Chapter 8: Fattening Feedbag
The kitchen fluorescents buzzed like trapped insects, painting everything in a harsh, surgical white. Josh knelt on the cool tile, the grout lines pressing into his bare knees. His body was a landscape of soft, alien curves, held and shoved into a new silhouette by the relentless compression of a full-body shaper. It dug into his waist, forcing the flesh upward into the D-cup bra that now strained to contain him, and downward to pad his hips. He felt trussed, packaged.
Annie stood over him, blender whirring a vile symphony behind her. The sound stopped. She poured a thick, pinkish sludge into a large plastic cup and fitted it with a long, silicone tube ending in a bulbous gag.
“Open wide, sweetie,” she said, her voice cheerful. “Breakfast is served.”
“I’m not hungry,” Josh mumbled, his eyes on the floor. His belly, soft and bloated from weeks of the shakes, rested on his thighs.
“That’s the hormones talking,” Annie chided, nudging his lips with the gag. “Big, beautiful breasts need fuel. And you, my love, are growing so beautifully. Now open.”
Resistance was a fleeting impulse, dulled by a constant, low-grade shame and a newer, deeper fog that seemed to cloud his thoughts. He opened his mouth. The silicone gag pushed past his teeth, invading his mouth with a chemical taste.
“There’s a good girl,” Annie cooed. She tipped the cup. The shake, cold and cloyingly sweet with a bitter undertaste of vitamins and something else, something metallic, began to flow. He had to swallow or choke. Gulp after gulp, the cold liquid filled his stomach, amplifying the bloated feeling.
While he drank, her free hand wandered. She slapped his belly, a sharp, stinging smack that made him jump and sputter around the tube. “Look at that little pot,” she laughed. “So cute. All part of the soft, feminine form we’re cultivating.” Her hand slid up, kneading the swollen flesh spilling from his bra cup through the shaper’s fabric. “These, though… these are the masterpiece.”
Tears of helplessness mixed with the shake dripping from the corners of his mouth. He was a vessel, being filled.
Finally, the cup emptied. Annie withdrew the gag with a soft pop. Josh swayed on his knees, feeling the heavy, cold mass settle inside him. Annie set the equipment aside and produced her phone. A soft, pulsing tone began to emit from its speaker—a simple, rhythmic beat paired with a faint, shimmering synth pad.
“Now, for your morning affirmations,” she said, crouching to his level. Her eyes were calm, focused. “Just listen. Relax into it. The words will help your body accept the nutrients. Help you visualize your ideal self.”
Josh’s gaze locked onto the phone’s glowing screen. The tone seemed to seep into his skull, muffling the buzz of the lights, the panicked beat of his own heart. Annie’s voice, when it came, was different. Softer, slower, layered subtly under the music.
“You are so… pliant,” the voice murmured. “So open. Your mind is soft clay. Every sip you take makes you softer. Fuller. Your chest is so sensitive… so heavy. Can you feel the weight? The beautiful, satisfying weight of growth?”
He could. The ache in his breasts, a constant, dull throb, seemed to pulse in time with the tone. He nodded slowly, his breathing deepening.
“You crave that feeling. The feeling of expansion. Of becoming lush. Every calorie is a blessing… a gift that swells your tits, rounds your hips, softens your jaw.” The voice was inside him now, threading through the fog. “You want to be pretty. You want to be a big, bimbo fuckdoll with massive, sensitive tits. You want it more than anything. Say it.”
His own voice sounded far away. “I want… to be pretty.”
“Louder.”
“I want to be a… a bimbo fuckdoll.” The obscenity, spoken in his own hollow tone, sent a shocking jolt of arousal straight to his dick, which strained pathetically against the tight spandex of the shaper.
“With what?”
“With… massive tits.” A whimper escaped him. He was hard, impossibly hard, kneeling there with a belly full of estrogen-laded shake, his own manufactured breasts aching, hypnotized by his wife’s voice.
Annie smiled, a real, triumphant smile. She stopped the audio. The sudden silence was jarring. “Good girl. You’re so good for me.” Her hand slipped into the front panel of the shaper, finding his trapped, leaking cock. “Look at you. Dripping for me because I told you to want big tits. You’re fucking perfect.”
She worked him with rough, efficient strokes through the fabric, the friction almost painful. “This is all you are now. A hungry, horny set of tits and a dumb little cock. Isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he gasped, his hips pushing into her hand.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Annie!”
She released him, leaving him throbbing. “Not yet. Clean up your mess first.” She pointed to the droplets of shake on the floor by his knees. “Lick it up. Good girls don’t waste their nutrients.”
The degradation was a sharp, bright line. He stared at the pinkish puddle. Then, slowly, he bent forward, his oversized chest swaying heavily in the bra. He extended his tongue and licked the cold, sweet tile clean. The act felt both horrifying and inevitable.
“Now,” Annie said, her voice returning to its normal, commanding register. “Since you’re so eager.” She stood, unbuttoned her jeans, and shoved them down her hips along with her panties. She sat on the edge of the kitchen island, spreading her legs. Her cunt glistened, already wet. “Come here. Service me. And don’t you dare touch yourself.”
Josh shuffled forward on his knees, the shaper rustling. The smell of her, musky and sharp, filled his head. He pressed his face into her, his tongue seeking her out with a desperate, learned obedience. He licked and slurped, his nose buried in her coarse curls. Her taste was the only real, anchoring thing in the world.
“Use your words, bitch,” Annie grunted, tangling a hand in his hair. “Tell me what you’re doing.”
“I’m… I’m eating your pussy,” he moaned into her flesh, the vibrations making her thighs tense.
“Why?”
“Because I’m a good girl.”
“And what do good girls get?”
“Big… big tits,” he said, the words driving his tongue deeper.
She came with a choked gasp, grinding against his face, her thighs clamping around his ears. He drank her down, his own neglected cock aching violently.
When she pushed him away, he was panting, his lips and chin slick. She looked down at him, her eyes dark with power. “You can finish. But only like a girl would.”
She reached into a drawer and tossed something at him. It was a slim, pink vibrator. “Go on. Put it in your ass. Imagine it’s a big, thick cock filling up the empty, slutty hole you have back there. That’s how you cum now.”
Josh stared at the plastic. The fog, the arousal, the hypnosis, the full stomach—they all coalesced into a single, overwhelming imperative. He reached behind himself, fumbling with the shaper’s back panel. His fingers, clumsy, smeared lube from a nearby bottle and pressed the buzzing tip against his entrance. He pushed, a strangled cry escaping him as it breached him, the intense vibration radiating through his pelvis.
“Fuck yourself on it,” Annie commanded, watching, arms crossed. “Fuck your ass and play with your fat tits.”
Josh obeyed, rocking back and forth on his knees, driving the vibrator deeper. One hand squeezed his padded hip, the other groped the swollen mound of his breast, pinching the nipple through the layers of fabric. The sensations were a riot—invasive, wrong, and utterly electrifying. He babbled, a stream of “thank yous” and “I’m a slut” falling from his spit-slick lips.
His orgasm, when it ripped through him, was silent and devastating. His cock jerked, spilling into the shaper with a few weak pulses, but the epicenter was deeper, in his guts, in his prostate, a full-body convulsion that left him seeing white. He slumped sideways onto the cold floor, the vibrator still humming inside him.
Annie hopped down, pulled up her jeans, and looked at the wreck of him. She nudged the vibrator with her toe, turning it off. “See?” she said softly, almost kindly. “This is so much better than arguing. This is you, accepting your truth.” She picked up the blender pitcher, swirled the dregs of the shake. “We’ll need to up your dosage. Double Ds are within reach, if you’re dedicated.”
Josh could only sob softly, curled on the kitchen floor, full of her chemicals, her commands, and a terrifying, burgeoning need for the next feeding, the next session, the next whispered promise of growth.