A Life of Feeding
A followup to "A Night of Feeding"
Petar had promised me he'd work on getting me fat, and the raccoon kept his word: every day after work he'd come by and make sure I made the scale hit a bigger number than the day before.
It was damn hard--I went to bed every night feeling like my gut was ready to explode--but Petar was there for me, pushing me, never letting me fail.
A little more weight every day adds up: by the time the end of the year came around, I'd gone from a wimpy 137-pound ferret, mostly fur and bones, to a broad and ball-bellied 300 pounder. My coworkers freaked out as they watched me bloating up day by day, but there was no way I'd let them fault me for it: now that I didn't hate my body anymore, my confidence had gone through the roof and my productivity with it.
I was stocky and I felt amazing.
And so when I went home for the holidays and the drunk uncle who always gave me a bad time met me at the door with 'Jimmy! What the hell happened to you?' I just slapped him on the back playfully and said "I'm getting a lot of love at home!"
"Thank you for your present," I said, putting my arms around Petar as he worked on putting our own Christmas dinner together a couple of days later.
The older raccoon leaned back against me and smiled. "I haven't given you anything yet."
I pushed my belly into his back, rubbing his round gut as well. "You've been giving it to me all year."
He chuckled and turned back to kiss me. "I ain't given you anything yet."
When it finally came time for food I was even more insatiable than usual and it didn't escape his notice.
"You're hungry today." Petar was loading up a seventh plate for me.
"I just spent the last couple of days living with skinny relatives," I said. "Their idea of a feast doesn't even measure up to an average night with you. They don't even get to seconds before they complain of being full..."
"Sounds like someone I used to know."
"We don't talk about th--"
Petar stuffed a bread roll in my muzzle and started dragging me away from the table.
I made sure to grab my plate as he led me back to my bedroom.
My room had only changed a little since the raccoon had started feeding me--I didn't get to be this fat by moving furniture around--but there had been a few things. My desk chair had broken a month ago, and we replaced it with one that was big enough and strong enough to handle at least a few hundred more pounds of me. The funnel gag was usually out and ready for use at a moment's notice. The minifridge that Petar had bought and kept stocked by my bed for me was humming away.
And then there was the feed-trough in the corner. It's funny how a little wooden box can be such a turn-on, but it did have a lot of associated memories...and training.
I knelt down in front of the trough, emptied my plate into it, and waited on all fours as Petar dropped his pants and strapped on his kneepads--this wasn't the most comfortable position for someone of his weight and age--and took his place on his knees behind me.
The ritual was perfect by now, refined by months of practice and communication. The raccoon slid my tail aside, rested his belly on my back, and I felt his soft cock sliding through the fur of my rump, nestled into the cleft as he stiffened.
The smell of sweet potatoes drifted up from the trough as he stroked his paws over my back, tracing the curves of my rolls. He ground his cock against me till I was whimpering and needy, slipped a condom on with a bit of lube, and sank his length easily into me.
I buried my face in the trough and chowed down, revelling in being the fat fucker I was: stuffing and green beans and pie filling my gut, Petar's cock plowing into me, and the whole thing making my belly wobble against my legs. My own dick was ignored, which suited me just fine--I'd already lost a couple of inches to the fat, and I knew the rest would follow in due time.
I ate quickly, eager to get the trough clean before the raccoon needed to unload, but I only made it through a handful of facefuls before I felt the familiar pulsing in my ass, and Petar slumped down on my back, panting.
I didn't stop eating, of course. That would be silly.
The raccoon leaned in and kissed behind my ear. "Here's my actual present," he said. "I want you to move in with me. I want you to eat for me, full time."
I stopped eating.
"Will you?"
I gulped down a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "You fuckin' bet I will."
Even though we'd been spending so much on food, he'd managed to save up for me; he had enough put aside to cover my student loan bills and get me out of my apartment so I could quit my job and be overfed for at least six months straight.
He figured that'd be enough time to build an audience: my fat would be paying for itself.
The first night in my raccoon's bed was unforgettable, not least because that first video's been reblogged a zillion times. You've all seen it--such a tiny 310# fatty hooked up to a tube and funnel as the raccoon poured thousands of calories in.
Yeah, that one was me. Petar always...always looked the same in his videos, the big guy helping folks like me balloon up--and balloon I did.
At first, the everyday routine wasn't much different--I'd snack all day, he'd come home from work, we'd eat dinner together, transition to the bed mid-meal after he'd had his own fill, weigh in after I'd been fed, and if I didn't come in at least a pound heavier than the day before, he'd hook me up to the funnel gag and pour enough milk into me to make up the difference.
A pound may sound like just the smallest tick on the scale, but then you remember how many days are in a year: by the end of that first full year with him, I was nearing 700.
I loved every inch of my growing body, and by the way our videos took off so did everyone else. My belly was round but still doughy, my face had filled out to the point I could always feel my cheeks wobbling when I moved, and my legs--well, they'd had trouble keeping up with my rapid growth, so I tried to go easy on them.
At 800 pounds, Petar took me out to celebrate with a lot of our fans and our chub and chaser friends who made me feel like the biggest guy in town.
And by this time, maybe I was. It sure felt like it, anyway, as I waddled after my raccoon through the streets of the central district, trying to get back to where we'd parked. "Petaaar," I panted. "We should've brought the little scooter."
"You hate the little scooter. Ever since it started pinching your flab."
"I'll take a bit of pinching over what's happening to my ankles right now any day."
"It was 'a bit of pinching' fifty pounds ago, tubs. You'd be lucky to fit your wide ass in the seat at all these days."
"Sweetheart...please." I'd stopped, leaning on a light pole and sweating in the spring coolness. A little teasing was usually a turn-on, but this pain was something else.
He saw my seriousness and let me lean on him the rest of the way. "I knew getting around the house was hard for you, but I didn't think a couple blocks would be this much worse."
"I'm sure I'll be fine," I said. "Just take me home so I can lie down."
My feet were still hurting when I got up the next day. Not as bad, to be sure, but I didn't want to risk getting up and making it worse again. I lay in bed, eating from the bedside minifridges till Petar came home from work with the groceries.
"I don't want to get up anymore," I said.
He put down a two-dozen box of donuts beside me, and held one out over my muzzle, just out of reach. "You'll never get up again," he said, and stuffed it into my mouth.
He slipped quickly out of his pants as I chewed on it, then climbed into the bed and straddled my belly, reaching for another donut. "Look at you, tubs. You've eaten yourself so big so fast you can't even walk on your own feet anymore." He crammed the next donut in, even though I was still working on the first one. "You'll never have to worry about that again. You'll never have to worry about anything again. Just eat, and be happy, and let me take care of you."
I swallowed, and he was ready with another mouthful for me, stuffing it in as I felt his stiff cock sliding between my thighs, grinding against the fatpad that had swallowed my own dick months ago. "Eat. Be happy. Let me fatten you till you overflow the bed. Till you can't even lift your arms and legs anymore. Till you're nothing but an enormous fuckable ball of fat."
I grabbed the donut box and set it on my chest, chowing down as my feeder fucked my flab, the body we'd built together quaking with each thrust, increasing my own arousal--an arousal which long practice had trained me to translate into appetite.
One by one the donuts disappeared, until I felt the pulse of Petar's cock somewhere in a deep fold of my fat. After a few moments, he slumped down beside me, leaning in and grabbing a donut from the box.
I kept eating.
"Taking care of my blubbery, bed-bound babe...keeping you washed, turned, bringing you medical care, changing your diapers--I'll help you with that in a second, don't worry, but..." He inhaled deeply, turning the donut over in his paw as I ate the last that remained in the box.
"Jimmy," he said, turning to hold the donut over my muzzle. "You'll marry me, won't you?"
I leaned up and nomfed a bite of the donut. "You fuckin' bet I will."
Petar kept his word and did everything he could to take care of me. He hooked me up to a tank that kept me fed at any time of day and for years I was the happiest tub of lard in the state.
I started having the blackouts around 1300 pounds. When our doctor came in to look me over, he looked unusually concerned.
"Well...it looks like you're dying, Jimmy."
I'd thought he was on our side. "If you're trying to scare me straight now Doc, that won't work. Nobody dies anymore--at least, not for good."
The tanuki shook his head. "That's not your _prog_nosis, it's your _dia_gnosis. What you've been calling a blackout is respiratory failure--you're not strong enough to get enough breath, and you're dying and being restored on the spot. If your save point were elsewhere you'd've been more likely to notice."
Petar squeezed my paw, his hand feeling small against my thick sausagey fingers. I could already imagine what he'd say when we were alone. Well, you've managed to eat yourself to death. This calls for a celebration. For now, though, he just said "Is he going to be all right?"
"Other than the dying?" The doctor considered the question. "I mean...it's not likely his condition will deteriorate much further. A few times a day, you said. That's not enough for a lot to change. As far as bad news...you won't be able to gain anymore either if your body keeps rolling back to the last day's save."
Dying was one thing. This was unacceptable. "Any alternatives?"
"Easiest would be to restore you back to an older save--something at least four hundred pounds lighter. I know, I know, you won't like that. Alternatively, folks like you with a lifestyle objection can go to Grandham, where they'll try and fix your breathing with a little less discontinuity."
There aren't many good stories about Grandham Hospital. It was almost as scary as going back to a triple-digit weight. "We'll have to think about it."
I was distressed enough at the thought of cutting back.
I was destroyed when, two days later, Petar didn't come home.
[to be concluded]