Some of my stuff qualifies: https://www.deviantart.com/mrwrong1/art/Drive-970898009 https://www.deviantart.com/mrwrong1/art/1019410474 https://www.deviantart.com/mrwrong1/art/The-Birthday-Party-708089810 https://www.deviantart.com/mrwrong1/art/Devil-s-Night-815351059 https://www.deviantart.com/mrwrong1/art/The-Big-Bend-1-904941227 https://www.deviantart.com/mrwrong1/art/Arrival-1-818055620

I'm going to do something I usually don't and put out a snippet of something I've been mulling for a long time. The darker themes, first-person perspective, and "just write(ing) scenes" are very different for me, but I want to expand my horizons and try new things. Context: The main character (name not established yet, 20-something guy), has recently gone through a very shitty couple of years. Just when things were starting to calm down a bit, he finds out that his last living relative, a 40-something BBW named Rachel whom he grew up thinking was his aunt, actually was no relation at all. Driven a little nuts by the loneliness and sudden revelation, our "hero" makes a move on Rachel, and she actually reciprocates, the two of them immediately establishing a steamy cougar-ey food-centric relationship. This scene is maybe a week or so into the new relationship. (also lmao I did NOT write this with the chanboard's character limit in mind, enjoy the multi-post) ---------- 1/4 I was somewhere in a nightmare about having an upcoming test when a firm hand shook me back to reality. I slowly return to Rachel's sanctum of scented candles and soft blankets, and eventually register the lack of light. Pawing and glancing at my phone reveals the time to be about midnight. As I groan, Rachel's hand pats my shoulder, and she says gently but firmly, "We got somethin' we need to do, 'member?" I sit up slowly, my still-full belly grumbling as its work is disturbed. "Yeah" escapes my mouth somehow, and I chug the glass of water that had appeared on the nightstand. "Go'wan and get dressed, (Anon)," she orders. Rachel watches and follows at a respectful distance as I stumble across the upstairs to my suitcase and fish out a fresh outfit. She's dressed casually, black leggings and an old red T-shirt stretched over her curves, so I dress to that level: jeans and a college-branded T-shirt that's tighter than I remember. I pull on some socks, then shuffle down the stairs to collect my shoes and meet my new chubby paramour near the garage. She's trying not to show it, but Rachel is subtly tense, not even bothering with the little teasing or flirty motions I'd come to expect. Seeing her tense makes me nervous too. We wordlessly pile into her pickup and roll into the night. The East Texas air is still so heavy even so late, sticky with humidity and at the moment, portent. The AC is deathly chilly, but Rachel visibly relaxes as the vents blow on her. Despite the muggy air, I'm comfy enough, and I close one of the vents, knowing that Rachel's fat ass needs all the cooling it can get. Briefly pausing at a crooked stop sign, she reaches off to her side and produces a can of Monster Energy, offering it to me. "Looks like you could use a pick-me-up." I blearily mumble thanks and accept, cracking open the can and watching the velvety dark greenery scroll past. Mermentrout is a little sketchy at the best of times, but on a cloudy night with no moon, you really notice how little lighting there is in this broke-ass region. Half-rotten abandoned farmhouses morph from heaps of matchsticks into blobby shadow monsters, almost seeming to squirm in the gloom. The ever-present foliage seems even thicker, overgrown fields turned to oil slicks, vine-choked copses become rough black walls, and coffee-water swamps turn into pools of liquid void. Lighted billboards or the rare open-late business are jarringly out of place, intrusions into an ocean of ink. Rachel seemed to read my mind, laughing, "Creepy tonight, ain't it?" Taking a sip of my unwholesome chemical drink, I simply mutter, "Yeah." Another sip, and I can muster some more words. "Rachel, where are we going?" She doesn't respond right away. I watch most of a corroding industrial depot roll past before my former aunt speaks up, "Ah told you, it's a lil' meet-up with some folks I know," her twang coming through particularly strong. I felt a twinge of suspicion towards her for possibly the first time. I push it down, but do still dig, "Right, but where?" emphasizing the last word. A grin blooms on Rachel's round face. "I don' wanna spoil all the surprises, but I will say we're goin' into the woods. Don' worry, you'll like this." She glances over at me, and I must've been radiating annoyance or disbelief. Rachel flips on her blinker and turns onto a smaller road, rougher asphalt. Rachel asks, "(Anon), do you trust me?" I think only for a moment before the word "Implicitly" comes out of my mouth, and I'm agreeing with myself. Grinning impishly, I reach over and clasp Rachel's chunky thigh. My heart swells with excitement at feeling her warm, soft chub beneath my fingers, and I feel a thrill of still-novel transgression. My new lover giggles as I squish her thigh, then she grasps my wrist and drags inwards, sliding my hand towards her crotch. I gasp but don't resist, immediately savoring the feeling of being enveloped by her warm, spandex-clad belly and groin. My cock twitches as I instinctively start groping for her chubby pussy. Rachel breathes heavily, navigating the decrepit country road with one hand on the wheel and another on my wrist, bidding me to keep teasing her. The angle is a little awkward, forcing me to lean over a bit, but I do my best to revel in this moment. The truck's lights barely cut through the gloom and unkempt foliage presses in on the road like grasping shadows, but it somehow feels ... perversely right. As my fingers begin to get a bit sweaty from friction and Rachel's ever-present body heat, I finally notice that the radio has been on this whole time. The barely-audible chorus of that schmaltzy "Take Me to Church" song is cut off by a shaky gasp from Rachel as I find a sensitive spot. My grin graduates to showing some teeth - it feels so good to be stomping on boundaries with this amazing woman, I don't even care how or why. "Little (Anon) is all grown up," I tease. "I learned a thing or two before I dropped out." Rachel giggles indulgently, the sound low-pitched and resonant, tickling my spine and my cock. She extracts my hand from between her legs and says, "It's a good start, hun. But'chre gonna learn so much more." My heart catches at her lustful promise, and I can't muster any sort of response off the cuff. "Drivin's a little tricky here, I gotta focus," she says, placing both hands on the wheel. Some other whiny song masquerading as rock comes onto the radio, but it's largely drowned out by gravel crunching beneath the tires. I cautiously continue sipping the energy drink, watching for gaps in the wall of trees and vines that never really seem to appear. After a few minutes of this, Rachel takes another turn, rolling past a rusty metal gate into a small clearing which hides an overgrown tank farm. Rachel then guides the truck down a barely-visible service road, bending around behind a bank of old vine-choked oil tanks. That kernel of suspicion pops up again as I realize that there's no way our parking spot is visible from the road, which itself is in bumfuck nowhere. I should be worried for our safety, but if she's going into such a secluded spot willingly, then I'm just gonna trust that my former aunt has a plan. "Ya up for a little walk, (Anon)?" Rachel asks cheerily. I respond by chugging the last third or so of my cloying drink and unlatching the door. She grabs my thigh and gives me a serious look. "(Anon), I want'chu to 'member somethin' for tonight. No matter what'chu may see, you're gonna be safe." I sense the sincerity in my girlfriend's voice and try to ignore the additional questions her preamble raises. "I don' think I understand what this is about, but I trust you, Rachel." She grins at me, perhaps with a touch of strain. "Don' worry. You'll like what's planned fer tonight. It ain't a far walk from here either." I give her chubby hand a squeeze, she releases me, and I slide onto the memory of a gravel pad. The truck suspension squeaks slightly as Rachel disembarks, then she waddles around the front, a hefty flashlight in hand. She motions to follow, and I do, trying to navigate into the dark underbrush while fighting the temptation to ogle her jiggling fat ass. For all her talents and eccentricities I never would have rated Rachel any sort of woodsman. She's a four hundred pound restaurant owner who cooks and naps for fun. But watching her stalk through that underbrush, I thought of the word cougar, as in the predator. The way she moved was difficult to describe, confident and unhurried rather than encumbered by her weight. Whatever worry I may have had about her safety swiftly vanished, though I couldn't help but still have some nerves for myself. I got the feeling that the flashlight was for my benefit rather than hers, and despite the leaves and vines pressing in on all angles, she effortlessly finds, almost makes, a path through the choking undergrowth. I was trying to crystallize some musings about how my former aunt's prodigious chub seemed strangely connected to power rather than indolence when I noticed an orange glow through some trees. Rachel turns to me briefly, putting her hands on my shoulders and looking me in the eye. Her face is sweaty and a little blotchy, but she isn't breathing hard at all.

2/4 "(Anon)," she starts. "We're almost there. I wanna promise you sumthin'. No matter whatchu see, no matter whatchu think, you and you alone choose what you want to do." "Rachel, I don't understand." "Ya will in just a sec. Yer gonna see some shit that probably rates as real fuckin' weird and scary," she leans in, her face wreathed in macabre shadows from the flashlight but suffused with an undeniable sympathy. "Yer gonna need to make a decision on somethin' important tonight, (Anon). I know you ain't really my nephew, but I wantchu to know that I will love and respect you all the same no matter what happens tonight." I gulp, partially to banish the last sour aftertastes of that energy drink, and also from nerves. The frogs, cicadas, and other noisy night critters are absent, I realize, and the unnatural silence is suffocating. A brief breeze whispers through the trees and I'm grateful for the hint of nature. "Whatever this is, I'm ready," and I hope I sound confident. Rachel nods and takes my hand. Her cubby palm is immediately sweaty, but I'm grateful for the contact. We stalk together through the underbrush towards the glow, and just before we hit a clearing I realize that the light is coming from a bonfire. In one moment the bonfire seems to be burning away oddly alone, then in the next I have to shake my head and blink my eyes. I suddenly behold maybe two dozen women sitting in a rough circle around the fire. My eyes go wide as I glance around, they're all stark naked and swaying gently from side to side. It's a diverse group, all manner of skin tones and ages: a buxom blonde with creamy skin, a modelesque black chick with curly hair, an old saggy white-haired lady with a surprising number of tattoos, a tough-looking grizzled woman with a gray-streaked braid, and others I didn't get a good look at. My heart hammers in my chest. Rachel stops us just outside the circle, and even as I'm gawking at the collection of naked ladies, she announces, "Rejoice! The guest of honor has arrived!" The women reply by clapping their hands in unison, the sudden sound reverberating like sharp thunder. They then return to their odd sideways undulations. Trying to keep the panic out of my voice, I whisper, "Auntie, what is this?" I'm too shocked to even correct myself. She clasps my shoulder, her hand radiantly warm, and replies, "(Anon), whatever you think this is, yer prob'ly right." I look at her, wide-eyed, working my jaw to try and muster some sort of response but she continues, "Hun, if yer not into this, then ya can turn and leave, and we pretend this never happened. But if yer curious, then take a seat at that lil' table up there." My gaze slowly locks onto a small wooden table with a lone handsome dining chair. Two covered dishes sit atop the table, and the civilized tableau seems almost intrusive in this wild fire-lit clearing. It only takes me a moment to decide. I was the one who crossed the line first with Rachel, so somehow, despite the manifest bad vibes, I felt the need to see what she was offering. Or maybe I felt like breaking even more rules, and this was clearly some sort of ritual about to begin. I respond by shaking her hand from my shoulder and walking towards the table, taking a wide arc around the circle of naked women. "Should I be calling them witches?" I ponder for just a second before reaching the table, pulling out the chair, and sitting. The moment I'd scootched in properly, the probably-witches all rise to their feet and start dancing. Serpentine, sensuous movements, very slow, gyrating and undulating, gradually taking steps clockwise around the fire and making no noise save for their breathing. I watch, of course, greedily drinking in the body of whichever woman was in front of my table before another one drifts in. It somehow seems "correct" to be bathing in lust at the moment, and in seconds, my cock is threatening to tear through my jeans. I'm about to readjust or start touching myself when Rachel enters my field of view, standing over the left-hand plate cover. She's naked again, but that's not why I gasp. My eyes are overwhelmed trying to take in the newly-appeared labyrinth of markings that now cover her corpulent body. I can barely dig into the designs or even wonder if they're tattoos when she grasps the cover's handle and asks, "Are you ready?" "As ready as I'm going to be," I hear myself saying. She smoothly lifts the cover and my whole world seems to vanish, save for the horrible thing that was under that dome. I lock eyes with a severed goat's head, and I'm too shocked to even scream when one of its weird little square-pupiled eyes pivots to meet my gaze. "Greetings, young master (Anon)." The voice is in my head but I know it comes from that goat's head, or from whatever is speaking through it. The voice is deep, slow, erudite, but also unpleasant like a broken toenail constantly snagged on a sock. I don't vocalize my response, but somehow thinking about articulating the words is enough to communicate with the thing. "What's going on? What are you?" "Whatever thou thinketh I am, thou art probably correct." I stare at the thing for an agonizing moment. The goat's features flicker horribly in the orange light as the women continue dancing past. Its eyes aren't sunken or dull like they should be, instead very much aware and glittering with unnatural cunning. I'm speaking with a demon. A lifetime of vaguely religious platitudes, snippets of hellfire-and-brimstone preachers, and bluntly confrontational evangelical signs flash through my mind. I should stop immediately. I should huck the thing into the fire and run into the woods. I should be horrified beyond all reason, crying out for the rescue of my nakedly imperiled soul. Instead, I'm curious. And with every passing second, I realize: defiant. "What do you want?" I send back to the goat head. "Thou art worthy of a boon." I think for just a moment before replying, "And let me guess, I have some fun with this boon for the rest of my life, then it's straight to Hell when I die?" "Nay." I'm stuck thinking for a long moment, trying to make sense of that unexpected lone syllable. The thing cuts in again, "All things serve the Father's designs in due time." I flash with anger, "I don't give much of a shit for God's designs right now!" The thing seems to crinkle or flinch slightly at the word "God", and I continue, "I'm worried about me, and fer as much as my life sucks right now, I'm pretty sure Hell'll be worse." Its first reply is a pained hiss, sizzling through my brain like hungry acid. "Art thou a clever one?" My eyes seem to wobble as it laughs in my head. "It is the Father's will that Mermentrout become more indolent and decadent. This shall happen," the thing explains. A million thoughts swirl through my head, though mostly disbelief that I'm continuing to entertain this vile entity. "Why me?" "Fate." As if sensing my turmoil, it continues, "I tell no lies. Thou wouldst be a most marvelous harbinger. And the town that cast thee out should accept thee again." Fucker got me. I knew right then and there, but I still tried to put up a token skeptical resistance. "What if I refuse?" "Then I shall find another. Beware: thou shalt still be imperiled if thou wouldst stay in Mermentrout." I digest this answer for a moment, once again considering running. Of leaving this cursed place behind, but how to convince Rachel...? "Thou wouldst always wonder what might have been," the thing retorts to my pondering. I flash with brief fury as the thing strikes another nerve, and it presses, "Thou could make allies and family out of those who once rejected thee. And satisfy thine fleshly desires, should thou wish." I quickly calm, again struck by the potential, even if it might be in vain. The possibility of finally making a home out of shitty little Mermentrout... "Dost thou not deserve some pleasure after thine recent torments?" It must be doing that on purpose to interfere with my thinking, or maybe it already knew it got me. Maybe it knew it'd get me before this even started. I take a deep breath, the hot, humid air feeling like corrosive vapor in my lungs. I realize my heart is pounding, and every nerve in my body seems to be trembling, stretched far too tight. I exhale, feeling little better because I know I'm about to do something horrible. "What is your proposal?" I ask, "What would you grant me, and what would you demand in return? Speak plainly."

3/4 My eyes wobble as the thing wordlessly laughs, and the goat head's bloodless lips seem to curl in a sneering smile. "Thou shalt become most persuasive, especially when inflaming the fleshly desires of other mortals." That one unliving but animated eye seems to bore through me, and I can't look away. "The price," is says. "Is as it has ever been." "One soul." That vile proclamation resonates through me, seeming to defile and corrode my very being even for just hearing it. But within that hideous extended moment, somehow, somewhere deep within, a scheme formed. I pray that this final needlepoint bastion of my being is spared from the demon's awareness, and I can't help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of praying at a moment like this, but I do all the same. If this is truly God's will then perhaps this will work. The goat head doesn't seem to flinch or react as my not even half-baked lawyer brain realizes: "one" soul. Not "my" soul. That kernel of realization, this pinprick of sleazy salvation, is flushed away in the next moment as I feel myself tumbling towards the inevitable. "How do I accept?" Comes out of me from somewhere. All at once the corroding darkness clears, I inhale roughly and become keenly aware of my surroundings once more. The round wall of overgrown oak trees, blazing from the light of the bonfire. The coterie of probably-witches, still dancing their sensuous way around the circle. I briefly ogle a sweat-flecked brunette with pierced nipples when I hear and see Rachel uncovering the other dish before me. Her warm grin is wildly out of place in this unholy ritual, and I follow her gaze down to the new plate. A raw goat heart sits atop the plate on a neatly arranged bed of lettuce. "If the the terms are agreeable, then eat," the demon says through the goat head. My mind is already made up. Even as I think about reaching for the heart, I feel a sense of profound satisfaction, maybe even snugness. Less jarring than the cackling laughter I would have expected. My hand hasn't quite closed around the heart when Rachel grips my wrist. "It's much better cooked," she explains cheerily. I lean back and say, "Do whatever you need to." She releases my wrist and scoops up the heart, making her way to the bonfire, smoothly stepping around a plump middle-aged woman with a pixie cut. Backlit by the flames, I still can't make out any of her strange new markings, but her chunky silhouette immediately makes me think of some bizarrely profane fertility idol. She then steps to the side so I can see what she does next, though I have to squint and focus past a string of particularly fetching naked revellers. Rachel holds the heart in her hand and reaches into the flames. My eyes widen yet again but somehow I'm not surprised that she doesn't seem to be hurt. The heart immediately starts to sizzle and blacken, and Rachel deftly balances the organ on her fingers, spinning it around for a good even cooking. The dancers have picked up their pace, adding a leap to the side as the progress around their circle. I'm soaked with sweat, partly from the combined bonfire and heavy night air, but also from sheer anticipation. After maybe a minute or two of fire roasting, Rachel withdraws from the flames and returns to the table, stepping in time with the dancing witches and neatly around an elegant dark-skinned lady. She looks down at me, that same damn warm smile again almost the most haunting thing of the night. We exchange no words as I look up at her, features and those markings almost invisible against the bonfire backlighting. The aroma of the roasted heart reaches my nose, smelling absolutely amazing, and I can wait no longer, dread be damned. The women all gasp lasciviously as I bite into the charred organ, and I moan too. The meat is tough, as to be expected, but the flavor is somehow incredible and rich without any spices. I don't feel any different as I pull a bite into my mouth, crunching through the thin char and reveling in the umami flavors, and I barely even notice the blood dribbling down my chin and sticking to my fingers. I devour the fist-sized lump of meat in only a few greedy bites, only dawdling to properly chew the tough meat before each swallow. I scarf down the last bite and lick my fingers, still barely aware of the crimson mess on my face, feeling oddly bloated yet ravenous at the same time. Somehow I've lost track of my not-aunt in the intervening moments, and I look around with perverse delight: the women have all started to kiss and pleasure each other. My vision swims and I drunkenly glance around the clearing, trying to find which pile of amorous witches appeals to me best, but instead I land on that fucking goat head again. This time it's properly lifeless, eyes obviously dull and unfocused. It's oddly relieving, but before I can really dwell on the demon's departure, a plump hand is holding a whole cut of what might be tenderloin in front of my face. On their own, my hands grab the meat, realizing it's barely cooked if at all, but all the same tear off a huge bite and loose a primal growl. My senses are hazy, but I realize a moment later that the hand was all marked up and was thus Rachel's. I don't return to the thought as the occult lesbian orgy starts to make its way towards me. The witches abandon the fire as I keep stuffing my face, instead surrounding my table with their moans and gasps. I've eaten about half of that tenderloin by now, and my jeans are utterly intolerable. My stomach feels ready to burst and my cock is desperate to escape the confining denim, so I clamp my remaining hunk of meat between my teeth and clumsily undo my button and zipper. I groan indulgently as my full belly feels some relief, and I feel no shame as I rub my throbbing cock through my sweaty boxers. The writhing mass of horny women around me seem to respond to my indulgences, gasping and moaning even more desperately, hands and mouths working more aggressively. I still can't quite focus on any particular pairing, but it also seems like the lovers have found some meat of their own, stuffing their faces and messily feeding each other as they rub and gyrate. By now I've somehow finished the hunk of tenderloin, not even thinking about how I fit it all inside me. I belch noisily and rub my taut gut, barely noticing the blood I'm smearing all over myself or how my shirt seems to have ridden up. I'm fuller than I've ever been, but I still want more, and my cock is steadily leaking. Right on cue, a mocha-tone arm emerges from a sweaty tangle, produces a veritable slab of maybe-rare sirloin steak, and slaps it onto my distended stomach. Not even thinking about how I could possibly choke down even more food, I immediately seize the cut of meat and start tearing chunks out of it. As I gorge, the surrounding orgy keeps encroaching on me, flailing limbs occasionally brushing or caressing me. I'm barely aware of what's going on at this point, barely able to think of anything but still stuffing my face and the need pulsing hotly in my cock. In the back of my mind, I know that I've already stuffed myself past my physical limits, yet my hunger is unabated, and the bizarre realization seems to just fuel me even more. It's when I take a moment to rub my aching belly that I notice my body changing. My gut was never taut or slim by any stretch, but the rolls I feel hanging over the sides of my loosened waistband definitely weren't there when the night began. Somebody's hand emerges from the orgy and strokes my new chub, and a delighted giggle seems to ripple through the pile of women. For a brief moment, the realization flares in my mind: I'm getting fatter in real time. I nearly cum just from the discovery, and nearly choke trying to cram an over-ambitious bite of steak down my throat. As I catch my breath, I take a moment to float in the sensations flooding my body and mind. My gut pulses with pressure, but also seems to glow with warm pleasure, waves of tingly tension flowing outward in time with my heartbeat, an ever-so-slightly softer, warmer feeling in the wake of each wave. In my one moment approaching clarity, I speculate that the feeling is food being instantly digested and turned to fat, and I swiftly slide back into a haze as I quickly get addicted to the sensation. My shirt's ridden most of the way up and my jeans are constricting my meatier legs as I finish my slab of steak. I don't know how, but by now the chair is gone and I'm laying atop the sweaty mass of witches as they gorge and fuck. I briefly register that they're getting fatter too when I find a hunk of meat in either hand. By now I no longer know nor care what the cuts are, so I slap both hunks of meat against my face and tear bites out of both simultaneously. The orgy beneath me gets bold at this point, somehow extricating me from my sprayed-on jeans and tearing away my overstretched shirt. I grunt appreciatively as my softening flesh is liberated, but I'm too focused on fattening myself up to really savor the feeling.

4/4 I glance down at my throbbing cock and am instead greeted with a wobbling dome of fat obscuring my junk. Somebody's hand wraps around my dick, and I throw my head back with a breathy gasp. I moan around another mouthful of bloody steak as somebody starts to tenderly and slowly jerk me off. With every stroke, it feels like my whole body is pulsating with pleasure and warmth, and I suspect that the pleasure is making me expand as well. I never want it to stop, I don't care how fat I get. My first orgasm of the night catches my by surprise. I gasp roughly and practically see stars as I feel my cock splatter hot ropes against my chunky thigh. Moments later, at least two greedy, giggling mouths lick my sweaty leg clean. Before I can catch my breath, somebody is holding a new slab of meat to my face, and I fully submit to whatever this erotic ritual may yet have in store. The orgy beneath me ceases to feel like a flailing tangle of limbs and more a bed of increasingly doughy flesh, moans and blasphemous cries of rapture muffled by neighboring bodies and my own fatness. Chubby, sweaty hands are now mercilessly force-feeding me, and I can feel my body swelling by the moment. Adoring hands grasp and caress me from every angle, sending jiggles and quakes through my thickening flesh, crashing into the waves of swelling pleasure thrumming out from my belly. I can't meaningfully move at this point. My belly feels like a waterbed full of jello, my arms are flabby sausages that I can barely lift, and each leg probably weighs more than I did when this insane night began. I'm too lost in the sensations flooding my being to even properly savor the novelty of my massive obesity. I've cum two or three more times by now, my anonymous benefactors adapting their technique to work around or utilize the new puffy fat pad surrounding my insatiable cock. And still, I expand. My limbs finally outgrow my strength, and the wobbling expanse of my body is squished on all sides by the now-corpulent bodies of the coven. I begin to lose a sense of where my body, or any body around me, begins or ends. I'm engulfed by heaving, sweaty blubber and caged by dozens of pudgy hands. My leviathan stomach is swollen beyond any reason, I'm nearly choking on a merciless onslaught of sublime cuts of meat, I'm utterly helpless within a coven of supersized witches, and it's the greatest moment of my life. - I spasm, gasping for air like I've been drowning for an hour. My hands grab desperately, but they feel sinewy and strong once again, and as they sink into familiar fluffy blankets, I realize I'm once again in Rachel's bed. Sunlight streams through the windows in adjoining rooms, and a bird chirps incongruously somewhere in the trees. As the terror drains from my body, I finally take stock of my situation. I'm in my jeans and T-shirt again, and aside from an overfull belly bulging over the unzipped fly, I don't feel any fatter than usual. I roll over with a groan, rubbing my discomforted gut, and that's when I see the blood. The dull red stains on my fingers freeze my spine, and the too-salty crust on my lips slaps my senses too. "So that actually happened," I croak to myself. Funny enough, I didn't feel any different after apparently selling my soul. Improbably, my swollen belly grumbles with hunger. Full as I was, I figured this all might make more sense with some breakfast, and I prepared to head down to the kitchen.....

There was this one implied dark story that I vaguely remember. In short it was this POV story from the view of an extremely immobile girl succumbing to the zombie apocalypse.

>>9465 Found it! It’s called “coming in the night” They were coming. The Ghouls. It’s all they’ve been talking about on the news lately. I was watching my stories, as I’m prone to do most weekdays in the early afternoon when there was an “interruption in my regularly scheduled program”. I was ready to turn it off, but couldn’t quite reach the remote on the end table next to my bed, so I just continued to watch hoping it would be over soon and I could get back to my soap opera. Most updates like this didn’t affect me much these days, so I didn’t pay them much mind. I never watched the news anymore, content to only concern myself with the affairs within my little bubble. What was the point of worrying about what happened outside? I hadn’t left my house in several years. Haven’t left the bed in a handful either. When Ravi moved us out to the cabin, the plan had been for me to continue growing in relative seclusion; isolated from the problems of the world. It had been going so well. Shortly after our marriage, I had put on a good amount of weight. Enough to no longer be considered skinny by most standards. I assumed it was just my genetics kicking in. All the women in my family are notorious for plumping up after their weddings, but that usually coincided with a pregnancy or two. That hadn’t been the case for me. Before I knew it, I was sporting a potbelly. Ravi didn’t seem to mind. He was always cooking, bringing me snacks, taking me out to eat. If I had been paying attention, I might have suspected he was a feeder earlier, but instead I just enjoyed the ride. He revealed his true nature to me once I reached 200 lbs. He confessed how much he liked seeing me grow and how much bigger he wanted me to be. Part of me skeptical of his proposal to fatten me up, but a bigger part was relieved. Relieved that I didn’t ever have to worry about losing weight again and could keep finding pleasure in the cushy lifestyle he granted to me. So I went along with it and never looked back. Until now. I could feel my stomach rumbling under the pile of caramel-colored folds flooding out from my long buried rib cage. Ravi would usually be here to feed me, but he had gone to the store hours ago and hadn’t returned. I was running low on food and he’d thought it be smart to stock up before we went into lockdown. We both knew it was risky, but the thought of me not having enough to eat to at least maintain my current bulk was a nightmare scenario for both of us. I’ve missed both lunch and dinner today. I can’t remember the last time I missed a meal outside of sleeping through it. I was starving, an unfamiliar hunger taking over me. I wanted so desperately to eat something. Anything. But sadly there was nothing I could do about it. In the last few years, I had grown into blob of plush and jelly. My muscles atrophied from inactivity, my bones weakened from a lack of nutrition; I was barely able to move my fingers, let alone my legs. The thought of standing and walking to the kitchen was as foreign a concept to me as walking on the moon. Weighing well over half a ton, my body had been permanently affixed to the bed beneath me for quite some time, as my flab filled every inch of it and then some. Usually I didn’t have a problem with this. Ravi did everything for me, having seduced me into completely helplessness and dependence. I gave up on doing things for myself long before I had become physically incapable of doing so. I took to life as a lazy glutton fairly quickly. Once we moved to the cabin, I didn’t have much else to do than eat and watch tv. I was never the outdoorsy type, so hiking in the hills and swimming in the lake didn’t appeal to me in the slightest. I was content to sit my fat butt on the couch until it grew too wide to fit through the door. With Ravi providing me with an unending stream of the most fattening food imaginable, it didn’t take long before I was trapped indoors permanently. From that point on, with no possibility of escape and the increasing strain of lugging around the hundreds of pounds of fleshy blubber I had become, the motivation to move at all lessened and my world became even smaller. When Ravi started bringing my meals to the bedroom, I saw little need to get up during the day. When I no longer fit in the shower, Ravi would start cleaning me by hand. When shuffling my way to the toilet became such an arduous process that I’d mess myself from the strain alone before I could reach the bathroom, Ravi came up with other arrangements for that too. Before I knew it, I had no reason to leave my bed at all, so I stopped doing it entirely. I flailed my arms the best I could, sweating profusely and panting in exhaustion, trying to give myself the slightest bit of momentum to move the mountain of mass I called a figure. My legs were pinned down by my gut as it creeped close to my toes; pudgy feet grown soft from years of never feeling the pressure of a floor dangling uselessly at the edge of my girth. Part of me knew Ravi was never coming back, as much as I wanted to deny it. There’s no way he would voluntarily leave me alone for so long. I figured I’d be safe because of how isolated our house was from even our most distant neighbors. While it meant the ghouls might take awhile to reach me, it also meant I was stuck without any way to take care of myself. I couldn’t even stand up on my own. I wondered how long it would take me to die of starvation. Though the hunger pangs I was suffering from were quite intense, I knew I was way too fat to actually starve anytime soon. I had plenty of reserves stored up. But still, the prospect of potentially going months without food sounded like absolute hell. Even hours without had me on the brink of breaking. Maybe by then, I’d lose enough weight to move my legs again, but I’d probably be too weak to even do that. The ghouls were people who had died and rose back up to feast on the living. Seemingly mindless automatons driven only by a desperate need to sate their hunger. I could certainly relate. I fell back in a heap. It was no use. Despite all that flapping, I hadn’t managed to move an inch. I was truly immobile. I had no way to feed myself. No way to defend myself. I was alone and hungry and helpless; a pathetic pile of lard. A pig made ripe for slaughter. I was a sitting duck (one pumped full of cream to make foie gras) and there was absolutely nothing I could do to change that. The hunger brewing in my swollen stomach was so intense I felt like I was gonna die. My brain short-circuiting, completely consumed by the gnawing emptiness. I started to cry. The sobbing came with sweating and shortness of breath. Even crying was too physically taxing for my body to handle. I started to moan. Not a sexy moan, but the kind a dying animal would make, and a large one at that. I couldn’t take it anymore. In between my laborious wailing, I heard something rustling in the woods. I stopped, collecting myself momentarily to hear a little better. Even though my heart was pounding and my lungs were heaving, any disturbance in the relative silence of the forest was always noticeable. I hoped it was Ravi, finally back from the store, but I hadn’t seen the lights of his truck in the darkness. I called his name and got no answer, but the rustling continued. It was growing louder and coming from different directions. Clearly whatever was out there wasn’t alone. The motion sensor porch light was tripped and now I was able to see them. People, but not like normal people. Rugged and disheveled, their faces blank and mouths hung open. They moved slowly and clumsily, but deliberately as dozens of them closed in around the house. My heart raced even harder as they began pounding on the doors and windows. There were no barricades outside of simple locks. I began crying again, the pain in my heart growing even stronger. My lungs felt empty. My chest was tight (tight as a chest could be when it sporting sagging tits that flopped down to the sides of the gluttonous belly beneath). Was I having a heart attack? I could hear the door break in over the sound of my panicked breathing. They were inside. It was getting harder and harder to focus as I gasped for air like a fish out of water. The room began to grow dim as they slowly made their way through the entrance of my bedroom. As they closed in, everything began to fade away. As their hands fumbled across my flesh, I didn’t feel scared or hungry anymore. As they piled on top of me with teeth sinking into my doughy blubber, I slipped away completely, content to be someone else’s last meal.

https://www.deviantart.com/weightgainlit/art/COMM-Found-Fat-age-SSBBW-XWG-1088321910 https://www.deviantart.com/dr-black-jack/art/Resident-Evil-WG-Story-Commission-680383298 and this writer's stuff generally https://www.deviantart.com/thespookyend

>>9466 This is really good, could be a great "legit" horror story outside our little fetish ghetto.

On deviantart the are a bunch but It's hard to find some longer one

>>9461 phenomenal story, actually tragic this hasn't gotten any (you)s in almost a year

I remember a somewhat dark fantasy feeder story, it's called "Your Successor" or something like that, it's about a feeder who kidnaps a girl's mother and makes her fat until she dies, and with information from the girl's mother he lures her by telling her where he is and repeats the same thing with her.

My first story, it's kinda cringe, hope someone enjoys it Prologue: The Bards' Secret This tale was whispered in hushed tones, passed along like a forbidden 'secret' among the most libertine bards and poets. Shared only with select audiences, far from prudish ears and affected ladies (especially plump ones) who might take offense. As guests gathered around bards near tables laden with devoured delicacies, the story unfolded. In opulent court halls, always after grand feasts; when most were half-drowsy, and the slender maidens from the feast's start now sat sleepy and sated. Without corsets and with belts loosened for their swollen bellies' comfort. Stuffed from food and drink, their full stomachs straining against bespoke silk gowns. After hours of revelry, etiquette faded, displaced by the pleasure (and bloat) of gluttony. With greasy fingers and smeared lips, ladies listened to this tale, often laughing and whispering behind hands. They compared the witch to some plump friend, or even to acquaintances who grew fat after exhaustion, childbirth, or age. I - Sing, O Muse the Gluttony of Morgana Once, in a kingdom on the brink of collapse, where war and famine ravaged once-prosperous lands, young King Alaric inherited a crumbling throne. His father, a great warrior, had fallen in battle, leaving behind an occupied realm and a people desperate from crisis. Alaric, inexperienced and overwhelmed, felt powerless. Though well-intentioned, he lacked governance skills and was easily deceived by corrupt nobles, worsening the nation’s plight. Flaws aside, the young heir possessed charisma and vigor—constantly traveling the realm, meeting allies, battling enemies, and receiving all manner of illustrious or infamous figures who might aid him. His charm made him beloved by the populace, given the circumstances. Though a fierce warrior, the king lacked military strategy. He won battles through zeal but lost the war from tactical naivety. The enemy conquered fortified cities one by one, cornering the capital. Under siege, the city’s provisions dwindled. Then one day, the witch Morgana appeared at his palace. Though Alaric had wasted time on false prophets and charlatan mages, this being a superstitious era where all feared magic, he received her as he rested on his throne—despite past disappointments. She was an elderly woman of grotesque appearance. Cloaked in long, dark, loose, worn garments. A hooded tunic hid her wrinkled, time-ravaged face. Her spine curved not just from age, but from her own bloated body. Greasy gray hair escaped her hood; her wart-covered hands clutched a gnarled wooden staff. Obese, with a prominent belly swaying under billowy clothes. Sagging breasts strained her robes. Her lower body was immense—a huge rear dragging on the floor, cellulite sometimes visible through fabric layers. Her face, carved by deep wrinkles and warts, personified decay. None could guess her age or how she stayed well-fed during famine. Perhaps someone so foul knew dark arts. — "I can free your kingdom, young king," Morgana rasped, her voice seductive despite her repugnance. "But all things have a price." — "I’ve heard promises from other 'mages.' Prove your worth or my guards will drag you out!" Alaric brandished. — "Many pretend to power with tricks or persuasion. But true power is recognized in the light of day." With that, the sorceress raised her staff toward the ceremonial table. Muttering Ancient Tongue words while clutching a small crystal sphere. A beam shot from her staff. When light hit the table, it trembled like a possessed thing. A loud crack made guards tense, though harmless. As smoke cleared just as guards moved to seize her, the table now overflowed with fine dishes. The sight delighted the hall’s starving occupants. Nearly all whispered for the king to heed her. — "Is this proof enough? I’d speak with Your Majesty privately." Alaric agreed. The witch proposed a pact: she’d free the kingdom from invaders and bring prosperity, but in exchange, the king must surrender body and soul. Reluctant yet desperate, Alaric accepted. II - Blood Rain That same night, the pact was sealed. In a private dungeon cell, Morgana invoked ancient magics. After placing a comfortable bed, she drew a magic circle with a sacrificed lamb’s blood. Chanting in the Ancient Tongue before the sigil, candles snuffed out as a heavy atmosphere consumed the space. Unnatural voices and laughter mixed with dying men’s laments beyond the walls and soldiers’ battle cries. Beneath the dungeons, the king sweated cold; hearing a cacophony above—unworldly yet indistinguishable—helpless to prevent his throne’s fall. The lamb’s blood glowed red on stone, revealing in dim light that the witch had disrobed. With unknown energy, she shoved the young king onto the bed. Mounting him not like a succubus, but like a nightmare’s suffocating dread, she took him. He’d sworn not to interrupt the ritual. He was a hostage, immobilized and bound, doomed either way. He surrendered his body, having nothing left to lose. He’d never lain with such an aged, ruined woman. Had candles burned, he’d have vomited. Her hips moved in slow, hypnotic rhythm, each motion draining not just his pleasure but his life force. Barely moving, he soon wearied from weight and tension. Between gasps and moans, they climaxed. The witch, more satisfied than ever, climbed off as the youth passed out. Alaric couldn’t see, but the ritual worked. That same night, enemies breached the citadel and nearly took the royal fort. But at dawn, an unprecedented storm rained thick, boiling crimson fluid from the sky. Whatever it was, it burned invaders’ skin. Panic erupted as they screamed like men in boiling water. By morning, the siege lifted. Corpses littered roads—mostly foes. The enemy camp stood deserted, tents scorched. Enemy king and generals, terrified by this phenomenon, signed a truce; content with plunder for now. The kingdom began recovering. Fields bloomed. People returned to peaceful work. III - Nights of Pleasure and Torment But the witch hadn’t acted from kindness. The ritual siphoned the youth’s vital energy, and she wouldn’t stop at one night. She vanished after the first encounter, yet always reappeared suddenly, lustful even when the king swore he was alone. If first nights were horrific, he gradually grew accustomed—though waking increasingly exhausted. But he noticed Morgana changing, growing younger nightly. Where he once shut his eyes waiting for time to pass, now he began to enjoy it, and she reciprocated. Life force drained from king to witch. Through carnal acts, she rejuvenated, becoming younger and sensual while he withered, thinned, and grew too weak to rule. Alaric’s nights with Morgana were a mix of pleasure and torment. The witch, now dazzlingly beautiful, seduced the young king. She led him to bed with slow, calculated movements, fingers sliding over his skin while whispering power-words in his ear. Her full red lips explored every inch of him, sucking not just pleasure but vitality. Alaric felt trapped in a cycle of desire and exhaustion. Nights were intense, but each dawn left him weaker. His once-strong body grew pale and gaunt, eyes sunken and weary. He barely rose by day; nights were consumed by the witch. IV - Behind the Cloak (Flashback) By day, she hid, recalling her past. She was ancient—234 years old—having prolonged her life through occult rituals to study dark magic. In youth, she’d been beautiful and seductive, the opposite of her current state. As she matured, curves blossomed into loveliness. But rebelliousness led her to scorn human contact, especially men, remaining surprisingly chaste for such a sensual girl. She isolated herself, studied the Ancient Tongue—not Philosophy but Heresies: Demonology, Alchemy, Necromancy, Occultism. Many youths fell for her; she rejected all, driving some to suicide. For years, in a forest hovel restored by spells, she studied scrolls alone. Her goal: wield magic to control the world in her image. But aging alone made her unstable and rage-prone; she spent most time conjuring food and devouring banquets solo. The food, artificial but nourishing, lacked true flavor. She tended cats roaming the woods—many transformed youths or men. And killed incautious maidens nearing her hut from pure envy of youth. Decades of mad, lonely study made her a shadow of her former self. Spells initially preserved some youthfulness despite bloat, but as she fattened, magic failed, aging her further. Her suffering bore fruit; she became one of history’s greatest sorceresses, yet her spirit withered. In sleep-spells, she saw her lost beauty and mourned handsome suitors and the life she’d squandered. Even the false-tasting food frustrated her. Learning of the kingdom’s plight, she enacted her life’s plan. Using a newly-learned spell to steal youths’ vitality for rejuvenation, she crafted the crystal sphere her ancient grimoire required to store victims’ energy. With effort, she mounted her broom and flew invisible to the capital.

>>11886 V - The Witch's Transformation In early weeks, Morgana’s flesh began changing—slowly, subtly, daily. Changes would’ve drawn notice had her grotesque form not been hidden under an old cloak. Posing as an elderly servant when questioned, she hid in dungeon cells by night. Beneath her tunic, she transformed like a caterpillar in its cocoon. Time itself flowed backward. Each night she drained Alaric’s essence, her stained husk renewed cell by cell. After four weeks, Morgana felt comfortable disrobing. In the dungeon’s solitude, she let her cloak fall. Cold air caressed renewed skin, hardening her pink nipples. Before a dusty mirror, she shed the cloak: She examined herself. Her once-wrinkled, blotched skin had smoothed. Wrinkles and spots vanished slowly. Her epidermis grew cleaner, firmer, hydrated—excess sagging gone. Warts shrank to freckles, then disappeared. Her skin wasn’t as youthful as she wished, though. Her body, once flabby and obese, toned. Fat melted; muscle emerged. Slowly, effortlessly. Provocative new curves appeared. Still mid-transformation—plump but pleasantly voluptuous, curvaceous. Now she resembled a sensual panther, a shapely middle-aged figure. No longer a living nightmare. That firmer body combined with deliciously reborn skin gave her a mature, sensual aura, highlighted by candlelight gliding down her legs in shadowplay. Her hair stunned her most. Old strands fell out in recent weeks, but she hadn’t checked for regrowth. Joyfully, the mirror showed raven-black hair to her shoulders. Enthused, she ran fingers through silken strands while combing. New locks grew daily—dark from root, long and glossy—soon reaching her waist, full and voluminous. Before the mirror, happy for the first time in years, she wept. But she knew she could go further. Though still somewhat aged, she showed signs of long-lost beauty. No longer a decrepit witch, but a woman in her prime—a fine wine improved by time. By three months, Morgana was unrecognizable. Decades younger, especially compared to pre-ritual nights: Her disproportionate bulk reshaped into a maiden’s svelte curves—nature’s gift without effort. She could’ve been her former self’s daughter. Her calves, once swollen, slimmed into elegant curves granting feline agility. Her thighs no longer chafed from fat but met in perfect harmony—soft outside, firm within. When squeezed, flesh sprang back without cellulite’s shameful grooves. Scars vanished, leaving only long, sculpted legs. Her buttocks swelled; glutes lifted and defined, cellulite disappearing as hips took violin shape. A large, round rear with perfect muscle-fat balance sculpted its form. Walking before the mirror, her hips swayed hypnotically, each buttock’s movement tracing figure-eights like an invisible waltz. Her belly chiseled itself daily to a wasp waist. No folds or loose skin. No traces of past obesity. Now flat, with a delicate navel inviting touch. Flab gave way to finely defined abs. Her arms, once limp, gained toned definition without bulk. Biceps curved faintly when flexed—like an exotic dancer’s. Strong yet smooth. Forearms, once vein-ridged and stained, now smooth with delicate wrists wrapped in tight, soft skin, seeming to invite embrace. Her breasts, once sagging, now stood firm and voluminous—hard as apples, defying gravity like melons pointing skyward. Nipples like old raisins became delicate pink buds, sensitive to the lightest touch. Magic re-inflated them into seductive orbs. Her skin now glowed, stretched so thin over new contours it seemed ready to tear. Pale yet radiant—healthy and alluring. Satisfied, her confidence soared. Vainly joyful for the first time in years. With a gesture, she conjured makeup, perfume, and a black silk dress clinging like second skin. The daring neckline showcased her restored abundant breasts; the corset emphasized her tiny waist; the tight skirt accentuated perfect buttocks. The fashion choice was bold and unusual, but attention was part of her plan. Her imperfect, decaying body was now immaculate again. Beauty rewritten letter by letter. VI - Goddess Ascendant With pride and beauty restored, she abandoned anonymity. Leaving dungeon hideouts, she aimed to seduce and conquer the court—not outwardly by force like past fools, but insidiously with charm and cunning. Claiming to be a noblewoman from the realm’s edges, she’d "miraculously" escaped war, hiding in the castle just before the siege—the "widow of a Count of Blackwood." Through seduction, smiles, favors, and spells, she won courtly favor—especially men’s. Her palace steps were slow and calculated—figuratively and literally: Centuries of life honed her courtly game, enchanting nobles while stoking countesses’ and marchionesses’ envy as she confidently paraded seductive hips through palace halls, radiating elegant sensuality at feasts. She appeared in halls wearing a provocative black velvet gown: So tight it seemed painted on her skin—a scandal in fabric. Crafted by the realm’s finest tailors, midnight-dark with liquid-like sheen under light. A daring V-neck plunged to her navel, framing gravity-defying rounded breasts. A corset sharpened her hourglass silhouette. Bare back to the lumbar curve, skirt slit discreetly at the thigh. The skirt clung to her hips, highlighting her hourglass curves. All brought to life by pale, flawless, smooth skin. Ladies of all ages envied her—both as a newcomer effortlessly charming husbands and suitors, and for mysteriously growing ever younger and lovelier compared to middle-aged madames feeling increasingly matronly. She smiled feeling men’s burning stares—and women’s venomous glares. "Yes, gaze well," she thought proudly. "I am everything you’ll never be." Initially fearing suspicion, she found reconstruction efforts distracted others. Gentlemen showered compliments despite ladies’ gossip. She gained influence, improbably appointed by the king, securing ever-greater responsibilities—seizing control. Sleeping with powerful men, offering uncannily accurate predictions during talks, she became a council advisor through semi-divine insight. Morgana grew celebrated and adored, elevated unthinkably for a lady—let alone a once-isolated crone. Morgana increasingly dictated the realm’s decrees, becoming de facto dictator. She amassed wealth and influence slowly. The king withdrew from public life, citing illness. Though not publicly named regent, elites knew she ruled. While some questioned her rise, most swallowed objections—obeying from fear or fascination. With these gifts, she sought not just queenship but to satisfy a long-repressed craving: real food. Years isolated, her magical meals filled but were bland—calorie-rich but lacking royal feast quality. That junk bloated and aged her, nothing compared to fine meats, crispy fritters, divine sweets, good smoke, and fine wines. Celebrating her glory, she hosted opulent banquets, eating and drinking limitlessly yet never gaining weight. Her magic, fed by Alaric’s vitality, kept her flawless. VIII - The Downfall of Gluttony One such night, as Morgana seduced him again, Alaric noticed something odd. A small crystal sphere rested on the bedside table. He recalled her holding it at their first meeting. It must mean something, but he’d had no chance to ask, tangled in Morgana’s flesh and fainting post-climax. His only chance came when the witch turned away, snacking on silver trays, distracted by her own gluttony. He waited for the perfect moment after spotting it: distracted and facing away, savoring wine and liquor chocolates. He crawled opposite and seized the sphere. Touching it, he felt strange pulsing energy. Summoning last strength, he smashed it against stone. As Morgana turned slowly, smiling seductively, the crystal shattered. A terrible shriek tore from her carmine lips. She feared reverting to repulsive age, but that didn’t happen... Instead, every dinner, every wine bottle, every delicacy she’d mindlessly consumed suddenly demanded payment. Her body didn’t age a year. It only swelled—ballooning like fermenting dough. All fat magic had prevented from accumulating rushed in at once. Morgana, moments ago the embodiment of beauty and seduction, began changing—gradually but unceasingly over half an hour. A victim of her own broken spell. From head to toe, magic unraveled. Her face rounded into jowls, losing its seductive feline sharpness. Her slender body inflated, gaining dozens of pounds in minutes. Sculpted calves thickened. Defined thigh quadriceps vanished, replaced by enormous roundness. Her slim waist disappeared under soft fat layers, folds and stretch marks etching her hips. Her once-perfect, firm buttocks transformed—expanding into wide, round, wobbling fat cheeks. Skin once flawless below the waist developed cellulite on thighs and rear. Stretch marks cracked her skin as weight climbed. Those generous, gravity-defying breasts adorned with small, lovely nipples collapsed. Became huge, sagging, and soft. Seated bare, her breasts would rest just above her belly button. Speaking of which—her belly became a permanent curve: enormous, round, soft, and quivering, hindering movement like gelatin. Stretch marks appeared there too, tearing skin up to her navel. She became immense. From behind, her rear resembled a wardrobe. In profile, facial jowls showed, her sagging breasts dwarfed only by her belly—finally revealing her gluttony. Front-on, those curves looked like a giant double bass, though retaining some shape.