Ok . . . this is fucked up. Feels wrong coming back to this after everything that’s happened but I’ve missed my little diary, so here goes.
Something bad happened, but it changed my life for the better.
Steven and I never actually had sex, but despite that he continued to feed me right up until August, when, aged just 23, I suffered my first heart attack.
The first signs that I’d let myself go beyond anything I’d ever intended, was when I was no longer able to get out of bed by myself. Shortly after my last post I stopped even trying, and Steven began to order incontinence pads because, pathetically, I wasn’t able to hold it in until he was around to help me. Olga, as nice as she was about these things, was clearly disgusted that she was working in a flat that smelled of shit. Steven had to change my bed sheets because Olga wouldn’t go near the pads. I kept getting bigger though, Steven kept helping me eat more and even though I was at this point thinking I had to stop, I didn’t have the strength. I was dependant on him in so many ways and if I lost him, I didn’t know what I would do.
During a hot, muggy week in August, Olga took the start of a 2 week vacation to see her parents. Steven was busy most of the time and was preparing for a holiday too which really stressed me out because I had no idea what I would do without him. Steven was at the time feeding me quite a lot of fast food, I had a thing for fried chicken and it seemed like the more I ate, the more I was expected to eat, so it came to a point where he would be bringing in enough to fill me 3 or 4 times. I tried not to disappoint him and as I usually do, when faced with more food than I want, I made room.
I think it was a combination of stress, the extra greasy food and my steadily increasing weight, that led to the chest pains. They became more intense and one night, when Steven was at his home and I was alone, munching my way through a very rich Mississippi mud pie, I got a really tight feeling in my chest. I stopped eating and started panicking, but that made things worse. I was sick and felt paralysed, but it wasn’t like I was numb, I was just too weak to move. The pain lasted for what felt like hours but I didn’t black out, which I was practically begging my body to do.
The pain spread all over and true to what people say, I got sharp pains in my arms. Mostly my left but it was generally sharp shooting pains all over. I thought I was getting better throughout the night and I managed to get my strength back so I could drink (though all I had in reach was coke, which wasn’t ideal), but a few minutes after that I had another attack and called Steven.
I could hardly breathe and I felt like I would pass out. He arrived saying he’d phoned for an ambulance. I remember it was hard to hear and hard to see and I thought I was dying. I don’t remember everything that happened but I do remember being given drugs and that 2 ambulances came, I think because the first was too small for me. According to my mother the fire brigade was called but weren’t needed, something which gives me some small shred of dignity.
I was kept in hospital for almost a week under observation. I was tested and weighed and given tablets for the pain, cholesterol and my blood pressure. In hospital I apparently weighed my all time high of 58 stone, which is 812 pounds. A lot of it was retained fluid so after treatment I left hospital weighing a little over 53 stone. About a month later I now weigh around 50 stone.
All the while in hospital I begged for a gastric bypass but I’m too big for surgery. I didn’t want to look at food and up until a few weeks ago I avoided eating quite a lot. Even so I’ve got to loose another 15 stone before I’ll be considered healthy enough for surgery.
I don’t think I’ll manage that because despite the support of my family, I’m still overeating. I live with my aunt now in her large house. I can happily stay downstairs and everything I need is here. I can't walk but my grandmother used to live here and as morbid as it may be, her stuff is still here. Being very big, her wheelchair was massive and now I use it myself. The ground floor was also well designed for someone like me, with disabled rails in the bathroom and wide corridors, ramps at steps and so on.
My aunt knows that I will eat no matter what, so she cooks very large but very healthy meals for me, so I fill up on good stuff. She buys me all the snacks and treats that I want but they’re in top cupboards so I only get them when she thinks it’s appropriate. It’s given me some restraint that I badly needed. I still eat loads and when my cousins come over we binge like crazy (all of them now scared to end up like me though), but I’m much better than I was when Steven was feeding me.
Apparently he had a lot of difficult questions to answer when my parents arrived after my heart attack, and he hasn’t seen me since. He’s text me but we haven’t really spoken. I want to avoid getting into a situation like that again, where I was his play thing.
Anyway, I’m still settling into my life at my aunts and I will write more about it another day. I wanted to write more but I'm very tired these days. It’s late for me though so I’m off to bed. Night all!
~xXx~
Monday, September 19, 2011
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
Xmas and the New Start
Hi all,
I have all sorts of news, none of it really what you would call bad, but lots of developments, lots good.
I want to start with Christmas. It’s always a special time of year for me, as food is one of the most important parts of it. I was invited home for Christmas, as usual, and decided I’d go. But unlike last year, I wasn’t really going to fit at the table.
Just before Christmas I’d had a bad case of flu and had dropped a little weight. It wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things, but when I got better, I was having bad stomach pains, so I saw my doctor. Among the usual tests, which again confirmed that my blood pressure was too high, I was tested for diabetes (and thankfully cleared) and weighed. There is a scale in my doctor’s surgery that is down the hall for weighing very obese patients. It was enough of a struggle to get out of the house that morning, drive to the surgery, sit in the waiting room and then waddle to her office, let alone waddle down the hall to the scale, but breathless, I managed it.
Clothes have become a big problem, so I was just wearing a beige top with curry and sweat stains on it, and black leggings that were meant to be baggy, but hugged my leg rolls. I don’t have bras that fit, but I’m beyond caring how I look, or that my breasts hang down as far as they do. I wore trainers, but my feet still ached in them.
I had requested to be weighed, she had weighed me back in summer and I wanted to see if my gluttony had piled any more weight on me.
I didn’t understand how to read the scale, so when she told me to step off, I did. Without being asked to, I took the nearest available seat, because I was so exhausted I felt like I’d be sick. It didn’t help that before coming to the surgery, I’d had a McDonald’s lunch of 2 big macs, 2 double cheeseburgers, a McChicken sandwich, 2 packs of fries and 2 milkshakes, all of which were sloshing in my stomach as I moved.
She asked me to come back to her office, and I realised I didn’t have the strength to stand. It was embarrassing, but I had to use a disabled support on the wall to haul myself out of the seat. I waddled back to the office.
She was stern and harsh with me again. She asked about my lifestyle and diet. I told the truth. When I’d had flu, I hadn’t eaten as much. I’d gone from (and I’m estimating based on when I used to count calories, because I really can’t be assed to list my daily diet and work it out, but you probably already know what I eat day to day) about 20-25,000 calories a day down to less than 10,000 for about 5 days. When I started to feel better, I was back consuming as much as before.
She took a guess that the pains were probably my body’s way of telling me it doesn’t want the food. That maybe my digestive system had gotten used to a more sensible intake of food, and that suddenly forcing my old, very unhealthy and fat filled diet back into it had been what was causing me the pain. She asked me to keep track of what I eat and try to cut out dairy and meat for a while, and try to eat around 2,000 calories a day. She said if I could do that, and still felt ill, that she’d refer me for tests.
I really can’t do that. And I didn’t.
Then came the shock. I’d suspected for some time that I was over 40 stone but I’d never seen it on the scales or heard it from my doctor. But here it was, 43 stone and 4 pounds. 606 pounds. 274 kilos.
She told me, firmly, that if I don’t change I’ll probably be dead by the time I’m 30. She told me straight, that I’d always been severely overweight, and throughout most of my life, never had a decent standard of fitness. I haven’t exercised in over 3 years and before that I don’t think I ever have in my life. It was a bad combination that is, statistically, quite likely to kill me young.
Then she blamed my general lack of health and my migraines on my weight. I didn’t want to talk about the random chest pains that I get, or the sores, because I was nearly crying in the office.
I tearfully waddled back to my car. Planning ahead, there were 3 crunchies, skips, and a yazoo milkshake waiting in a carrier bag on the passenger seat.
Driving has become difficult. My right thigh pushes up against the door, along with the overhang of my fat belly and hips, making it difficult to close the door. The seatbelt doesn’t go over me (but I ordered an extender from an American website that sells things to help the obese with their ‘affliction’, however I don’t know if it’s legal so I hope I don’t get pulled over should someone notice). My left thigh and hip spill over onto the handbrake. I have to literally lift my flab before I can pull up the handbrake. With my seat all the way back, I can just about reach the pedals, but my gut presses against the bottom of the steering wheel. Getting in and out? If you’ve ever seen that episode of Top Gear where Jeremy Clarkson tries to fit into the world’s smallest car, it’s a bit like that. I had to work out a system to get in and out.
However, the last time I drove it was the last time I left my flat, Boxing Day. And I have put weight on. And I don’t think my system would work anymore.
After that, I had a moment where I decided I need to change my life. I’ve had those before. They don’t work but at the time I was certain. Anyway, I phoned my mum, told her my weight, and that I wanted to come for dinner on Christmas, as long as she would accept that I want to sit on the sofa this year, rather than at the dinner table. She was understanding and could tell that I was upset.
Closer to the day, when she was planning for Christmas, she asked if I had started my diet yet, because she wanted to know how much I was going to eat. I hadn’t, obviously, and told her I’d start in the New Year. Mum was about 30 stone herself around Christmas and wanted to loose weight so she insisted we could try together, but that for Christmas we’d just enjoy ourselves.
I arrived on Christmas day at about 11 to find the dinner table pulled up closer to the sofa. Exhausted from walking, I collapsed onto the sofa and panted. I’d decided to do some laundry and have a wash, so I was at least slightly presentable, but still just wearing a massive top and a pair of leggings and trainers. Mum brought me coke, and extended the edge of the table over me, so that I could reach onto the table. It also meant I had an entire metre long extension of table for my food to go on. When lunch began, mum brought in so much food it was unreal. There was only us and dad, but the amount was immense. She dished me up a plate that must have weighed a couple of kilos. It was loaded with turkey, potatoes, veg, cauliflower cheese, sausages wrapped in bacon, Yorkshire puddings and loads of gravy.
As I gorged on my first plate, mum and dad explained to me that they understood why I ate so much, and mum took responsibility for overfeeding me as a child. She said that from Christmas until New Year, I was free to eat what I wanted, but that in the new year I’d be expected to diet, and that they were going to pay to have my stomach fitted with a gastric band.
I was horrified. Gob smacked. That is my worst nightmare. Food is my comfort, it’s the reason I wake up in the morning, and it’s what fills the empty days of my nightmare existence with a flicker of light. I would still want the food; I just wouldn’t physically be able to eat.
For the guys reading this, many of whom apparently still find my ramblings ‘hot’, try to imagine that you’ve got a huge sex drive, a harem women that you want to sleep with, and you can’t get an erection.
Food is my sex. I wasn’t about to give it up without a fight.
I argued from a few standpoints. One was that I am thoroughly addicted to food and I would just find a way to break the band and that would be dangerous. Another was that it was my body and I’m free to make my own choices about these things. And lastly, that due to my size, a doctor would probably just refuse to operate on me. They wouldn’t listen to my reasoning but my dad, ever the push over, just agreed that I shouldn’t have to do anything I don’t want to. My mother just sighed and huffed and became grumpy with me for a while.
I gorged on 4 large plates. I enjoyed the intense feeling of the heavy, rich foods pressing against the walls of my stomach, weighing it down, expanding it like a huge, heavy waterballon. I wondered what the 4 piled plates of food looked like. I wondered how big my stomach actually was and how the doctors fitting a band would be freaked out by what must be a very above average stomach. I washed it down with 2 pints of cola, loving the way it made me belch every time. The pressure in my stomach became soooo good. I hadn’t felt this fulfilled in a long time, even though I was worried about my health and my parents insistence on a gastric band.
I started to feel kind of woozy after my 4th plate. My breathing was laboured and I felt exhausted and as though I had to sleep. I was becoming a boring conversation partner when I realised that I’d almost single handedly cleared the table. For sake of not wasting anything, I finished off the cauliflower cheese, the sausage meat stuffing and the last of the veg while mum prepared dessert.
Despite our recent history of mum trying to make me loose weight, during my childhood, she fed me loads. I was her portly princess and I was encouraged to finish every last morsel of the adult sized portions that she put in front of me. For old times sake, and because this may be our last big meal together, mum had prepared 3 desserts. The first was simple, Christmas pudding. It was a fairly large one; it should have served 6-8 people I’d say. I ate about 2/3 of it with about a pint of cream. Mum, like with the dinner, didn’t complain, because I know seeing me eat her cooking is actually reassuring for her, and I know she’s missed feeding me. I’m sure part of why she’s upset about my growth is that it wasn’t her that’s put the last 30 stone on my body. In fact her last major contribution to my shape was removing about 10 stone of fat when she forced me to diet and exercise.
Dad left the table at this point, I’m sure, partly grossed out by my slow and steady consumption, but partly just full himself.
Mum then brought in the trifle. A monstrosity of cream, custard, cake and jelly in a glass dish the size and depth of a mixing bowl. I was full. Very, very full. For the first time in a long time I was thinking ‘actually, I don’t know whether I want to eat this’, but it looked and smelled soooo good. She’d sprinkled cocoa powder on the whipped cream and my mouth was literally watering. She dished some up for me, then some for herself. My bowl was gone before she’d had a couple of mouthfuls. She said she didn’t want any more, and dad declined, so she let me eat it straight from the bowl.
It took me back to my childhood; especially since I felt so short, being as I was sunk into the sofa. As I swallowed mouthful after mouthful and my stomach expanded more and more, the blissful pain and heavy, complete feeling washing over me, I remembered how I got this big and why I love eating so much. It brought back memories of the first times I thought about the feelings that the food gave me. The times when I was not only allowed, but encouraged to eat between meals. Encouraged to keep eating, even when my stomach was clearly protesting. Told I was a good girl for finishing my plate, my takeaway, my dessert . . . it became clear to me as I ate that trifle, that I do want a feeder.
The next dessert was a chocolate log, with more cream. Mum was too full any allowed me to finish it all myself. It was over a foot long, loaded with buttercream and sprinkled with icing sugar. The cream was unnesscary but it was left over from the pudding. I ate it all, then I don’t recall anything for 5 hours. Apparently I slept like a baby on the sofa, with chocolate around my mouth, “Just like when you were little”.
Dinner was at 6, by which time I was hungry again. Mum had planned for there to be leftovers, but as I’d eaten everything, she had to go into the kitchen to prepare more. She roasted a chicken and potatoes, did some macaroni cheese and then made more pigs in blankets, but this time using large sausages and whole rashers of bacon. She gave me 6 and had 2, dad didn’t want any. He just had some chicken and potatoes. I was left to finish nearly all the chicken (I’m not really proud of this, but I can eat a whole chicken if I have to), most of the mac and cheese, tons of potatoes and my pigs.
I was drowsy again, but had to get up to use the toilet. Shamefully, I had to ask for help getting up, then even more shamefully, I couldn’t fit into the toilet and turn around, so I had to back in and go with the door open, which was so embarrassing I cried to myself a little. Apparently I was in there for the best part of an hour. And I do remember that I flushed twice while I was on it and once after I got off. After all, what goes in, must come out.
I stayed the night, watching the crap on TV, then struggled up the stairs, stopping to catch my breath every other step, and slept right through to 3pm. Mum made me what she thought was a healthy lunch of pizza and salad, but on the drive home I filled up with KFC.
When I got home, I started to change some things for the better. But when I say I have continued to overeat and not left the flat since then, that really does require some explaining.
First of all, I have a cleaner, Olga. She is awesome and I love when she comes around. She comes once on Tuesday afternoons and once on Friday afternoons, and I leave the door unlocked in case she comes while I’m still asleep. Dad pays her but she’s become like a friend because we always chat when she is here. I now make sure I shower twice a week, so while I’m in the shower, she can change my bed sheets. Then when I’m out of the bathroom she can clean that. She takes care of all the rubbish I leave around the flat and I really would be living in total filth without her.
But I have put on weight. I can hardly move without help, so how do I get from bed, to the toilet, to the shower? Because I have met, through my blog and chat, a very wonderful feeder. Steven is 37, and unfortunately married, but he’s very good at D.I.Y, and has helped make my flat more liveable, but putting hand rails up (the kind you see in disabled toilets) and that’s meant that I’m able to distribute my weight more evenly onto my arms and balance and support myself as I move. He has rearranged my flat so that I have minimal distance possible from my bed to the bathroom and I only have a short walk to the door to pick up deliveries. I can watch TV from bed and really, I don’t have to move from it much. It’s not a perfect system yet and I will need to change it if I keep growing, but for now I’m coping well, and with less exhaustion, my chest pains have almost stopped.
Apart from that, Steven comes over whenever he can and keeps me company and feeds me whatever I want. He’ll phone me during his lunch break and ask what I want to eat and bring it to me in massive quantities. He has cooked for me a few times, but he can’t stay long as his wife wonders where he is. We haven’t done anything sexually yet, but the tension is building and my pussy is hot and wet and all his when he wants it. Of course, he’ll need to find it because I can barely reach anymore. I haven’t come in such a long time it’s depressing.
Last month, he sent me a huge Dominos order, even more than I would ever eat on my own, and told me he wanted me to finish all of it. 4 large pizzas, one chicken, one pepperoni, one veg and one the works, along with chicken dippers, potato wedges, chocolate desserts, ice cream and coke. I looked at it in shock, but he told me if I ate it I would get a pleasant surprise. I was thrilled. It was about 1pm and he was coming over at 6 and he wanted it all inside me by the time he came. I was so excited to be encouraged to eat that I felt alive, I felt horny, I felt like I had a purpose. So I did, I ate.
I ate so much that I got totally sick of pizza for weeks and I still feel sick thinking about that afternoon. It was hard work, my stomach swelling and swelling and the time it took to digest made it all the harder to eat. By the time I got around to desserts I was literally light headed, it was about 4.30 I suppose but it was such a daze I don’t really recall the details. The ice cream had melted so I drank it and practically swallowed the desserts whole with it.
I fell asleep around then, with the TV on. The door was unlocked and when he came in his footsteps woke me, as he wears boots at work. His mouth dropped wide open as he looked at me, food around my mouth, naked on the bed, empty boxes all around me. He gave me a hug and I groaned as he put pressure on my stomach. He eased off. I felt so good holding him, my heavy arms taking too much energy to actually encompass him, but I touched his sides. I felt his cock bulging into the fat of my belly which was spilling over the left side of my bed, where he was. He actually thanked me for eating it all and said I was a good girl. I didn’t expect him to go all weird but he was loving it.
My surprise, it turned out, was a milkshake maker. It’s more of a blender really, or a smoothie maker. But he showed me how it worked but putting it next to my bed and making me a whole bunch of milkshakes, using ice cream and either strawberries or oreos, or both, which he had brought when he’d picked it up. It was an amazing night and I would have given him my body but he never asked to take it. He had to leave by 7.30 and I was so stuffed that I literally fell straight to sleep.
He’s thinking of ways he can make my life better, as well as ways to give me more incredible foods. We’ve had nights where he’s brought me takeaways and in the last two months he’s pretty much managed to double what I eat. Instead of 2 meals and a couple of sides from the Indian, it’s 3 or 4 and sides. Instead of an 8 piece bucket at KFC, it’s that and lots of extras like sandwiches, wraps and krushems. Instead of my usual from McDonalds, he literally brought 3 times what I normally eat and hand fed me every single burger and every single French fry. Some nights he’s cooked for me and I’ve eaten entire packets of pasta, 2.5 kilo bags of potatoes and so, sooo many filling carbs, with creamy sauces and curries and meatballs and sooooo much good stuff!
He tries to think of affordable ways that he can make my flat more liveable as I grow, but so far the handrails are the only affordable thing he’s managed. He works in home improvements so it’s ideal, otherwise he probably wouldn’t be able to do these things. He’s hoping my dad will fork out for a bath with a door, but I’m not holding my breath.
I want him inside me. If he were here now I’d suck him off and swallow it all, but he’s working, which really sucks. He said he might make it over tonight so hopefully, I’m going to get a filling in more ways than one.
I’m truly happy right now, just as long as I don’t think about the future.
I will keep you all posted.
Love and XX’s
Ali xXx
I have all sorts of news, none of it really what you would call bad, but lots of developments, lots good.
I want to start with Christmas. It’s always a special time of year for me, as food is one of the most important parts of it. I was invited home for Christmas, as usual, and decided I’d go. But unlike last year, I wasn’t really going to fit at the table.
Just before Christmas I’d had a bad case of flu and had dropped a little weight. It wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things, but when I got better, I was having bad stomach pains, so I saw my doctor. Among the usual tests, which again confirmed that my blood pressure was too high, I was tested for diabetes (and thankfully cleared) and weighed. There is a scale in my doctor’s surgery that is down the hall for weighing very obese patients. It was enough of a struggle to get out of the house that morning, drive to the surgery, sit in the waiting room and then waddle to her office, let alone waddle down the hall to the scale, but breathless, I managed it.
Clothes have become a big problem, so I was just wearing a beige top with curry and sweat stains on it, and black leggings that were meant to be baggy, but hugged my leg rolls. I don’t have bras that fit, but I’m beyond caring how I look, or that my breasts hang down as far as they do. I wore trainers, but my feet still ached in them.
I had requested to be weighed, she had weighed me back in summer and I wanted to see if my gluttony had piled any more weight on me.
I didn’t understand how to read the scale, so when she told me to step off, I did. Without being asked to, I took the nearest available seat, because I was so exhausted I felt like I’d be sick. It didn’t help that before coming to the surgery, I’d had a McDonald’s lunch of 2 big macs, 2 double cheeseburgers, a McChicken sandwich, 2 packs of fries and 2 milkshakes, all of which were sloshing in my stomach as I moved.
She asked me to come back to her office, and I realised I didn’t have the strength to stand. It was embarrassing, but I had to use a disabled support on the wall to haul myself out of the seat. I waddled back to the office.
She was stern and harsh with me again. She asked about my lifestyle and diet. I told the truth. When I’d had flu, I hadn’t eaten as much. I’d gone from (and I’m estimating based on when I used to count calories, because I really can’t be assed to list my daily diet and work it out, but you probably already know what I eat day to day) about 20-25,000 calories a day down to less than 10,000 for about 5 days. When I started to feel better, I was back consuming as much as before.
She took a guess that the pains were probably my body’s way of telling me it doesn’t want the food. That maybe my digestive system had gotten used to a more sensible intake of food, and that suddenly forcing my old, very unhealthy and fat filled diet back into it had been what was causing me the pain. She asked me to keep track of what I eat and try to cut out dairy and meat for a while, and try to eat around 2,000 calories a day. She said if I could do that, and still felt ill, that she’d refer me for tests.
I really can’t do that. And I didn’t.
Then came the shock. I’d suspected for some time that I was over 40 stone but I’d never seen it on the scales or heard it from my doctor. But here it was, 43 stone and 4 pounds. 606 pounds. 274 kilos.
She told me, firmly, that if I don’t change I’ll probably be dead by the time I’m 30. She told me straight, that I’d always been severely overweight, and throughout most of my life, never had a decent standard of fitness. I haven’t exercised in over 3 years and before that I don’t think I ever have in my life. It was a bad combination that is, statistically, quite likely to kill me young.
Then she blamed my general lack of health and my migraines on my weight. I didn’t want to talk about the random chest pains that I get, or the sores, because I was nearly crying in the office.
I tearfully waddled back to my car. Planning ahead, there were 3 crunchies, skips, and a yazoo milkshake waiting in a carrier bag on the passenger seat.
Driving has become difficult. My right thigh pushes up against the door, along with the overhang of my fat belly and hips, making it difficult to close the door. The seatbelt doesn’t go over me (but I ordered an extender from an American website that sells things to help the obese with their ‘affliction’, however I don’t know if it’s legal so I hope I don’t get pulled over should someone notice). My left thigh and hip spill over onto the handbrake. I have to literally lift my flab before I can pull up the handbrake. With my seat all the way back, I can just about reach the pedals, but my gut presses against the bottom of the steering wheel. Getting in and out? If you’ve ever seen that episode of Top Gear where Jeremy Clarkson tries to fit into the world’s smallest car, it’s a bit like that. I had to work out a system to get in and out.
However, the last time I drove it was the last time I left my flat, Boxing Day. And I have put weight on. And I don’t think my system would work anymore.
After that, I had a moment where I decided I need to change my life. I’ve had those before. They don’t work but at the time I was certain. Anyway, I phoned my mum, told her my weight, and that I wanted to come for dinner on Christmas, as long as she would accept that I want to sit on the sofa this year, rather than at the dinner table. She was understanding and could tell that I was upset.
Closer to the day, when she was planning for Christmas, she asked if I had started my diet yet, because she wanted to know how much I was going to eat. I hadn’t, obviously, and told her I’d start in the New Year. Mum was about 30 stone herself around Christmas and wanted to loose weight so she insisted we could try together, but that for Christmas we’d just enjoy ourselves.
I arrived on Christmas day at about 11 to find the dinner table pulled up closer to the sofa. Exhausted from walking, I collapsed onto the sofa and panted. I’d decided to do some laundry and have a wash, so I was at least slightly presentable, but still just wearing a massive top and a pair of leggings and trainers. Mum brought me coke, and extended the edge of the table over me, so that I could reach onto the table. It also meant I had an entire metre long extension of table for my food to go on. When lunch began, mum brought in so much food it was unreal. There was only us and dad, but the amount was immense. She dished me up a plate that must have weighed a couple of kilos. It was loaded with turkey, potatoes, veg, cauliflower cheese, sausages wrapped in bacon, Yorkshire puddings and loads of gravy.
As I gorged on my first plate, mum and dad explained to me that they understood why I ate so much, and mum took responsibility for overfeeding me as a child. She said that from Christmas until New Year, I was free to eat what I wanted, but that in the new year I’d be expected to diet, and that they were going to pay to have my stomach fitted with a gastric band.
I was horrified. Gob smacked. That is my worst nightmare. Food is my comfort, it’s the reason I wake up in the morning, and it’s what fills the empty days of my nightmare existence with a flicker of light. I would still want the food; I just wouldn’t physically be able to eat.
For the guys reading this, many of whom apparently still find my ramblings ‘hot’, try to imagine that you’ve got a huge sex drive, a harem women that you want to sleep with, and you can’t get an erection.
Food is my sex. I wasn’t about to give it up without a fight.
I argued from a few standpoints. One was that I am thoroughly addicted to food and I would just find a way to break the band and that would be dangerous. Another was that it was my body and I’m free to make my own choices about these things. And lastly, that due to my size, a doctor would probably just refuse to operate on me. They wouldn’t listen to my reasoning but my dad, ever the push over, just agreed that I shouldn’t have to do anything I don’t want to. My mother just sighed and huffed and became grumpy with me for a while.
I gorged on 4 large plates. I enjoyed the intense feeling of the heavy, rich foods pressing against the walls of my stomach, weighing it down, expanding it like a huge, heavy waterballon. I wondered what the 4 piled plates of food looked like. I wondered how big my stomach actually was and how the doctors fitting a band would be freaked out by what must be a very above average stomach. I washed it down with 2 pints of cola, loving the way it made me belch every time. The pressure in my stomach became soooo good. I hadn’t felt this fulfilled in a long time, even though I was worried about my health and my parents insistence on a gastric band.
I started to feel kind of woozy after my 4th plate. My breathing was laboured and I felt exhausted and as though I had to sleep. I was becoming a boring conversation partner when I realised that I’d almost single handedly cleared the table. For sake of not wasting anything, I finished off the cauliflower cheese, the sausage meat stuffing and the last of the veg while mum prepared dessert.
Despite our recent history of mum trying to make me loose weight, during my childhood, she fed me loads. I was her portly princess and I was encouraged to finish every last morsel of the adult sized portions that she put in front of me. For old times sake, and because this may be our last big meal together, mum had prepared 3 desserts. The first was simple, Christmas pudding. It was a fairly large one; it should have served 6-8 people I’d say. I ate about 2/3 of it with about a pint of cream. Mum, like with the dinner, didn’t complain, because I know seeing me eat her cooking is actually reassuring for her, and I know she’s missed feeding me. I’m sure part of why she’s upset about my growth is that it wasn’t her that’s put the last 30 stone on my body. In fact her last major contribution to my shape was removing about 10 stone of fat when she forced me to diet and exercise.
Dad left the table at this point, I’m sure, partly grossed out by my slow and steady consumption, but partly just full himself.
Mum then brought in the trifle. A monstrosity of cream, custard, cake and jelly in a glass dish the size and depth of a mixing bowl. I was full. Very, very full. For the first time in a long time I was thinking ‘actually, I don’t know whether I want to eat this’, but it looked and smelled soooo good. She’d sprinkled cocoa powder on the whipped cream and my mouth was literally watering. She dished some up for me, then some for herself. My bowl was gone before she’d had a couple of mouthfuls. She said she didn’t want any more, and dad declined, so she let me eat it straight from the bowl.
It took me back to my childhood; especially since I felt so short, being as I was sunk into the sofa. As I swallowed mouthful after mouthful and my stomach expanded more and more, the blissful pain and heavy, complete feeling washing over me, I remembered how I got this big and why I love eating so much. It brought back memories of the first times I thought about the feelings that the food gave me. The times when I was not only allowed, but encouraged to eat between meals. Encouraged to keep eating, even when my stomach was clearly protesting. Told I was a good girl for finishing my plate, my takeaway, my dessert . . . it became clear to me as I ate that trifle, that I do want a feeder.
The next dessert was a chocolate log, with more cream. Mum was too full any allowed me to finish it all myself. It was over a foot long, loaded with buttercream and sprinkled with icing sugar. The cream was unnesscary but it was left over from the pudding. I ate it all, then I don’t recall anything for 5 hours. Apparently I slept like a baby on the sofa, with chocolate around my mouth, “Just like when you were little”.
Dinner was at 6, by which time I was hungry again. Mum had planned for there to be leftovers, but as I’d eaten everything, she had to go into the kitchen to prepare more. She roasted a chicken and potatoes, did some macaroni cheese and then made more pigs in blankets, but this time using large sausages and whole rashers of bacon. She gave me 6 and had 2, dad didn’t want any. He just had some chicken and potatoes. I was left to finish nearly all the chicken (I’m not really proud of this, but I can eat a whole chicken if I have to), most of the mac and cheese, tons of potatoes and my pigs.
I was drowsy again, but had to get up to use the toilet. Shamefully, I had to ask for help getting up, then even more shamefully, I couldn’t fit into the toilet and turn around, so I had to back in and go with the door open, which was so embarrassing I cried to myself a little. Apparently I was in there for the best part of an hour. And I do remember that I flushed twice while I was on it and once after I got off. After all, what goes in, must come out.
I stayed the night, watching the crap on TV, then struggled up the stairs, stopping to catch my breath every other step, and slept right through to 3pm. Mum made me what she thought was a healthy lunch of pizza and salad, but on the drive home I filled up with KFC.
When I got home, I started to change some things for the better. But when I say I have continued to overeat and not left the flat since then, that really does require some explaining.
First of all, I have a cleaner, Olga. She is awesome and I love when she comes around. She comes once on Tuesday afternoons and once on Friday afternoons, and I leave the door unlocked in case she comes while I’m still asleep. Dad pays her but she’s become like a friend because we always chat when she is here. I now make sure I shower twice a week, so while I’m in the shower, she can change my bed sheets. Then when I’m out of the bathroom she can clean that. She takes care of all the rubbish I leave around the flat and I really would be living in total filth without her.
But I have put on weight. I can hardly move without help, so how do I get from bed, to the toilet, to the shower? Because I have met, through my blog and chat, a very wonderful feeder. Steven is 37, and unfortunately married, but he’s very good at D.I.Y, and has helped make my flat more liveable, but putting hand rails up (the kind you see in disabled toilets) and that’s meant that I’m able to distribute my weight more evenly onto my arms and balance and support myself as I move. He has rearranged my flat so that I have minimal distance possible from my bed to the bathroom and I only have a short walk to the door to pick up deliveries. I can watch TV from bed and really, I don’t have to move from it much. It’s not a perfect system yet and I will need to change it if I keep growing, but for now I’m coping well, and with less exhaustion, my chest pains have almost stopped.
Apart from that, Steven comes over whenever he can and keeps me company and feeds me whatever I want. He’ll phone me during his lunch break and ask what I want to eat and bring it to me in massive quantities. He has cooked for me a few times, but he can’t stay long as his wife wonders where he is. We haven’t done anything sexually yet, but the tension is building and my pussy is hot and wet and all his when he wants it. Of course, he’ll need to find it because I can barely reach anymore. I haven’t come in such a long time it’s depressing.
Last month, he sent me a huge Dominos order, even more than I would ever eat on my own, and told me he wanted me to finish all of it. 4 large pizzas, one chicken, one pepperoni, one veg and one the works, along with chicken dippers, potato wedges, chocolate desserts, ice cream and coke. I looked at it in shock, but he told me if I ate it I would get a pleasant surprise. I was thrilled. It was about 1pm and he was coming over at 6 and he wanted it all inside me by the time he came. I was so excited to be encouraged to eat that I felt alive, I felt horny, I felt like I had a purpose. So I did, I ate.
I ate so much that I got totally sick of pizza for weeks and I still feel sick thinking about that afternoon. It was hard work, my stomach swelling and swelling and the time it took to digest made it all the harder to eat. By the time I got around to desserts I was literally light headed, it was about 4.30 I suppose but it was such a daze I don’t really recall the details. The ice cream had melted so I drank it and practically swallowed the desserts whole with it.
I fell asleep around then, with the TV on. The door was unlocked and when he came in his footsteps woke me, as he wears boots at work. His mouth dropped wide open as he looked at me, food around my mouth, naked on the bed, empty boxes all around me. He gave me a hug and I groaned as he put pressure on my stomach. He eased off. I felt so good holding him, my heavy arms taking too much energy to actually encompass him, but I touched his sides. I felt his cock bulging into the fat of my belly which was spilling over the left side of my bed, where he was. He actually thanked me for eating it all and said I was a good girl. I didn’t expect him to go all weird but he was loving it.
My surprise, it turned out, was a milkshake maker. It’s more of a blender really, or a smoothie maker. But he showed me how it worked but putting it next to my bed and making me a whole bunch of milkshakes, using ice cream and either strawberries or oreos, or both, which he had brought when he’d picked it up. It was an amazing night and I would have given him my body but he never asked to take it. He had to leave by 7.30 and I was so stuffed that I literally fell straight to sleep.
He’s thinking of ways he can make my life better, as well as ways to give me more incredible foods. We’ve had nights where he’s brought me takeaways and in the last two months he’s pretty much managed to double what I eat. Instead of 2 meals and a couple of sides from the Indian, it’s 3 or 4 and sides. Instead of an 8 piece bucket at KFC, it’s that and lots of extras like sandwiches, wraps and krushems. Instead of my usual from McDonalds, he literally brought 3 times what I normally eat and hand fed me every single burger and every single French fry. Some nights he’s cooked for me and I’ve eaten entire packets of pasta, 2.5 kilo bags of potatoes and so, sooo many filling carbs, with creamy sauces and curries and meatballs and sooooo much good stuff!
He tries to think of affordable ways that he can make my flat more liveable as I grow, but so far the handrails are the only affordable thing he’s managed. He works in home improvements so it’s ideal, otherwise he probably wouldn’t be able to do these things. He’s hoping my dad will fork out for a bath with a door, but I’m not holding my breath.
I want him inside me. If he were here now I’d suck him off and swallow it all, but he’s working, which really sucks. He said he might make it over tonight so hopefully, I’m going to get a filling in more ways than one.
I’m truly happy right now, just as long as I don’t think about the future.
I will keep you all posted.
Love and XX’s
Ali xXx
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