Hedonistic_Purity
Member
SSBBW, ~XWG, Erotica, Helplessness, Immobility - Authors Note: This story might seem dark if you can't empathize with the pleasure that some people derive from pain and helplessness (and being helpless.) Just to be clear, this is a fiction, so the mind fucking is mutually desired and consensual, because I say so (I wrote the story.) Hopefully it's not too too wordy.
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"I can't...stop." She had to pause for breath, just long enough for another hunk of cake to gently push its way past her lips.
"I know."
"Help me stop...it's...too much." Again, only a few words before the weight of everything, before the accumulation of years spent with her lover, years of giving in, forced her to breath instead of talk. It was barely enough to catch her breath before another big piece of cake was slowly pushed to the back of her throat. Before she could close her mouth, another one pushed it's way into. It was a dense but soft and moist cake; she didn't have to chew, she could just swallow as he pushed more into her mouth, gently forcing a column of cake down her throat. Like the cake was being pushed directly into her stomach, stretching her like a balloon. She had been too weak to close her lips without making a conscious effort to, so a few more hunks of cake pushed inside of her before she managed to close her mouth long enough to swallow everything in it. As helpless as she was, it wasn't really forced, was it? She did this to herself. She had given in, knowing it would happen. But it still scared her a little, to be so completely helpless, so she begged him when the last piece of cake in front of her did its part in filling the emptiness within the taught, aching bulge at her center. With her arm not quite resting, but pushed against the slant of her hip and gut so she could hold it there while instinctively kneading at the heavy pressure inside her--even though her arm was pushed too far out to her side for her pudgy hands to make a difference--she managed to weakly breath: "Please..."
"Shhhh." He gently caressed the smallest portion of a distant roll on her hip, and then the outer curve of her gut. It felt so separated, so apart from her, yet more sensitive than any part of her had been years ago. Every inch of her was like that now. Foreign, yet stimulating. It all pulled at her, pinned her, bound her. Her body was stuck, her form motionless, but there was always some part of her in motion. The table he used had two levels, only one that she could see out of the corner of her eye. He brought up another cake. He kissed her gently on the lips, and lovingly rolled the fat in her upper belly over the hard ball of sugar, fat, and dough protruding beneath it, which slowly imprisoned her more as she digested it. half out of exhaustion, half out of defeat, her hand fell back as the weight from her upper arm pulled it back down past her side. The fat which billowed out from where a bicep might be, and the small bunched up rolls that had managed to form there slowly forced her to almost straighten her arms until she was once again splayed out. There was no point in using her arms for now, she was out of breath just from reaching for her stomach. There was no point in wasting her breath talking either, she was resigned to being filled, pushed apart. Even if she could resist she knew he would eventually push the cake inside her...on the rare occasions when her senses and the sensually unbearable heaviness got the better of her, she had only ever made weak attempts to push the food away. She gave in. Always. "You're so good to me." She stared up at the ceiling, helpless, scared, happy, as it entered her. "That's why I have to make you happy. Free you." He pushed harder.
It wasn't the first time she'd been filled so much, but sometimes when he had less time to prepare, or less money after accommodating a purchase for her accommodations, she would have a break for a few days, or even a week. She could munch on chocolate and sweets all day, drink something thick and creamy through a long straw, and for meals he would fill her more, until she reached the constant, dull ache she craved as much as she was frightened by it. She needed it to feel somewhat satisfied, but after a short while she was numb to the pain. She had to eat more, stretch herself a little more, to feel the pain, the fullness. She needed to be filled. Food was her happiness, it filled the emptiness within her. Not a depression, or a lack of love, sex, or a lack of anything else. She was not depressed, even if she was worried, she was loved, she was always aroused, and she needed nothing else. Nothing but to be filled. She liked the act of swallowing and feeling the food enter her even more than the taste, not that her tastes weren't discerning. The longer she maintained that state of blissful suffering, the more content and aroused she became. But the longer she drew it out, the more addicting it became and the faster the fat filled her body to unreasonable proportions. The last cake had pushed her past numb, past a dull ache, past a constant pain. Now every swallow strengthened the sensation of being split apart, of being on the verge of the ultimate meal. Throbbing pangs of pressure-induced pain. The fat beneath her skin stretching over a straining, dense sack of food. It pushed against everything within her. It was pure, unbearable happiness beneath real tears, whimpers, and moans if she had the breath. Even though the pain and pressure made her incapable of putting another bite in her mouth, she wanted to swallow one more time, and he gave it to her. If she had the power she would beg to stop. If she had the strength again, she would feebly attempt to push it away. But every swallow was a rush, an expectation followed by a wave of satisfaction. Then her uncontrollable desire would be rewarded by more pain. She wanted the pain to stop, wanted to escape from it so bad that she almost wished she would pop so it would end, but...it was the pain that gave her the most intense waves of pleasure. It got her off. It was sex incarnate. And the weight of it all, the fat that filled her every day, forcing her into the bed like her lovers hands, wrapped around her wrists, had done when they had first begun sleeping together. It was all she wanted.
But she didn't. It was all so much. Too much. That is what her mind told her. She had to say something, move a little in protest, or she was guilty of this decent into hedonism. It couldn't be OK to live this way. She gently bent her arm, as if to move her hand to her side. The effort to move hurt her turgid center, and it took work, so she didn't try very hard--she wasn't going to torture herself. She breathed a little heavier, looked desperately at him, her lips quivered just a bit...
I would stop feeding you, but you have no self control, and I can't bare to see you in pain he whispered. He brushed her breast with his hand before he gently rolled it between the bend in the fold of her hip fat, below her burdened gut. Just the proximity to her hidden cunt paralyzed her with a hot wave of blood pressure in her head. His fingers spread wide at the edge of her turgid stomach, he firmly pushed in and squeezed her stomach as he pushed more cake into her throat. The pain overtook her, her pupils widened, and everything went limp as she accepted her position: she was alive to be filled. She panted through her nose between swallows, which came fast as he pushed a constant column of the moist, fattening substance down into her stomach. It was too much. It was everything. You're being so good for me, he intoned while pushing more inside her with one hand, and rolling food stretched stomach in her gut over her useless and splayed thighs. It was wonderful agony. The motion was out of sink with the sagging, encumbered flesh that covered her roll embedded knees, and filled the space between her feet. That part of her soft heavy belly flesh grazed the thick roll of flesh on each calf right where rolls began to fold around her ankles to cover half of each foot, forcing her toes to point away from her. She was consumed by the orgasm, by satisfaction, happiness, and a yearning for more. Only a split moment after it gripped her, the yearning sparked the briefest tinge of a thought that would always tarnish the purity of this experience. A hint of fear, and a remnant of guilt. she passed out. You're so good to me.
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To Be Filled
By Hedonistic Purity
By Hedonistic Purity
"I can't...stop." She had to pause for breath, just long enough for another hunk of cake to gently push its way past her lips.
"I know."
"Help me stop...it's...too much." Again, only a few words before the weight of everything, before the accumulation of years spent with her lover, years of giving in, forced her to breath instead of talk. It was barely enough to catch her breath before another big piece of cake was slowly pushed to the back of her throat. Before she could close her mouth, another one pushed it's way into. It was a dense but soft and moist cake; she didn't have to chew, she could just swallow as he pushed more into her mouth, gently forcing a column of cake down her throat. Like the cake was being pushed directly into her stomach, stretching her like a balloon. She had been too weak to close her lips without making a conscious effort to, so a few more hunks of cake pushed inside of her before she managed to close her mouth long enough to swallow everything in it. As helpless as she was, it wasn't really forced, was it? She did this to herself. She had given in, knowing it would happen. But it still scared her a little, to be so completely helpless, so she begged him when the last piece of cake in front of her did its part in filling the emptiness within the taught, aching bulge at her center. With her arm not quite resting, but pushed against the slant of her hip and gut so she could hold it there while instinctively kneading at the heavy pressure inside her--even though her arm was pushed too far out to her side for her pudgy hands to make a difference--she managed to weakly breath: "Please..."
"Shhhh." He gently caressed the smallest portion of a distant roll on her hip, and then the outer curve of her gut. It felt so separated, so apart from her, yet more sensitive than any part of her had been years ago. Every inch of her was like that now. Foreign, yet stimulating. It all pulled at her, pinned her, bound her. Her body was stuck, her form motionless, but there was always some part of her in motion. The table he used had two levels, only one that she could see out of the corner of her eye. He brought up another cake. He kissed her gently on the lips, and lovingly rolled the fat in her upper belly over the hard ball of sugar, fat, and dough protruding beneath it, which slowly imprisoned her more as she digested it. half out of exhaustion, half out of defeat, her hand fell back as the weight from her upper arm pulled it back down past her side. The fat which billowed out from where a bicep might be, and the small bunched up rolls that had managed to form there slowly forced her to almost straighten her arms until she was once again splayed out. There was no point in using her arms for now, she was out of breath just from reaching for her stomach. There was no point in wasting her breath talking either, she was resigned to being filled, pushed apart. Even if she could resist she knew he would eventually push the cake inside her...on the rare occasions when her senses and the sensually unbearable heaviness got the better of her, she had only ever made weak attempts to push the food away. She gave in. Always. "You're so good to me." She stared up at the ceiling, helpless, scared, happy, as it entered her. "That's why I have to make you happy. Free you." He pushed harder.
It wasn't the first time she'd been filled so much, but sometimes when he had less time to prepare, or less money after accommodating a purchase for her accommodations, she would have a break for a few days, or even a week. She could munch on chocolate and sweets all day, drink something thick and creamy through a long straw, and for meals he would fill her more, until she reached the constant, dull ache she craved as much as she was frightened by it. She needed it to feel somewhat satisfied, but after a short while she was numb to the pain. She had to eat more, stretch herself a little more, to feel the pain, the fullness. She needed to be filled. Food was her happiness, it filled the emptiness within her. Not a depression, or a lack of love, sex, or a lack of anything else. She was not depressed, even if she was worried, she was loved, she was always aroused, and she needed nothing else. Nothing but to be filled. She liked the act of swallowing and feeling the food enter her even more than the taste, not that her tastes weren't discerning. The longer she maintained that state of blissful suffering, the more content and aroused she became. But the longer she drew it out, the more addicting it became and the faster the fat filled her body to unreasonable proportions. The last cake had pushed her past numb, past a dull ache, past a constant pain. Now every swallow strengthened the sensation of being split apart, of being on the verge of the ultimate meal. Throbbing pangs of pressure-induced pain. The fat beneath her skin stretching over a straining, dense sack of food. It pushed against everything within her. It was pure, unbearable happiness beneath real tears, whimpers, and moans if she had the breath. Even though the pain and pressure made her incapable of putting another bite in her mouth, she wanted to swallow one more time, and he gave it to her. If she had the power she would beg to stop. If she had the strength again, she would feebly attempt to push it away. But every swallow was a rush, an expectation followed by a wave of satisfaction. Then her uncontrollable desire would be rewarded by more pain. She wanted the pain to stop, wanted to escape from it so bad that she almost wished she would pop so it would end, but...it was the pain that gave her the most intense waves of pleasure. It got her off. It was sex incarnate. And the weight of it all, the fat that filled her every day, forcing her into the bed like her lovers hands, wrapped around her wrists, had done when they had first begun sleeping together. It was all she wanted.
But she didn't. It was all so much. Too much. That is what her mind told her. She had to say something, move a little in protest, or she was guilty of this decent into hedonism. It couldn't be OK to live this way. She gently bent her arm, as if to move her hand to her side. The effort to move hurt her turgid center, and it took work, so she didn't try very hard--she wasn't going to torture herself. She breathed a little heavier, looked desperately at him, her lips quivered just a bit...
I would stop feeding you, but you have no self control, and I can't bare to see you in pain he whispered. He brushed her breast with his hand before he gently rolled it between the bend in the fold of her hip fat, below her burdened gut. Just the proximity to her hidden cunt paralyzed her with a hot wave of blood pressure in her head. His fingers spread wide at the edge of her turgid stomach, he firmly pushed in and squeezed her stomach as he pushed more cake into her throat. The pain overtook her, her pupils widened, and everything went limp as she accepted her position: she was alive to be filled. She panted through her nose between swallows, which came fast as he pushed a constant column of the moist, fattening substance down into her stomach. It was too much. It was everything. You're being so good for me, he intoned while pushing more inside her with one hand, and rolling food stretched stomach in her gut over her useless and splayed thighs. It was wonderful agony. The motion was out of sink with the sagging, encumbered flesh that covered her roll embedded knees, and filled the space between her feet. That part of her soft heavy belly flesh grazed the thick roll of flesh on each calf right where rolls began to fold around her ankles to cover half of each foot, forcing her toes to point away from her. She was consumed by the orgasm, by satisfaction, happiness, and a yearning for more. Only a split moment after it gripped her, the yearning sparked the briefest tinge of a thought that would always tarnish the purity of this experience. A hint of fear, and a remnant of guilt. she passed out. You're so good to me.
