That night, as Marc lay in bed, his stomach a hard, painful ball, Marla brought in a "midnight snack." A large bowl of ice cream topped with whipped cream, caramel sauce, and crushed cookies.

"I can't," Marc whimpered, turning his face away. "Please, Marla. I can't eat any more."

"But you're hungry, aren't you?" Marla asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I can see it in your eyes. That same hunger you had in the hospital when you thought you were dying."

Marc's brow furrowed, his fractured mind struggling to reconcile the feeling of being overfull with the memory of starvation. "I... I don't know..."

"Of course you do," Marla insisted, dipping the spoon into the ice cream and holding it to his lips. "Your body is crying out for more nourishment. You need to listen to it."

She pressed the spoon against his lips, and after a moment of resistance, Marc opened his mouth. As the cold, sweet cream hit his tongue, something shifted in his expression. The pain in his eyes was replaced by a desperate, almost animalistic hunger. He began to eat with a frantic urgency, his spoon moving faster and faster until the bowl was empty.

Marla set the bowl aside and stroked his hair, a smile of pure satisfaction on her face.

"Good boy," she whispered. "Such a good boy. You're going to be so big and strong."

Marc looked up at her, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and the beginnings of a food coma. "I... I love you, Marla."

"I know you do," she said, leaning down to kiss him. "And I love you. More than you could possibly imagine."

As Marc's eyes drifted closed, Marla ran a hand over his bloated stomach, feeling the soft flesh yield beneath her touch. She had never been happier. Her husband was finally becoming the man she had always wanted him to be: soft, helpless, and completely dependent on her for every bite, every breath, every moment of his existence.

The transformation had begun in earnest. And Marla intended to see it through to its glorious, immobile conclusion.

The restraints were the next logical step. Marla presented them not as tools of imprisonment, but as medical necessities.

"The doctor says we have to be careful," she explained one morning, holding up a set of padded leather cuffs. "Your muscles are still so weak from the illness. If you move around too much, you could strain something. These are just to help you rest and heal properly."

Marc, his mind still trapped in the terror of his wasting syndrome, looked at the cuffs with a mixture of fear and trust. "Are... are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," Marla said, her voice gentle but firm. "Do you think I would do anything to hurt you? This is for your own good."

She secured his wrists to the bedposts, then his ankles. Marc tested the restraints, a flicker of panic in his eyes, but Marla was already there, stroking his forehead, soothing him.

"See? Nice and snug," she murmured. "Now you can just relax and focus on getting better."

The blindfold came next. "The doctor also said that too much stimulation can be bad for your recovery," Marla lied, tying a soft silk scarf around his eyes. "You need to rest your eyes as well as your body."

Plunged into darkness and unable to move, Marc's world shrank to the sound of Marla's voice and the sensation of her touch. He had no way of knowing that the soft mattress beneath him was being replaced with a reinforced hospital bed, designed to hold far more weight than his current frame. He couldn't see the IV stand that Marla had positioned next to the bed, not for medication, but to hold bags of nutrient-rich formula that she would pump into his stomach through a feeding tube when he was asleep.

Days passed in a blur of eating and immobility. Marla fed Marc constantly, but with the blindfold on, he had no sense of how much he was consuming. He couldn't see the mountains of food she placed before him, couldn't see his own body expanding beneath the sheets.

"I feel so strange," Marc said one day, as Marla fed him spoonful after spoonful of mashed potatoes and gravy. "I feel... heavy. Like I'm sinking into the bed."

"That's because you're finally putting on some weight, darling," Marla said, wiping a bit of gravy from his chin. "Your body is healing. It's a good thing."

"But... my arms and legs feel so weak," he protested. "I can barely move them."

"That's why you're restrained, remember?" Marla said patiently. "To prevent you from straining them. The doctor said it's normal for your muscles to atrophy a bit while you're recovering. They'll come back. For now, you just need to focus on eating and getting your strength back from the inside out."

It was a brilliant lie, and Marc, with no way to verify the truth, accepted it completely. He had no idea that his muscle atrophy was being accelerated by the immobility, that his body was consuming his own muscle tissue for protein while Marla packed him full of fat and carbohydrates.

The feeding tube was the final touch. One night, after Marc had fallen into a food coma, Marla inserted the tube. When he woke up, disoriented and confused, she explained it away.

"The doctor said we need to make sure you're getting enough nutrition while you sleep," she said, patting his hand. "This way, your body can heal around the clock."

Marc, blindfolded and restrained, could only accept her word. He couldn't see the bag of high-calorie formula slowly emptying into his stomach, couldn't feel the way his body was being stretched and reshaped even as he slept.

Weeks passed. Marc's body was transforming at an astonishing rate. His arms and legs, once strong and muscular, were now thin, flabby appendages, useless from disuse. His torso, however, was a different story. His stomach was a massive, rounded dome that rose and fell with his breath. His chest had softened into pillows of flesh. His face, once angular, was now full and round, his cheeks puffy.

Marla would sometimes remove the blindfold when Marc was asleep, just to admire her handiwork. She would run her hands over his soft, yielding flesh, marveling at the transformation she had engineered. He was becoming exactly what she had always wanted: a soft, helpless, immobile monument to her desires.

One day, as she fed him a particularly rich meal of creamed spinach and beef stroganoff, Marc let out a soft whimper.

"What's wrong, darling?" Marla asked, pausing with the spoon halfway to his mouth.

"I... I can't feel my legs," he whispered. "I try to move them, but... it's like they're not there."

Marla's heart leapt with a dark excitement. This was it. The moment she had been waiting for. The point of no return.

"That's okay, sweetheart," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "You don't need to move them. You don't need to move at all. I'm here to take care of everything. All you have to do is eat."

She pushed the spoon into his mouth, and Marc, with no other option, began to chew. He was trapped, not just by the restraints and the blindfold, but by his own body, which was slowly but surely becoming a prison of flesh, built brick by brick by the woman who claimed to love him.

Marla had won. And the game was far from over.

The day Marla decided to "test" Marc's progress was a day of revelation. She had left him unrestrained and without his blindfold for the first time in weeks, feigning a need to run a quick errand. She watched him from the hallway, peering through a crack in the door.

Marc lay on the bed, his massive body a mountain of flesh beneath the sheets. For a few minutes, he simply stared at the ceiling, his expression blank. Then, slowly, his hand moved to his stomach. His fingers traced the contours of his bloated belly, a look of profound confusion on his face.

"What...?" he whispered, his voice thick with sleep. "What happened to me?"

He tried to sit up, but his stomach was too heavy, too cumbersome. He managed only to lift his head a few inches before falling back onto the pillow with a soft grunt. Panic began to set in. He looked down at his body, really seeing it for the first time. His arms were thin, weak, useless things. His chest was a shelf of fat. His legs were hidden beneath the mountain of his belly.

"Marla?" he called out, his voice rising in terror. "Marla! What's happening to me?"

That was Marla's cue. She pushed the door open and walked into the room, a smile of pure, sadistic pleasure on her face.

"Well, well, well," she said, her voice a low purr. "Look who's finally awake."

Marc's head turned toward her, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. "Marla... what... what did you do to me?"

Marla walked to the foot of the bed, her eyes roaming over his immobile form. "I did exactly what I promised, darling. I made you better. I made sure you'll never be hungry again."

She ran a hand over his sheet-covered foot, then up his leg, feeling the soft, yielding flesh beneath. "You were so afraid of wasting away. Remember? You were terrified of becoming nothing. So I made you into something. Something... substantial."

Marc's breath was coming in short gasps, his massive chest heaving with the effort. "But... I can't move. I'm... I'm enormous."

"That's right, fatso," Marla said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper as she felt a familiar heat building between her legs. "You're a beached whale. A helpless, immobile mountain of flesh. And you know what that means?"

She climbed onto the bed, straddling his massive stomach, feeling it give way beneath her weight. Marc let out a soft "oof" as she settled on top of him.

"It means it's time to fatten that fat ass of yours even more," she whispered, leaning down to kiss him.

Marc tried to turn his head away, but he was too weak, too immobile. Marla's kiss was hungry, possessive, her tongue forcing its way into his mouth. She could feel his resistance melting away, replaced by a desperate, confused submission.

When she finally pulled away, Marc was breathing heavily, his face flushed. "Please," he whispered. "Please, no more."

"Oh, but there's always more," Marla said, sliding off the bed and walking to the door. "I have a special treat for you today. A little celebration of your progress."

She returned a moment later with a tray. On it was a massive bowl of chocolate pudding, a gallon of whole milk, and a funnel.

Marc's eyes widened in horror. "No... please... I can't..."

"Of course you can," Marla said, setting the tray down on the nightstand. "You have no choice."

She picked up the funnel and held it to his lips. "Open up, darling. It's time for your medicine."

Marc clamped his mouth shut, a pathetic act of defiance. Marla simply smiled, her arousal growing with every second of his resistance.

"You know," she said, her voice conversational as she ran a hand over his chest, "the more you fight, the more I enjoy this. The more I enjoy it, the more I want to feed you. So really, you're just making this harder on yourself."

She pinched his nose shut. After a few seconds of struggle, Marc's mouth opened in a gasp for air, and Marla slid the funnel in. She poured the milk slowly, watching as his throat worked to swallow, his eyes wide with panic and humiliation.

"Good boy," she murmured, her free hand slipping between her legs, rubbing herself through her dress as she watched him. "Drink it all up."

When the milk was gone, she picked up the bowl of pudding. "Now for dessert," she said, scooping up a large spoonful and holding it to his lips. "Open wide."

Marc, defeated, opened his mouth. Marla fed him the pudding, spoonful after spoonful, her movements slow and deliberate. She was in no hurry. She had all the time in the world.

"You're so beautiful like this," she whispered, her voice thick with arousal. "So soft. So helpless. So completely mine."

Marc could only whimper in response, his mouth full of pudding, his body a prison he could not escape.

By the time the bowl was empty, Marc was in a daze, his eyes glazed over, his breathing shallow. Marla set the tray aside and climbed back onto the bed, straddling him once more.

"See?" she said, running her hands over his distended stomach. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Marc didn't answer. He couldn't. He was too full, too overwhelmed, too broken.

Marla leaned down, her breath hot against his ear. "And the best part is," she whispered, "in a few hours, you'll forget all about this. You'll wake up, confused and hungry, and we'll get to do it all over again."

She kissed him, a long, deep, possessive kiss. "I love you, Marc," she murmured against his lips. "I love you so much."

And in that moment, as she ground herself against his massive, immobile body, Marla knew that she had finally achieved her ultimate goal. She had created a living, breathing monument to her desires, a helpless, obedient vessel for her love and her cruelty. And she intended to enjoy him for the rest of his days.